Insouciance Über Insecticide (Another Moth Post)

 

'I've always preferred moths to butterflies. They aren’t flashy or cocky; they mind their own business 

and just try to blend in with their surroundings and live their lives. 

They don't want to be seen, and that's something I can relate to.' 

- Kayla Krantz, The OCD Games (2020)

 

 

I. 

 

And so ends National Moth Week; an annual (and global) event designed to celebrate 'the beauty, life cycles, and habitats of moths' and to collect much needed data about these fascinating (mostly nocturnal) creatures, which are among the most diverse and successful of all organisms, ranging in size from as tiny as the head of a pin to as large as an adult human hand.

 

I have to admit that I didn't officially register to participate in the event. However, I did take some photos of the moths in my backgarden, including the one above (don't ask me what species it is, as I've no idea, but it was about an inch big and reminded me of the moths I used to regularly encounter as a child, but which now, sadly, are hardly ever to be seen). 

 

 

II. 

 

Readers familiar with this blog will know that I've written before in praise of moths and why they appeal to me more than butterflies, which, in evolutionary terms, they long predate (some moth fossils have been found that are thought to be 190 million years old); they just seem to me so much more punk rock in comparison to the latter. 

Readers might also recall that I recently published a post on the necessity of killing carpet moths, in which I adopted a Lawrentian argument to justify why it was the right thing to do to reach for the insecticide in order to safeguard one's clothes and home furnishings from the hungry mouths of moth larvae. 

 

Some readers will be pleased to know, however, that, in the end - even though I bought a spray - I didn't have the hardness of soul needed to use it. Ultimately, it transpires that moths mean more to me than even a relatively expensive pure new wool carpet: I simply don't care if they eat holes in it.

 

Insouciance über insecticide!

 

 

Welcome to Essex (Notes on the Dagenham Idol)

Michael Landy: Welcome to Essex (2021)

Ink on paper

 

 

I. 

 

By referring to my stay in Essex as exile, I may, perhaps, have given the impression that this ancient county - once home to Anglo-Saxon kings and fields of bright yellow cowslip - is the kind of place that one is only ever banished to involuntarily.

 

But that's obviously not true and it would be grossly unfair to portray Essex in the same negative and stereotypical manner that it is often portrayed in popular culture. It may not be the garden of England, but it's far more than merely the dumping ground of London and I'd still rather spend the day in Southend than St. Ives.

 

One artist who has done more than most to explore and celebrate the history and culture of Essex - and to challenge the pernicious myths and snobbery that this county seems to inspire - is Michael Landy ...  

 

 

II.  

 

Born and raised in Essex, Landy rose to prominence as one of the Young British Artists in the late 1980s and early 1990s. But it was his performance piece Break Down (2001) which really brought him to the attention of a public more easily impressed by the showmanship of Damien Hirst and his pickled shark, or Tracy Emin's unmade bed.

 

In 2021, a new exhibition of work - Michael Landy's Welcome to Essex [1] - was born of his love for the county and featuring (amongst other things) his reimagining of the Dagenham Idol; a naked figure made of pine wood, unearthed in Dagenham in 1922, but thought to date to the Late Neolithic period or early Bronze Age [2].

 

Landy's idol is cast in bronze, but finished with gold leaf in order to give it a more ostentatious look, thereby challenging (or perhaps simply reinforcing and perpetuating) the stereotype which thinks brash and blingy is the only aesthetic appreciated by the good people of Essex, when they also like cheap and cheerful.     

 

 

Michael Landy: Essex Idol (2021)

bronze, with 24ct gold 

thomasdanegallery.com

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Michael Landy's Welcome to Essex was a free exhibition at the Firstsight (an art space and community hub in Colchester), which ran from 26 June until 5 September, 2021. Click here for further details. A short documentary film about the work and Landy's perspective on Essex can be found on YouTube: click here. See also the interview with Landy and another Essex-based artist, Elsa James, on artfund.org: click here.   

 

[2] The Dagenham Idol was found in marshland close to the north bank of the River Thames, during excavation for new sewer pipes. Eighteen inches in height, the armless figure of indeterminate sex, was buried in a layer of peat ten feet below ground level, next to the skeleton of a deer. Carbon dated to around 2250 BC, it is one of the earliest representations of the human form found anywhere in Europe.       

      Anyone interested in seeing (and paying homage) to the Idol, should visit Valance House Museum, in Dagenham, where it has been on indefinite loan (from Colchester Castle Museum) since 2010. Or, if more convenient, there's a copy of the work residing in the Museum of London. 

 

Last Clown Standing

Last Clown Standing (SA/2022)

 

 

There's a certain irony in the fact that the only soft toy to have survived from my childhood is the one I never really cared for and used to treat with astonishing violence: an 18" clown figure with a rubber painted face and a harlequin style outfit. 

 

It wasn't that I was scared of clowns, although coulrophobia is, apparently, a fairly common fear and many people - particularly young children - find clowns disturbing.*     

 

In fact, I was enchanted by the sad little clown (or pierrot), who turned the roller displaying captions and credits at the opening and closing of Camberwick Green and was a big fan of the Joker as played by Cesar Romero in Batman. 

 

But, for some reason, I was never very fond of my clown companion, although I now have a new-found respect for his endurance, outliving a much-loved Teddy Bear and even a hard-bodied Action Man.   

I suppose it's a case of he who laughs loudest lasts the longest.

 

 

* Note: if this phobia is mostly related to their bizarre - sometimes grotesque - appearance, the unpredictable behaviour of clowns can also be unsettling; no one likes to be invited to smell a flower only to have water squirted in their face.  

 

 

How Things Protect Us From the Void: Some Further Thoughts with Reference to the Work of Michael Landy

Exhibition leaflet produced by Artangel

 

 

I'm still distressed about the material disappearance of my childhood, which I wrote about here. 

 

Someone commented that the above post reveals me to be both superficial and sentimental and suggested that I abandon the world of things and learn to cultivate spiritual peace and happiness; "when you discover inner fulfilment, then you realise just how ridiculous it is to cry over spilt milk or lost teddy bears and school reports".   

Someone else, rather more sympathetic, wrote to remind me of the case of Michael Landy, the Young British Artist who, in February 2001, famously destroyed all of his possessions in a performance piece he entitled Break Down: 

 

"Perhaps, ultimately, we all need to find the courage to destabilise our lives and stand naked, as it were, in the middle of an emptiness or void, so as to feel ourselves 'on the verge of being drawn into its terrible depth'" [1]. 

 

Perhaps ...

 

However, it's interesting to recall when thinking back to the above work by Landy, that he couldn't resist cataloguing the thousands of items he had acquired during his lifetime, thereby essentially reducing them not to nothingness, but to information [2]. 

 

Thus, arguably, he didn't quite let go and stand naked etc. 

 

And, of course, it was his decision to destroy his things, whereas, in my case, I had no say or control over the destruction of those things close to my heart. And nor do I have a detailed inventory of all the toys, games, and other treasures that my mother binned and my sister took and gave to her own children (without my knowledge or consent). 

 

And so, whilst I do kind of admire Landy for gathering together all of his things - including his clothes, stamp collection, artworks, and car - and sytematically smashing, shredding, and pulverising the lot (with the help of several assistants) in a laborious two-week orgy of destruction [3], I don't draw any real solace from his work and still insist that we need things to ground us in being and stop us becoming ghosts. 

 

 

Notes

 

[1] My correspondent is quoting Yoko Ogawa, writing in The Memory Police, trans. Stephen Snyder, (Vintage, 2020), p. 14.  

[2] The philosopher Byung-Chul Han would perhaps view this as anticipating precisely what is happening today in the digital age, when things vanish from the actual world only to circulate forever as Undinge in the virtual realm, not as memories, but as data. See his work Non-things, trans. Daniel Steuer, (Polity Press, 2022).

[3] This act of artistic potlatch took place at an empty store space on Oxford Street and attracted around 45,000 visitors. It produced nearly six tonnes of waste material, which was either recycled or sent to the rubbish dump. Nothing was exhibited or sold by Landy and he made no money directly from the event, although he did of course gain a huge amount of publicity and establish his name as an artist of note. 

      To watch a 16 minute video documenting the event, posted on YouTube by the London-based arts organisation Artangel, who - along with The Times newspaper - commissioned Break Down, click here. 

 

 

How Things Protect Us From the Void

Pupils at Bosworth Junior School (Harold Hill) c. 1972

 

Rather like Sebastian Horsley, I have always been happy to have my existence confirmed by official documentation: police files, medical reports, tax returns, etc. are, as he says, for many of us, our "only claim on immortality" [1].

So you can imagine my distress when I discovered that my mother and/or sister acting as self-appointed memory police had thrown away my school reports, neatly handwritten by my teachers in royal blue fountain pen ink at the end of each year and offering an assessment not only my academic ability (limited), but character (flawed) [2].  

 

It is, as I say, not simply that these things had sentimental value; they had also existential import and their disappearance from the world matters to me more even than the disappearance of the schools themselves or the disappearance of old school friends.

 

Of course, my mother and/or sister didn't simply dispose of my school reports; toys, games, letters, and assorted treasures from the past that had helped ground me in being, were all brutally shoved into bin bags. 

 

In the name of tidying up and making space, all traces of my childhood which I had lovingly sought to preserve, were casually eliminated; "replaced by an emptiness that would not be filled" [3] ...  

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Sebastian Horsley, Dandy in the Underworld, (Sceptre, 2008), p. 102. 

[2] From memory, I can recall that the consensus seemed to be that whilst I was capable of producing good work, I was too easily distracted, too chatty, and too keen to amuse my fellow pupils by playing the class clown. No doubt they would simply stamp the letters ADHD on the reports were they written today.  

[3] Yoko Ogawa, The Memory Police, trans. Stephen Snyder, (Vintage, 2020), p. 14. 

 

 

For further remarks on this subject, with reference to the work of Michael Landy, click here.

When Even the Flies Leave You Alone: Ernest Becker's 'The Denial of Death' as Interpreted by Sebastian Horsley

 

The idea of death, the fear of it, haunts the human animal like nothing else. - EB

It's only death; it's not the end of the world, is it? - SH

 

 

As a thanatologist, I'm somewhat embarrassed to admit that I still haven't got round to fully reading Ernest Becker's seminal - and Pulitzer Prize winning - text The Denial of Death (1973); a psychological and philosophical examination of how mankind has attempted to deal with (and disguise) the fate that awaits. 

All forms of human culture and civilisation, argues Becker, constitute an elaborate defence mechanism against biological reality. That's what we, as symbolic animals, are extremely good at; defiantly creating a world of meaning which allows us to transcend the fact that we end up as worm food or a few pounds of ash.

 

Becker seems to find this ability heroic, but that's not the term I'd use. For a fantasy of immortality remains just that and, ultimately, no life matters and no great work will be remembered. 

 

In other words, in the grand scheme of things, there is no grand scheme and Becker's privileging of religious illusion in which our animal and mortal nature is given spiritual significance - over what he dismisses as hedonistic pursuits and petty concerns - is just conventional moral prejudice [1]. 

 

It's surprising, therefore, that Sebastian Horsley - a man who loved taking drugs and admired those who delighted in their own triviality - should claim that no book, before or since, has had such a powerful effect on him as The Denial of Death. 

 

I'm not sure, however, that Horsley carefully follows the thread of Becker's argument. Does the latter, for example, really want us to admit that we are merely "doomed and defecating creatures"? [2] I don't think so. His project is founded upon man's dual nature as he understands it and wishes to affirm that we are so much more than simply animals that eat, shit, and die. 

 

One can also see from the quotations above, that Becker and Horsley have a radically different attitude towards death; the former's existential anxiety is amusingly negated by the latter's dandyesque insouciance and flippancy.

 

And, finally, I very much doubt that Becker would endorse Horsley's scatological and masturbatory attempt at terror management: 

 

"I was so affected by [The Denial of Death] that I felt I had to respond. [...] So I locked myself into my own flat, stripped myself naked and sat there listening to Beethoven's Ninth. After a few hours I defecated in a neat pile on the floor and scooped it up in my hands. Running it through my fingers, like a gardener assessing the friability of the soil, I examined it. It was slimy as wet clay.

      It would do. I used my shit to swipe the word MAN on my chest, and then PIG on the walls. Then I covered the rest of my body in ordure until no flesh was visible. Beethoven swelled through the room. I sat there musing. Sex, I decided, returning to a favourite subject, was interesting. But not as important as excretion. [...] My philosophical insight gave me a hard on. I had a wank to quieten the imperious urge." [3]

 

Horsley remains, so he tells us, lying on the floor, eating and sleeping amid his bodily waste, for three whole days, until he finally felt able to crow like a cock on his own dunghill:

 

"When the whiff got a bit too much - it was high summer - I opened the patio door. I was a little concerned about the neighbours. And slightly worried that my landlords [...] would stage one of their impromptu checks. But I needn't have worried. Even the flies left me alone." [4]     

 

 

Notes

 

[1] In an essay on The Denial of Death, Daniel Podgorski comes to a similar conclusion and describes reading Becker's celebrated work as an unexpectedly disappointing experience. For concealed behind "the parade of theorists and the solid analytical prose" is an "old-fashioned, moralizing, pessimistic set of theses: that humanity is in denial of mortality because of a 'necessary' denial of the human body and reality; that humanity can only exorcise the dread of death by embracing blind faith and rooting out 'aberrant' thoughts and behaviors; and that death can only be truly faced by those who approach the study of humanity and society through a (reductive) structuralist lens".

      Like Podgorski, I think all three of these notions deserve to be critically examined and that, upon such an examination, they reveal themselves as misguided and false.  

      Podgorski's essay - 'The Denial of Life: A Critique of Pessimism, Pathologization, and Structuralism in Ernest Becker's The Denial of Death' - can be found on The Gemsbok (22 Oct 2019): click here.

 

[2] Sebastian Horsley, Dandy in the Underworld, (Sceptre, 2008), p. 94. 

 

[3] Ibid.

 

[4] Ibid., pp. 94-95.  

Get It On and Punk It Up With Marc Bolan

Marc Bolan with Dave Vanian of the Damned 

and Siouxsie Sioux in 1977

 

According to Sebastian Horsley, Marc Bolan was super-plastic profound:

 

"A curious hybrid of dandy and poseur, street urchin and visionary. The mass of contradictions could be held together only by the unifying power of art. The only real philosophy he had was that a human being was an art form in itself. He was entirely his own creation: A creature lovingly constructed from the materials of his imagination. He was important for being trivial yet deep, poppy yet interesting - all the things I came to love in one person." [1]

However, whilst this loving description is undoutedly true, I have to admit that back in the day - i.e., the 1970s - I was never a great Bolan fan and when I stomped around the bedroom wearing my sister's platform boots, I was pretending to be a member of Sweet or Slade, not T. Rex. 

 

As was also the case with David Bowie, I was just a little too young - and perhaps a little too straight - to fully appreciate the queer sophisticated pop genius of Bolan and his "gorgeously nonsensical and deliciouly fey lyrics" [2]. 

 

And so, although I remember listening to his songs on the radio and used to love watching him on TV, it was Gary Glitter's poster which hung on my wall and Gary Glitter's singles I used to buy with my pocket money at the local record store. 

Only retrospectively, can I now see that I should've given my heart to this East London boy who, unlike many of his peers, embraced punk rock and was - again unlike many of his peers - embraced by the younger punk generation, as the photos above illustrate [3]. 

 

Whether Bolan genuinely loved the so-called New Wave, or simply wanted to ride along on it as he had once ridden a white swan in order to sustain his own career, I don't know. But I like to think this one-time hippie folk musician who became a glam superstar was more of a punk at heart than many might imagine [4].

 

Sadly, we never really got to find out, because Bolan was killed in a car crash on 16 September, 1977, aged 29.   

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Sebastian Horsley, Dandy in the Underworld, (Sceptre, 2008), pp. 29-30. 

      Horsley borrows the title for his autobiography from the T. Rex single released 30 May 1977 (from the album of the same name released 11 March 1977 on EMI). Click here to enjoy a performance of this song on the children's TV show Get It Together, presented by Roy North (sans Basil Brush).

 

[2] Sebastian Horsley, Dandy in the Underworld, p. 27. 

 

[3] There are also photos of Bolan with the Ramones and Billy Idol - and, speaking of the latter, Generation X performed their debut single, 'Your Generation', on the final episode of Bolan's own TV show Marc (broadcast 28 September 1977): click here.  

[4] This is further evidenced by the fact that he chose the Damned to support him on a short tour in March 1977, which began at City Hall, Newcastle (10/03) and ended at the Locarno, Portsmouth (20/03), where the Damned joined Bolan and T. Rex on stage to perform 'Get It On' as an encore.    

How Do I Understand the Flies?

Joe Strummer, lead singer of the Clash, looking pensive and posing a question 

that has intrigued punks, philosophers and entomologists alike

 

I. 

 

Someone writes to say that my Insectopunk post was misleading insofar as I "neglected to mention the true character and importance of punk as a socio-political movement, primarily concerned with fighting for freedom and defending truth - not simply with writing inane songs about bugs". 

 

They close their criticism by suggesting that I should "stop listening to arty pop-punk bands and try the real thing, i.e., the only band that matters - the Clash".       

 

 

II.

 

Such idealism is always amusing and often, as in this case, betrays a mix of ignorance and naivety. 

 

Firstly, let us remind ourselves that this (hyperbolic and hubristic) tag line - the only band that matters - was one coined by American musician Gary Lucas [1] whilst employed as a copywriter in the creative services department at CBS Records. Although widely adopted by fans and journalists, one suspects it was something the band always felt secretly embarrassed by; a boast impossible to live up to and impossible to live down.

 

Secondly, it appears my overearnest correspondent has forgotten (or is unaware of the fact) that the Clash also wrote and performed a song about insects; the never officially released How Do I Understand the Flies? [2]. 

 

In this short ditty, Joe doesn't bemoan the state of the nation, but simply expresses his bemusement (and irritation) with the flies buzzing round his head in his basement bedroom, thereby preventing him from sleeping: 

 

In the summer ... the flies buzzing round my head / Every night, I don't understand the flies buzzing round my head.

 

It's not the greatest song in the world and by the end of 1976 it had been dropped from the band's live set and subsequently forgotten about. 

 

As a cultural entomologist, however, I'm really happy to know this song exists and I like to imagine that Strummer was having an existentialist moment inspired by Jean-Paul Sartre who was also troubled by flies - and insects generally [3] - as this passage from Les Mots nicely illustrates: 

 

"I go to the window, I spot a fly under the curtain, I corner it in a muslin trap and move a murderous forefinger toward it. [...] Since I'm refused a man's destiny, I'll be the destiny of a fly. I don't rush matters, I'm letting it have time enough to become aware of the giant bending over it. I move my finger forward, the fly bursts, I'm foiled! Good God, I shouldn't have killed it! It was the only being in all creation that feared me; I no longer mean anything to anyone. I, the insecticide, take the victim's place and become an insect myself. I'm a fly, I've always been one. This time I've touched bottom." [4]

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Lucas discusses this in a short 2013 interview available on YouTube: click here.  

[2] This song - also known as 'For the Flies', or simply 'Flies', was written in the summer of 1976 and first performed at the Screen on the Green on 29 August 1976. Click here to listen to a bootleg recording made at the Roundhouse on 5 September 1976. 

[3] Indeed, for Sartre, all nature was de trop - an undifferetiated and threatening substratum of non-human and inhuman existence for which he feels not only contempt but a visceral disgust, as readers of La Nausée will recall. 

      For an interesting essay on this, see Shannon Mussett, 'Nature as Threat and Escape in the Philosophies of Sartre and Beauvoir', in The Sartrean Mind, ed. Matthew C. Eshleman and Constance L. Mui, (Routledge, 2020), pp. 515-527. Click here to read this essay online.

 

[4] Jean-Paul Sartre, The Words, trans. Bernard Frechtman, (George Braziller, New York, 1964), p. 247.   

 

 

This post is for KV who kindly reminded me of this little known song by the Clash and for Sophie Stas, the patron saint of flies.   

Insectopunk

Image adapted from one used as part of the Wake Up Punk project 

conceived by Joe Corré and Nigel Askew

 

 

I. 

 

When I was a young child at school, one of the songs that we were encouraged to sing - despite nobody in the classroom knowing any Spanish - was the popular Mexican folk song La Cucaracha. 

 

Whilst entirely ignorant of the song's lyrics, origins, and significance, it did inspire in me a love of songs about insects and pieces of music which either imitate or incorporate the sounds made by our six-legged friends. 

 

This ranges from Rimsky-Korsakov's Flight of the Bumblebee (1900), a classical composition intended to musically evoke the seemingly chaotic and rapidly changing flight pattern of a bumblebee, to big-hearted Arthur Askey's silly (and somewhat irritating) Bee Song (1938), written by Kenneth Blain. 

 

 

II.

 

Of course, not all insect songs are about bees and don't merely possess novelty value. Thus it is, for example, that some of the finest examples of punk rock - in its broadest and best sense - are about insects. 

 

These include:

 

(i) Wire: 'I Am The Fly', written by Colin Newman and Graham Lewis, released as a single in February 1978 and also found on their second studio album Chairs Missing (Harvest, September 1978): click here. 

 

Sample lyric:

 

I am the fly in the ointment 

I can spread more disease than the fleas 

Which nibble away at your window display

 

 

(ii) The Cramps: 'Human Fly', written by Poison Ivy Rorschach and Lux Interior, originally released in November 1978 on Vengeance Records, it can also be found on the 12" EP Gravest Hits (Illegal Records / I.R.S. Records, July 1979): click here. 

 

Sample lyric:

 

Well I'm a human fly 

I, I said F-L-Y 

I say buzz buzz buzz 

And it's just becuz 

I'm a human fly 

And I don't know why 

I got 96 tears and 96 eyes

 

 

(iii) Blondie: 'The Attack of the Giant Ants', written by Chris Stein, final track on side two of the eponymous debut album Blondie, (Private Stock Records, December 1976). Click here to play the remastered version from 2001. 

 

Sample lyric: 

 

Giant ants from space

Snuff the human race 

Then they eat your face 

Never leave a trace 

 

(iv) Adam and the Ants: 'Antmusic', written by Adam Ant and Marco Pirroni, the third single from the second studio album Kings of the Wild Frontier (CBS / Epic, November 1980). Click here to watch the official video, dir. Steve Barron, on YouTube.

 

Note: the single got to number two in the UK charts in January 1981 and would've been a number one were it not for the fact that John Lennon's 'Imagine' was re-released following his murder in December 1980. As I remarked at the time, it's a sad day for pop music when a dead Beatle can crush a live Ant.  

 

Sample lyric:

 

Don't tread on an ant, he's done nothing to you 

There might come a day when he's treading on you 

Don't tread on an ant, you'll end up black and blue 

You cut off his head, legs come looking for you

 

 

(v) And finally, let's not forget the track 'Insects', by Altered Images, which can be found on their debut studio album Happy Birthday (Epic Records, September 1981), vocals by the punk generation's very own version of Lulu, Clare Grogan. Click here to watch a live performance of the song on The Old Grey Whistle Test (24 November 1981).

Sample lyric: 

 

Insects 

Insects 

See them crawling 

Insects 

In their thousands

 

 

Finally, let me note in closing that there are, of course, other punk and post-punk songs that could be added to this list. We might include, for example, 'Insects' by Osaka Popstar (2006), or Danny Elfman's 2021 reworking of the Oingo Boingo track of the same title from 1982: click here. 

 

The five songs selected above, however, remain my personal favourites; although they are not listed in any preferential order.

Note: for an academic take on this question of insects in relation to popular music, see Joseph Coelho, 'Insects in Rock & Roll Music', American Entomologist, Volume 46, Issue 3, (Fall 2000), pp. 186–200. Click here to access this work online as a pdf. Thanks to Thom Bonneville for this reference. 

 

For a related post to this one, entitled 'Punk Moth', click here. 

 

And click here for a follow up post, in which I reply to a critic and discuss a little known song by the Clash, 'How Do I Understand the Flies?'

Semen Shampoo and Set

Jodie Foster as Clarice Starling in The Silence of the Lambs (1991) and 

Cameron Diaz as Mary Jensen in There's Something About Mary (1998)

 

As Clarice Starling will tell you, there's nothing funny about having ejaculate in your hair. 

Having said that, Cameron Diaz famously played the idea for laughs in the Farrelly brothers' comedy There's Something About Mary (1998), so I suppose it's contingent upon a number of factors, such as whose semen it is and how it got there. 

 

So, it might be fun; it might even be pleasurable. But it might just be disgusting and involve an act of sexual assault. It depends. 

 

Interestingly, while some tricophiles are happy just to sit and comb their lover's hair; others need to come on the object of their desire, which is all fine providing they have consent (and maybe the courtesy to provide a luxury shampoo in return: quid pro quo, as Hannibal Lecter likes to say). 

 

Finally, it's worth noting that whilst having semen in your hair won't cause any harm, there is little evidence to suggest it will do any good; claims that it is a natural conditioner, full of proteins and vitamins, that will leave your hair super soft and shiny or promote growth, are mostly nonsense.   

 

Not that this has stopped some wealthy Californian women who can afford treatments containing bull semen from popping along to the salon and demanding a dollop of the latter be mixed into their honey, avocado, and argan oil hair recipe [1]. 

 

 

Anya, an editor at the Huffington Post, volunteers to have a bull semen shampoo and set.

'It smelled pretty nice - kind of sweet - and had a smooth texture.' [2]

 

 

Notes

 

[1] See Meagan Morris, 'Bull Semen Hair Treatments Are a Thing', Cosmopolitan (6 Feb 2013): click here. 

 

[2] See Dana Oliver, 'LA Salon Cooks Up Bull Testicle Hair Treatment And We Tried It!', in the UK edition of the Huffington Post (05 Feb 2013): click here. 

      Anya concludes that there was very little difference in her hair texture post-treament and that it's probably best to stop wasting time, money and energy on expensive beauty treatments with little or no evidence to show they work.    

 

 

Punk Moth (Or How the Cambridge Rapist Motif Haunts the Natural World)

Fig. 1: Pretty little moth in my front garden / Fig. 2: A colour enhanced detail from the wing

Fig. 3: Jamie Reid God Save the Cambridge Rapist (poster design for The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle, 1980)

There are, apparently, around 2,500 species of moth in the UK and I'm no lepidopterist, so don't expect me to identify the very pretty little moth in the photo above which seems to like living in (or on) my front garden privet. 

 

Perhaps its most striking feature, to me at least, is the marking on the wing which reminds me of the Cambridge Rapist [1] mask that so fascinated Malcolm McLaren and which he and Vivienne Westwood incorporated as an image on shirt designs sold at 430 Kings Road [2]; an image which Jamie Reid later used in one of his God Save ... series of posters produced for The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle (dir. Julien Temple, 1980) [3]. 

 

Does this serve to illustrate Oscar Wilde's anti-mimetic contention that life imitates art? [4] Or does it prove that even an insect can be a sex pistol? 

 

 

Notes

[1] Peter Samuel Cook - known in the press as the Cambridge Rapist - attacked several women in their homes between October 1974 and April 1975. He quickly entered the public imagination due to the distinctive leather mask with the word rapist painted in white letters across the forehead that he liked to wear whilst carrying out his crimes. 

      The 46-year old delivery driver was arrested following one of Britain's largest police manhunts. He was convicted at his trial in 1976 of six counts of rape, as well as assault and gross indecency. Cook was given two life sentences with the recommendation made that he never be released. He died, in jail, in January 2004 (aed 75).   

 

[2] A long-sleeved muslin shirt by McLaren and Westwood with the Cambridge Rapist motif is held in the collection of the Victoria and Albert Museum: click here.  

 

[3] A version of this work (produced in 1978) by Jamie Reid can also be found at the V&A: click here.

 

[4] See Wilde's essay 'The Decay of Lying', Intentions (1891). Note that an earlier version of the essay was published in the literary magazine The Nineteenth Century, in January 1889. 

 

For a related post on cultural entomology entitled 'Insectopunk', click here.    

The Silence of the Moth

Figs. 1 and 2: details from the poster for The Silence of the Lambs (1991)
Fig. 3: In Voluptas Mors (1951) by Salvador Dalí (in collaboration with Philippe Halsman)

 

Caterpillar into chrysalis and thence into beauty and death ...

 

 

If there's one thing film buffs and lepidoperists can agree on, it's that the poster design for The Silence of the Lambs (dir. Jonathan Demme, 1991), is a work of genius. 

 

It features the face of Jodie Foster as the young FBI trainee Clarice Starling, with a death's-head hawkmoth positioned over her mouth. This large nocturnal moth with brown and yellow colouring is famous for the sinister skull-like pattern on its thorax and it has long been associated with malevolent forces.

 

Perhaps not surprisingly, many artists have been fascinated by the creature, including the great Spanish surrealist Salvador Dalí. 

 

In fact, if you look close enough at the movie poster you realise that the markings on the moth are actually composed of seven nude female figures arranged to resemble a human skull; in other words, the poster incorporates a provocative image conceived by Dalí and photographed by Philippe Halsman forty years earlier in 1951.   

 

 

Musical bonus: Howard Shore, 'The Moth', from The Silence of the Lambs soundtrack, (MCA Records, 1991): click here.

 

 

We Old Ones, We Are Still Here!

Meine Mutter celebrating her 96th birthday  

 

The old ones say to themselves: We are not going to make way, we are not going to die,

we are going to stay on and on and on and on and make the young look after us 

till they are old. - DHL [1]

 

 

I. 

 

This Sunday, my mother will reach 96 years of age. 

 

Some people say this is a real achievement, though I'm not sure about that; surely the achievement is dying an authentic death - something that requires courage and skill - not simply celebrating birthday after birthday and endlessly adding candles to a cake ...? 

Having said that, surviving to a very old age and becoming a monster of stamina in the process does seem to suggest a powerful expression of will. 

 

For even today, when - thanks to improved living standards and advancements in health care - life expectancy has significantly increased since the year my mother was born (1926), not many women in the UK will make it past 95 [2].

 

II.

 

Back in July 1926, D. H. Lawrence travelled north from Italy to Germany with his wife Frieda, in order to celebrate his mother-in-law's 75th birthday. In a letter to Edward McDonald, an American professor who was preparing a bibilography of his writings, Lawrence is scathing about the old who cling on to life and refuse to die: 

 

"'Wir alten, wir sind noch hier!' she says. And here they mean to stay, having, through long and uninterrupted experience, become adepts at hanging on to their own lives, and letting anybody else who is fool enough cast bread upon the waters. Baden-Baden is a sort of Holbein Totentanz: old people tottering their cautious dance of triumph: 'wir sind noch hier: hupf! hupf! hupf!" [3] 

 

 

III. 

 

Three years later, in July 1929, and Lawrence is again in Baden-Baden for the Baroness's birthday, despite his previous determination not to go. As John Worthen notes, this was a bad move [4]. For whereas his previous visits had mostly been happy ones, and he had always been rather fond of his Schweigermutter, now he found her unbearable. 

In a letter to his sister Ada, Lawrence writes:

 

"[...] Frieda's mother really rather awful now. She's 78, and suddenly is in an awful state, thinking her time to die may be coming on. So she fights in the ugliest fashion, greedy and horrible, to get everything that will keep her alive [...] nothing exists but just for the purpose of giving her a horrible strength to hang on a few more years." [5]

 

Later, in the same letter, he complains how his mother-in-law will not be left alone, even for a short period: 

 

"No, she must have Frieda or me there. It's the most ghastly state of almost insane selfishness I ever saw - and all comes of her hideous terror of having to die. At the age of seventy-eight! May god preserve me from ever sinking so low." [6]

 

 

IV.

 

Now, to be fair to my mother, she doesn't gulp down the air in greedy gulps like the Baroness - doesn't actively fight to stay alive. She just sits quietly in her chair all day, like a black hole at the centre of the universe [7]. 

 

But I understand - and share - Lawrence's sense of horror and humiliation.    

 

 

Notes

 

[1] D. H. Lawrence, 'The grudge of the old', in The Poems, Vol. I, ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (Cambridge University Press, 2013), p. 436.

 

[2] Readers interested in the national statistics estimating the number of people (mostly women) in the UK population aged 90 and over, between the years 2002 and 2020, can click here. 

[3] D. H. Lawrence, letter to Edward McDonald (16 July 1926), in The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. V, ed. James T. Boulton and Lindeth Vasey, (Cambridge University Press, 1989), pp. 495-496. Lines quoted are on p. 496.   

 

[4] John Worthen, D. H. Lawrence: The Life of an Outsider, (Allen Lane / Penguin Books, 2005), p. 400.

 

[5] D. H. Lawrence, letter to Ada Clarke (2 August 1929), in The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. VII, ed. Keith Sagar and James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 1993), pp. 397-398. 

[6] Ibid., p. 398. 

[7] See my poem 'Black Holes' in The Circle of Fragments and Other Verses, (Blind Cupid Press, 2010) - or click here to read it on Torpedo the Ark. 

A Brief Comment on Boris Johnson and the Conservative Party

 

Boris Johnson is merely a gigantic jellyfish, wallowing in the shallows before invariably being washed up, exhausted, on the shores of defeat.* 

 

If those within the Conservative Party who continue to lend him their support only knew how disastrous their loyalty will prove to be, they would be appalled. Fortunately, they are too stupid, too reckless, or too corrupt to care.    

 

 

*Note: I am not the first to have noticed the uncanny resemblance between the UK Prime Minister and this gelatinous free-swimming marine animal. In an article in The Spectator written ten years ago, Isabel Hardman expressed her belief that Johnson was, in fact, a "particularly powerful blond jellyfish" capable of delivering a nasty sting to those who get in his way. 

      It's worth noting also that, in 2013, Johnson called opposition members of the London Assembly great supine protoplasmic invertebrate jellies, which is ironic, if nothing else. 

          

Yes, Jordan, We Remember When Pride Was a Sin

Jordan Peterson on YouTube (1 July 2022)

 

 

I. 

 

The Canadian psychologist, author, and cultural commentator Jordan Peterson has had his Twitter account suspended for a recent tweet which, apparently, violated their rules governing hateful conduct. The tweet, which I don't wish to discuss in full, opened with the question: Remember when pride was a sin? 

 

It's this line - and Peterson's subsequent defence of the line - which I wish to examine here ...   

 

 

II. 

 

Speaking in a 15 minute video posted on YouTube [1], Peterson acts a little faux-surprised by what he continues to call the ban imposed by Twitter (whilst conceding that, technically, it's no such thing). 

 

He claims - again, somewhat disingenuously - to be uncertain why it is he has had his account suspended by the socal media platform: What was it, that I said, that caused such a fuss? And even more importantly, what exactly was it that I said that resulted in the ban? 

 

Now, Jordan Peterson is a highly intelligent and erudite individual, who chooses his words extremely carefully. So one can be sure that he didn't just post the tweet in a fit of irritation and without thinking; i.e., one can be sure that he knew precisely what he was saying and what the likely response would be. 

 

Peterson claims that his opening statement merely refers us to a time when, as a matter of fact, pride was regarded as a sin. And, yes, okay, there was such a time - a long drawn out period which we might refer to as the Christian era [2] - when pride, along with six other capital vices or deadly sins [3], was contrasted with heavenly virtue. 

 

Indeed, it's even true that pride was thought to be the root cause of all sins, as it's human pride which turns the soul of man away from God. And pride, Peterson reminds us, often comes before a fall into hubris, narcissism, and folly. 

 

Having said that, pride is - like other human emotions - a complex matter (as I'm sure Peterson would be the first to acknowledge). And just as there are those who regard it as a sin, there are others - including Aristotle - who view it positively and as a virtue; i.e., as a justifiable and healthy feeling of self-worth. 

 

Is it not preferable that individuals and groups take pride in themselves, rather than feel shame? I think so [4]. And clearly those within the LGBTQ+ community primarily use the term pride as an antonym for the latter. 

 

Again, I'm sure Peterson is perfectly aware of this, although he openly admits that he does not regard pride as a virtue - which is fine, that's up to him, and, as a Christian devotee of Jung, I wouldn't expect otherwise (the latter insisted that it was through pride that we forever deceive ourselves). 

 

But does Peterson really need to mock what he calls the alphabet acronym used by the above, when it's simply a convenient means of self-referral amongst a diverse group of people?

 

Personally, I don't feel that's necessary - although Peterson doesn't seem to care about hurting anyone's feelings. And besides, he has a moral and professional duty, he says, to warn those who have excessive pride - as well as those who, like me, have read too much degenerate postmodern theory - that we are heading for the Abyss; that the path we are on, in other words, leads rapidly to disaster.  

 

I don't see that sexual orientation, or sexual desire of any sort is something to celebrate or take pride in, says Peterson. Again, that's fair enough and he's entitled to his view. But, as a straight cis male, his sexual orientation and desire hasn't been subject to the same kind of stigma and persecution - hasn't had to overcome centuries of prejudice - so he would say that ...

 

The heteronormative ideal of love that Peterson subscribes to (and practices) - monogamous union between a man and a woman - has always been celebrated and taken to be both that which is natural and that which is blessed by God. He might not take pride in this fact, but he almost certainly draws some sense of identity - and a good deal of moral conceit - from it.     

 

Notes

 

[1] To watch this video on YouTube in which Jordan Peterson discusses his Twitter ban, click here. It's the first five minutes or so that are most relevant to what I discuss here (i.e., the issue of pride).

[2] Strangely, in the video above Peterson seems to suggest that the era in which pride was regarded as a sin only ended a decade ago: see 3.50.  

 

[3] As with the names of the seven dwarves in Snow White, it's often tricky to remember all the sins, so here's a reminder: pride, greed, wrath, envy, lust, gluttony and sloth. Although not listed in the Bible as such, it's clear that God was not a fan of these things (or the behaviours that result).  

[4] Not that I would wish for people to lose all sense of shame, for shameless people are as irritating as the excessively proud and, interestingly, are often one and the same.