Eroticism in Man and Bed Bug

A pair of bed bugs sharing affections

Sexual conflict is not uncommon within the animal kingdom; male and female organisms often having violently antagonistic reproductive strategies, particularly when it comes to the mode and frequency of fucking. This has resulted in the evolution of weaponized genitalia, toxic sperm, forced copulation, and a particularly unpleasant practice known as traumatic insemination.  

Also known as hypodermic insemination, this potentially fatal mating practice is one favoured by some species of invertebrates, including the common bed bug. The unfortunate female insect is penetrated through her protective exoskeleton by the sharpened penis of the male who then injects his sperm through the gash directly into her abdominal cavity. 

Although this might result in a successful fertilization of her eggs, the procedure is, as might be imagined, detrimental to the well being of the female. For not only does it leave an open wound which is susceptible to bleeding and infection, but the ejaculation of fluids into the hemocoel can trigger a serious immune reaction.

Why bed bugs have evolved to reproduce in this manner is uncertain. It has been suggested that traumatic insemination may have arisen as an adaptation amongst males looking to circumvent female resistance and eliminate the need for time-consuming courtship rituals; or that it evolved as a means to deposit sperm as close as possible to the ovaries.    

Whatever the cause of this practice, the result, ultimately, is a significantly increased mortality rate amongst female bed bugs. And, eventually, this results in the extinction of entire colonies. 

Not that male members of the genus Afrocimex seem unduly worried about this. Indeed, if there are no females to fuck, then they resort to same sex penetration; the injected seminal fluid migrating to the testes of the feminized male where it is absorbed and thus, if nothing else, giving them a nutrient-rich meal for their pains. 

And the point of this post ...?

Well, it's always fun to show how God moves in mysteriously cruel ways. Further, it's important to remember the violent and malevolent truth of sex; that it's never really good, clean, healthy fun, no matter what doe-eyed lovers with their scented candles may care to believe. Ultimately, love is war by other means.

As for my friend who is currently pestering her boyfriend to have genital beads inserted along the shaft of his penis so that his cock might better resemble her favourite vibrating dildo, I say: Be careful what you wish for ...

Eroticism in Man and Slug

 Two banana slugs sharing affections and looking to exchange sperm

For Nietzsche, eroticism is a physical rejoicing of the body in its own strength and vitality; an exhibition of its beauty and perverse strangeness. "In animals", he writes, "this produces new weapons, pigments, colours, and forms; above all new movements, new rhythms, new love calls and seductions. It is no different in man."

Eroticism, then, regardless of the species, might be thought of as an organic function of the will to power. Those who subscribe to the anthropocentric conceit that whilst sexual activity is common to birds, beasts and flowers, only man has had the wit to transform love into a fatal strategy and an art form, are therefore profoundly mistaken.

In fact, having just spent most of the day reading about the mating habits of slugs, I'm inclined to think that when it comes to fucking it is we - and not they - who are poor in world. 

This has been recognised by many researchers in the field, one of whom wrote that the sight of a courting pair of hermaphroditic slugs majestically circling one another and displaying their disproportionately large penises before entwining in a great ball of slime for hours on end, makes human sexual activity seem severely restricted and diminished in comparison. 

Perhaps this is why so may couples resort to the use of toys in the bedroom - their own bodies failing to excite much interest.  

Note: See Nietzsche, The Will to Power, trans. Walter Kaufmann and R. J. Hollingdale, (Vintage Books, 1968), section 808.

Miley Cyrus Meets Roland Barthes

Miley Cyrus by Cheyne Thomas / V Magazine 

I'm not a great fan of the 22 year-old American performer Miley Cyrus, but I am very much taken with this snapshot of her in a bathtub currently doing the rounds on social media. 

Why? Because, in Barthesian terms, it strikes me as a genuinely erotic photograph which produces the key element for disturbing the more general field of interest or studium. That is to say, the picture affords that which projects out of the image like an arrow and pierces me as viewer with a certain poignant fascination or delight. This is what Barthes terms the punctum. He writes:

"Many photographs are, alas, inert under my gaze. But even among those which have some existence in my eyes, most provoke only a general and, so to speak, polite interest: they have no punctum in them: they please or displease me without pricking me: they are invested with no more than studium." [27]

I know exactly what he means: when one glances casually at the many images of Miss Cyrus available online, one feels at most a rather flaccid degree of vague desire; she's alright, but, in or out of her clothes, it makes very little difference. There's no real surprise or delight; I might like the pictures or find them interesting, but I do not love them.  

This, in fact, is very often the problem with pornographic images; they are too homogeneous or unary. That is to say, they transform reality without making it vacillate. The erotic photograph, on the other hand, is a pornographic image that has been fissured and which gives us troubling details and untimely objects to distract our attention from the otherwise banal and exclusive presentation of sex. 

These supplements are what seduce us and they are often contained in the picture purely by accident (they attest neither to the photographer's intent nor technical ability). Often, we cannot even say what it is that arrests our gaze and constitutes a punctum: "What I can name cannot really prick me", says Barthes [51].

And so - returning to the above photo of Miss Cyrus - I'm not entirely sure what it is I find so captivating and loveable about the picture; is it her eyes, the position of her arms, the towel on her head, the bracelet, the smallness of her breasts, the stick-out ears, or is it the soap bubbles?

"The effect is certain but unlocatable, it does not find its sign, its name; it is sharp and yet lands in a vague zone of myself; it is acute yet muffled, it cries out in silence. ... Nothing surprising, then, if sometimes, despite its clarity, the punctum should be revealed only after the fact, when the photograph is no longer in front of me and I think back on it. I may know better a photograph I remember than a photograph I am looking at, as if direct vision oriented its language wrongly, engaging it in an effort of description which will always miss its point of effect, the punctum." [51-3]

Miley looks so lovely and fresh-faced, so innocent and defiant in her nakedness, that it's distressing to realise at last that there exists another type of punctum - one not of form, but of intensity and which is related to time. For no matter how young and vital the subject, every photograph tells the same story: she is going to die. 

That's the final challenge of every photograph: however brilliantly they seem to capture the moment and the excited world of the living, each picture contains the imperious sign and certainty of future death. They excite our fascination and our desire, but, ultimately, they make us want to cry ...      

 

See: Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida, trans. Richard Howard, (Vintage, 2000).

All Is Forgiven, But Nothing Learnt in The Case of Charlie Hebdo

The so-called survivors' edition of Charlie Hebdo has been published in a print run that numbers in the millions and in several languages, including English and Arabic. What was once a small, struggling, French satirical magazine is now a global phenomenon.

The cover of this eight page issue features a new drawing of Mohammad which, sure enough, has managed to offend and provoke many Muslims - with the more extreme elements, in Pakistan for example, calling for further revenge killings in order to defend the honour of the prophet and punish those who, in their eyes, are guilty of blasphemy and wilfully insulting 1.5 billion people. 

Interesting as this reaction might be, that's not really my concern. Rather, what worries me is not the image, but the text that accompanies the image: above the crying cartoon figure is written tout est pardonné - all is forgiven.

I must confess to finding this outrageously sanctimonious; an attempt by the staff of the magazine to position themselves on the moral high ground by offering their own rather cheap and unconvincing imitation of Christ. They'll be telling us next that the twelve members of staff who died did so that we all might live in a more tolerant, more peaceful, and more loving world. It's a bit rich to say the least.

Equally galling - and further evidence of Charlie Hebdo's arrogance and inability to learn anything of import from what has just happened - is the fact that the figure also holds up a sign saying Je suis Charlie. The fanaticism of the political idealists who produce the magazine blinds them to the fact that, clearly, not everyone subscribes to or identifies with a universal model of secular humanism wrapped in the colours of the tricolore or star-spangled banner.

Charlie Hebdo can only conceive of a future in its own image; it cannot conceive of terrorism as the emergence of a radical antagonism at the very heart of globalization and as a malevolent force that is irreducible to the New World Order. One would suggest that the editors, writers, and cartoonists at the magazine - as well as their supporters - read Jean Baudrillard who, writing in 2002 after the attack on the Twin Towers, argues that the problem is we in the West have grown so powerful, so smug and self-satisfied, that we no longer care even to admit that there remain others in the world who do not share our dreams and our values:

"It all comes from the fact that the Other, like Evil, is unimaginable. It all comes from the impossibility of conceiving of the Other - friend or foe - in its radical otherness, in its irreconcilable foreignness. A refusal rooted in the total identification with oneself around moral values and technical power. ... How can the Other, unless he is an idiot, a psychopath or a crank, want to be different, irremediably different, without even a desire to sign up to our universal gospel?" [62-3]
                                                     
This brilliant - but largely ignored - insight means that Muslims are right to be offended by the cover of the latest edition of Charlie Hebdo - but are offended for the wrong reasons. What's offensive is not a silly little drawing, but the arrogant assumptions and ideological certainties behind it; the inability to contemplate for even one moment that the Islamists "might commit themselves entirely freely, without in any way being blind, mad or manipulated" [67] to their own moral laws, customs, and beliefs.

This kind of offends me too. And although I obviously don't call for the magazine to be burned, or the publishers murdered, I do wish the team at Charlie Hebdo would think about what they do with a little more subtlety and concern.   

 

See: Jean Baudrillard, 'Hypotheses on Terrorism', in The Spirit of Terrorism and Other Essays, trans. Chris Turner (Verso, 2003).

Alzheimer's and the Becoming-Object of Loved Ones

Recently, Dr Richard Smith, former editor of the British Medical Journal and an honorary professor at the University of Warwick, claimed that, in his view, cancer is the best way to die, as it affords one the opportunity to come to terms with death, say goodbye to family and friends, and spend time doing favourite things or visiting favourite places. Thanks to a combination of 'love, morphine, and whisky' even the pain that cancer results in can be managed and made bearable.   

This perfectly reasonable argument predictably attracted much criticism; a spokesperson for Cancer Research, for example, claimed that his comments were insensitive, irresponsible, and nihilistic! The fact that he also suggested we should spend the billions of pounds invested worldwide each year in a search for a cure to cancer in other areas, obviously didn't help convince the above of the merits of his case.  

What most interested me about Dr Smith's remarks, however, was his view that it is the protracted death from dementia that it is the most awful to contemplate or experience, as the person is slowly robbed of their humanity and, eventually, their life. 

This proves, contrary to what some of his critics claim, he's no nihilist; rather, he's a romantic humanist who finds the prospect of becoming-inhuman or becoming-object the most terrible thing imaginable. As an object-oriented philosopher - and as a son whose mother has recently been diagnosed with Alzheimer's - I would beg to differ here and challenge Dr Smith's thinking.

Contrary to what he says - and despite our anthropocentric conceit that posits human subjectivity as a unique and superior form of existence - there's nothing to fear about becoming-object, or making a return to material actuality. It might in fact be rather joyous and liberating to be stripped of agency and autonomy; to abandon the illusion of essential inner life and discover instead the seductive and ironic qualities of complete inertia and indifference.

Why dream of being your old self once again when you can become-object? Indeed, might it not be the case that in becoming-object one finally becomes what one is ...?

Why I Don't Love Russell Brand

As an alienated child of Essex who loves playing with language as well as calling for radical social change, I might be said to have something in common with comedian and activist Russell Brand. 

And, at a push, I would readily admit that anyone who unites Peter Hitchens and Johnny Rotten into enmity can't be all bad or entirely mistaken. But, unfortunately, that's as far as it goes. 

Because I don't like all that hair or the wild staring eyes; I don't like the addictive or the paranoid personality traits; I don't like the crass and naive political idealism, or the slightly sinister calls for a new spirituality coupled to a romantic rejection of reason and science; and neither do I care for the preening narcissism, wilful infantilism, and casual sexism.

So, sorry Russell, but whilst I might happily join you for a (non-alcoholic) drink one day, I won't be joining your revolution anytime soon ...   

 

Je ne suis pas Charlie

Stephane Charbonnier 

1967 - 2015

The vile and sentimental murder of the journalists and illustrators who worked for the French satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo has shocked many people - though not those of us who vividly remember the events surrounding the Jyllands-Posten Muhammad cartoons controversy in 2005; or recall the shooting and attempted beheading of Dutch filmmaker, Theo van Gogh, the year before.   

Predictably, all the usual apologists for transpolitical terror and sympathizers with the Islamist cause have attempted to justify what happened in Paris. But equally galling is the manner in which many have echoed Je suis Charlie - more of a hollow slogan, rather than a meaningful gesture of solidarity.

The fact is other individuals, other publications, other news organizations etc., whilst defending in principle the notion of free speech, have not done so in practice. Rather, in practice, they have acted with a mixture of cowardice and hypocrisy - refusing, for example, to republish or broadcast the works that have (it's claimed) incited such hatred and religious madness.  

They say they are acting responsibly as good liberals should and choosing not to fan the flames or further offend Muslim sensibilities, but, really, they are just scared and prepared to compromise and self-censor in a manner that the radical activists of Charlie Hebdo - including its bravely defiant Editor, Stephane Charbonnier - absolutely refused to do. That's what made the latter heroic; they were prepared to put their lives on the line in a manner that most of us - to our shame - are not. 

I'm not Charlie - but neither are the majority who mouth the slogan even as they seek to appease the enemies of secular society and the values of the West in the name of multiculturalism and a desire to avoid trouble at all costs.      

Haters Back Off! I Love Miranda Sings

What's not to love about the brilliant comic character and internet sensation created, performed, and marketed with genius, by Colleen Ballinger? Miranda Sings is the perfect postmodern clown; the ugly-beautiful face of all that's bad - but, paradoxically, all that's good - about contemporary popular culture. 

In fact, the Miranda Sings YouTube channel is social media satire at its finest and funniest and fully deserving of its 300 million views and 3 million subscribers (or, as Miranda would call them, her Mirfandas). 

Her guest starring role on a recent episode of Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee in full Miranda mode alongside a bemused and amused Jerry Seinfeld - followed by an appearance on The Tonight Show playing Pictionary - confirms that Ballinger has the respect and admiration of those in her profession who know great comic acting when they see it. 

Miranda's unique (and uniquely irritating) voice and her madly inventive use (and misuse) of language have to be heard to be believed. Likewise, her insane facial expressions, awkward body postures, and idiosyncratic twerking style just have to be seen (though the latter might still not be believed even after being seen).

Singer, model, actress, dancer - and magician! - again, I can only ask: what's not to love and recommend all readers check out her videos, or, if you get the chance, go see Ballinger performing as Miranda live in concert. 

Links: 

You can find Miranda by going to her website: mirandasings.com ... Or you can watch any of the hundreds of videos posted on her YouTube channel: youtube.com/user/mirandasings08 

To watch Miranda with Jerry Seinfeld on Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee click: here  ... Or to see Miranda on The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon, click here.

It is your age - A Poem by Isabel del Rio

It is your age that pulls away the veil

From eyes expecting so much more than seen.

And what you did or who you were prevailed

just briefly, what you are is just has-been.

Dreams are no more and even love is dreamt,

No longer hope of saving skin or soul

From surest damnation, all feelings spent

On make-believe things until they run cold.

Don't say it's sad, unfair or undeserved,

this is the only journey you will take,

at least you're here for now, a sentence served

with no purpose but solely for its sake,

to prove or disprove nothing, even less

an answer to the question: what's this mess?

Isabel del Rio is a writer and linguist, born in Madrid and living in London. She writes in both English and Spanish, and has published fiction and poetry. Her bilingual book, Zero Negative / Cero Negativo appeared in 2013 (Araña Editorial). She works for an international organization as head of terminology, and is currently writing a memoir. 

Ms. del Rio appears here as part of the Torpedo the Ark Gastautoren Programm and I am very grateful for her kind submission of a sonnet written last year and, indeed, for the photograph.  

A Nietzschean Message for the New Year: Amor Fati

For me, the greatest and most touching of new year blessings and resolutions remains the one with which Nietzsche opens Book IV of The Gay Science (written January, 1882):

"Today, everybody permits themselves the expression of their dearest wish. Hence, I too shall say what it is that I most desire - what was the first thought to enter my heart this year and what shall be for me the reason, guarantee, and sweetness of my life henceforth: I want increasingly to learn to see as beautiful what is necessary in things, so that I may become one of those who makes things beautiful.  

Amor fati - let that be my love from now on! 

I do not want to wage war against that which is ugly; I do not want to accuse; I do not even want to judge those who judge. Looking away shall be my sole negation. For some day I wish to be one who says Yes to life as a total economy of the whole."

This is what the phrase torpedo the ark means to me: love fate; find pleasure in things as they are; don't judge; look away from that which offends one's taste, but nonetheless affirm everything (even the cockroach that obscenely scuttles across the floor, or lies on its back kicking its legs in the air).

Happy New Year to torpedophiles everywhere ...      

Note: The above text by Nietzsche is a modified version of Walter Kaufmann's translation in The Gay Science, (Vintage Books, 1974), IV. 276.