Jan 272016
 

After the dust has settled, after we have picked ourselves up, after we have checked to see if we are still alive, after we have looked around to examine the damage . . . what do we do then? Where do we habitually hold ourselves, where (and how) do I habitually hold myself? The question arises because of the imperative to enter into life, and after the crisis to re-enter into life.

There’s a certain reflex of: better not, it’s too dangerous. Is it supposed to be dangerous? Is it as dangerous as we make it? Do we get extra points for living to a ripe old age? Do we get extra points for taking risks, extra points for outraging the populace?

The task of entering into life presupposes a level of alienation from life. As though life is the other. Do we put life and nature together; parts of the same thing. This thing being “other”. There is me and there is other. Do I still work this out as I did as a child? Had I got this sorted out sixty years ago?

Then I want to ask a question about gender, sexuality, sexual identity: could it be seen that women are drawn to life in the way that men are drawn to death. Men are ruled by Thanatos and women by Eros. And no doubt there are many individual exceptions. But my sense is that I have learned about life from women . . . And then again, what is it I have learned from men?

It’s all questions, only questions, questions, questions, questions until the blood pours from every orifice.