In the past few days, I have been scouring my bookshelves and the net, on an NMJ-related quest for a particular Eeva Kilpi poem (no luck yet honey, but still trying). I found something else instead, though, also in relation to a conversation on the blogging ether.
There was something The Periodic Englishman said in one of his unique comments that I have felt the need to come back to. Because his comments pages are typically fourteen feet long, I shall save you the scrolling trouble and quote him directly here:
"I could probably just as easily have written about sex, as music – and in particular, orgasms (I’m being serious) - because there are some striking similarities. There is an unbearable sadness in giving in to desire and in the obliterating moments of a sated lust. It can feel hopeless and weakening and enough to make you cry, and yet the potent allure of such physical release completely defies description. It is too good, too shatteringly wonderful, too very nearly transcendental and unbalancing, altogether. But God alive, it can make you feel blue."
Now, I am not going to go into an analysis of my orgasmic potential (come ON, what were you expecting?). However, I am and have always (well, adult life anyway) been intrigued by the strange connection between sexual pleasure and an art-induced ecstatic state. A religious/mystical experience would probably qualify here too. There is a losing of oneself, a letting go, an out-of-time-ness associated with these things which are difficult to come by otherwise. I was sorely disappointed in the stupidity of my reply to PE on this - as I recall, I said "yes", how eloquent is that - so I am pleased to have found a quote that says some of the things I would've said, had I found the words. It is an Eeva Kilpi quote (so there is a line of thought running through this rambling post, after all, as you can see):
Orgasmissa ikuisuus lakkaa hetkeksi merkitsemästä ja ihminen vapautuu tietoisuudesta ettei ole ikuinen.
In the orgasm, eternity ceases to matter for a moment, and the person is freed from the knowledge s/he is not eternal.
(Ah, the translation would be so much more stylish, if only English didn't have gender-specific pronouns...)
Anyway - Happy Easter, one and all.
PS Much later - Having received some valued assistance with my translation, I offer you draft two:
"In the orgasm, eternity ceases to matter for a moment, and the person is freed from the knowledge they are not eternal."
Much, much better, isn't it, thank you PE...
Monday, April 09, 2007
This post is about orgasms
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231 comments:
«Oldest ‹Older 201 – 231 of 231I have not forgotten, dear fompy - I have a poetry cafe to organise tonight (and no new poems of my own, but never mind) - and son due to arrive back from Morocco imminently. Why this should get in the way of doing relatively simple I can't quite work out. But it does. I somehow know you will understand this x
Signs, my pet - I am hot on your heels as you can tell, there will be only a few minutes between our exchanges here - you are right, I will and do understand. Nothing is simple, everything is complicated, and arranging and organising things is from the most complicated end of things, this I am aware of. A poetry cafe organised by you sounds fabulous...wish I could throw a spirit body or something to take part, or just silently observe from some nook.
Enjoy it for me, too, won't you - look forward to hearing from you soon regarding the poetry or any other matter.
xx
meanwhile, my dear, give yourself a laugh, do - and go to
http://mingle2.com/blog-rating
to see how your blog is rated (I already know because I checked it at the same time as mine, ha ha) - haven't checked Mr. Stallion's though, so maybe you should perform this small service for him.
Why am I doing this? Distraction, my dear anna, it's raining cats and dogs and I am eating mildly spiced anxiety soup. Sending your spirit body this eve would be a good thing btw. I will reserve a chair. x
Holy hell, Signs, I shall do so presently. I have a feeling it ain't gonna be sky-high, for me - I once did a blog rating thing via The Moon Topples, when he had had his rated at 60 000 $ or something - mine came out a nice 0 $, I was wondering whether I wanted to display the badge proudly but then decided it was maybe better not to.
Off I trot, then. And shall look up Mr Stallion's estimated value whilst there. What time would you like my spirit body to arrive? Would hate to be late and clonk chairs and stuff while someone is up reading their poetry - I know as a performer how bloody annoying that is. And still raining cats, dogs, and other small household pets? Not good. I did what I could, sending my sun there - it rained here for three days after, it is only just beginning to clear a little as we speak.
Spice that anxiety soup up with a couple of large handfuls of online friendship from northern parts, Signs. I am so glad to have met you, my dear...
xxx
Oh, Signs - it is BRILLIANT. This thing is going onto my bloggy this instant. Most excellent. Will go back in a mo to check on Mr Rampant Ripperoo... and looking forward to it.
xxxxxx love to you
Oh, I am full of green envy - he is deemed even worse for kiddies than I. Oh, I simply must swear a whole fucking lot more.
Come on, out with it - how did you fare? And do go admire my badge - sadly it was too wide to have at the top, so it is way way down where no one will ever see it. But I know it's there...
x
I am pleased to say that you and I are identically rated. Where all those fxxks and sh*ts came from I can't think - and apparently I, or someone used the word "pain" - that's a bit of an x-rater too.
Can't think what the Rampant Stallion has hidden away on his blog to give him such a super duper wicked rating. Think how he will be lording it over us. Yes, we must swear more, be altogether more, I don't know, outrageous.
Doors open at 7.15 - but I will be there earlier and hope to find you there waiting, ta x
Ha-ha - I think you'll find it's probably yours truly who has slipped most of the fucks in at your house (so to speak). The Foul-Mouthed Time Lord beat us with ample use of the word "suicide" plus one of "bitches" (although he was probably talking quite innocently about his dog and her friends). I had seven pains - quite apt, really, and I was surprised to find only three or so fucks. (There, no secret ratings, McPoni my love, we're all open society around here...)
7.15 you say? Right, I'll make a point of sending an ethereal Anna over at around 8 my time, 6 yours...hope she behaves herself and doesn't tap tables or cause any ectoplasmic outbursts on any of the speakers - I have sometimes worried about a possible poltergeisty thing around me. Look forward to hearing all about it (maybe best it comes straight from the horse's mouth, though, so do tell all afterwards).
xx
I spotted your ethereal self at the table in the corner, partially glinting in candle light. I nearly came over and offered you some wine but thought that might not be ethereal etiquette. So I beamed some across to you and nodded and gesticulated. It is ok. People in these parts already think I am strange (Mr. P.E. if you're looking in, I'm mad, I am) - and the evening went rather well in a laid-back kind of way that suits my condition at present. So thank you.
You have been putting up some lovely posts, inc photos and all. Have you decided to become entirely, rather than partially, brilliant?
- oh, and I have sent some items.
Oh Signs, dearest and most perfectly-formed Kolmio of all times - stop being so complimentary, I will die.
I am glad to hear the evening was a success in spite of my ethereal leprechauny being making an appearance - I am glad also she seems to have behaved herself. But gladdest of all I am of the items which I have received but not yet opened - I hastened here and there and everywhere to reply to you first. And now, guess what - I am off to have a look at them.
Be seeing you, number 6...
xxx
ok, I give up! So back I come burrowing down, down into the very bowels (not the right word really) of the earth to look for this Birthday Post thingy you say you have put somewhere and I'm a mashed potato if I don't find where it is. Well happy four-ohs and wishing you plenty of Os in the coming year.
- and Mwahhh!
x
Right, you, not one single person has had the audacity (or honesty) (or kindness) to wish me "plenty of Os". You really are one to be kept under very close scrutiny, aren't you, O'Signs? Brilliant.
I am absolutely not going to ruin your joy of discovery by telling you where to look. No I am not - do remember I work in the preschool environment, so I am loaded with horrible catchphrases like that - the Montessori slogan of course being "help me to do it myself". I shall, therefore, attempt to gently coerce you to do it yourself, Signsypet.
And that is all I am ever going to say on the matter. Mwah!
Well I just couldn't resist the challenge, could I? And actually this one was easy, no Monkee guards here. You really should consider the fact that any old riff raff can come (no pun intended) here. Greetings, mwah and bllzby.
This is true, Signs, I never considered the riff-raff coming here (meaning every pun I can squeeze into it, because, lame as they are, puns are funny - sorry, but they are. It is because of their lameness, I think). And, really rather disappointingly - they don't, either. I know this because of my statties. This really is rather a delicious corner of my bloggy house, it has to be said (I have just spent half an hour wading through some of our old stuff there) and I must say it passed the time most enjoyably. Sadly, I cannot rise to the same standard now (rise, rise - geddit?), for I am somehow a bit spent (spent, spent - geddit?). However, should you feel like sitting down comfily here and opening the thread up again, Signs, I would be most delighted. Mwah and greetings to you, it's been lovely nipping here again.
(I should install a really big bodyguard dude, you're right. I'll see what I can do about it. And of course, nowadays we have the email follow-up comments thingy, you can probably get here without having to wade through any posts at all - I think they allow you to just click on a link and get there instantly.)
Hmm, no I don't think I know what an email follow-up comments thingy is. I just go to archive and April and travel overland, so to speak, doing some off-setting carbon footprint on the way.
I too had a look over this thread - not every single thing obviously, otherwise I'd have been at it (at it! geddit?) for about three full days and nights. But anyway, from the bits that I read, I think we're absolutely brilliant. Well I am, anyway, and will allow that you might just be as well. I was moved and overcome (can I do a pun here? dunno) by my own brilliant and incisive insightfulness and eloquence. That is some Dame, I thought, I must meet her. Oh hang on, it's me - bah, what a pretentious tosser! Tosser? No, Anna, I'm just getting up myself (aargh, wot?) and must stop before I disappear up my own -
nytnm (thank you, leprechauns)
Signs, that was way too puntastic for me to even try to better. I shan't, therefore. Instead, I'll go all sensible and explain to you that nowadays, blogger offers you an email-follow-up thingy, which you'll see directly under the comments box, if you travel here (or indeed, I suppose, any blog) whilst signed in with your blogger account. They have a little box to tick and it says "email follow-up comments to" and then your email address. I believe the email itself comes with a link to the comment thread. How handy is that? Except now you can't secretly be continuing anything, because all and sundry will be alerted to your every movements, be they in the depths of the orgasmathon or elsewhere.
I have now been about as dull as it is humanly possible to be on a comment thread for a post about orgasms. I deserve a prize, methinks.
Dull? You have been a mine of information, which is wonderful - apart from the fact that you are dealing with me, who is not the brightest ticket. And you are telling me that if I use this email thingy then everyone in the world and his wife will know that I am down in the pit of the orgasm thread? This is too much for me to take in all at one sitting. But I will try it out - anon.
Hum-hum. No, I think I must say I have been a mite unclear. What I naturally meant to say is YOU will be alerted to all movement down here, if anyone as much as lifts a ...finger here in the orgasmathon, once you've ticked that box, you'll know. Their finger-lifting will be sent into your inbox. Which, I expect, is what will happen to this comment.
Testing, testing. Signs? Did you find this in your inbox? If so, mwah. If not, mwah anyway.
Hm. Just checking. I suppose, come April, you really should be thinking of having an "Orgasms" anniversary. Of course, it can be done in such a way that only Those In The Know will know. But. When are you going to join us in Blogoslavia - the play, the film, the musical? You being a bit of a luvvie and all. Check 'animal angels'. Is the world ready for us, Wolf-friend?
And I never did work out that inbox thing. Doing it the plodding way. But I'm still an intellectual.
Of course you are, Signs. Just you keep telling yourself that. You may be an intellectual, it's true, but I am a world class spy. Don't for one single minute think that I don't see you down here, surreptitiously casting for Blogoslavia and suggesting orgasm anniversaries to poor Anna Finn.
Shame on everyone apart from me.
Hei Anna Igloo, Signs is right. The anniversasm approaches. Or, I suppose, the big day is coming, as one might say. Maybe not.
Anyway, sort something out.
x
TPE, quelle surprise! If there were a shadow of scepticism (and there never was on my part) about your psychic abilities, it is now dispelled. A cynic would think that someone had shopped me, and damn quickly at that (oh sister Wolf)! Well, 'tis true, as you see. I am on the couch, as it were, casting.
I combine my psychic abilities with a network of (easily bought) spies, as it happens.
It does, however, look very like you were shopped this time, Signs. I'm not saying that Anna immediately came running to tell me that you'd arrived here, no. I'm just hinting that she might have. (Although, strictly between ourselves, she did.)
Anyway, be that as it may, I need to express my disgruntlement at the fact that you have gone behind the back of your co-director (that would be me, Signs) in order to slyly scout out the talent for our show. That is beyond low. Beneath low, even.
I never normally participate in your word verification games, as you know (I am way too mature for that, and you two are soooo childish), but I am struck by the seeming pertinence of the letters I now see before me - UGHYES. I don't know, but this seems frighteningly apt in a thread (at least notionally) about orgasms. I laughed, anyway, and that's all that really matters.
Shame on everyone, as ever, including, for once, myself. Why should I miss out on all the fun? Shame rules.
Ha. Even the word verification leprechauns, those normally so mischievous and often spiteful little beings, can't help put grunt and come at the sight of you, TPE. What can I possibly say ("ughyes" comes to mind, unbidden). However - onwards and upwards, to the world of theatre. Hello, Ms and Mr Director, this is me sucking up to you most despicably...
Anna MR enters, stage right, completely naked save a few silver birch leaves stuck onto her body, here and there, artistically yet apparently totally at random. She carries in one hand a well-read copy of Stanislavski's "An Actor Prepares", open at a page which seems to hold her interest captive. She seems neither young nor old, pretty nor ugly, skinny nor fat, tall nor short, feminine nor masculine. She is the ideal actor, malleable to the extreme, pliable to match the directors' vision, yet it is clear from her palpable stage presence and charisma she will bring a special inner fire to any character she is cast as. A light comes up on her and she blinks, searchingly, as if finding herself suddenly aware of her surroundings. She speaks, and her lovely alto carries easily across the auditorium to the two directors she apparently is addressing, seated amongst, yet invisible to, the audience:
Anna MR: Hello? I wonder if you can help me? I'm looking for the casting couch for Blogoslavia... I'd like to audition.
Hmmm. I guess it was (yet another case of) "don't call us, we'll call you". Oh, the shame, the humiliation, the sheer wounding disappointment of it all, to be thus shunned, turned down, silenced to oblivion on one's own blog, on one's own (in)famous orgasmathon.
Ah well. I have loved you both well, my partners in crime, and continue to do so, although it's quite clear you don't give two hoots about my love (or my obvious multi-talentedness).
Farewell, fair friends. I shall go and grunt gutturally in igloo-speak and Aramaic with you in a moment, somewhere completely different. Or then it'll take me a moment longer than a moment, but that's never stopped us before, has it, time. Or, in particular, the lapsing of it.
Anna MR is seen walking away into the distance, singing to herself, her voice blown away by the winds of time which whoosh around her...
Showbusiness, Anna! What can I say? Look, if it were up to me you would have the part, whatever part it is that you were auditioning for - yes, the incarnate spirit of Blogoslavia herself. But you know how it is. I've had the whole industry on my back, fighting for the rights and I've decided to be true to the original artistic impulse and withdraw the whole project from the commercial arena. I'm not sure how to break the news to TPE but feel sure that he is thinking along the same lines and that we are in some kind of psychic communication about it. I now think the production, or whatever one might call it, should be staged at night in the middle of a forest - completely without clothes, obviously. And everthing in the best possible taste. That is very important. Between you and me I am not sure about the UGHYES element that was brought in by you-know-who. It just strikes the wrong note, even if this is all about orgasms. Best sort it all out before the anniversary I reckon. They'll all be here - everyone, you mark my words.
fighhyhh - oh, really!
Hei - Orgasmatron! I'm here with my bottle of Smirnoff Ice - where's the party then? Oh sod it, I'll just have to spout poetry then:
"Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs ..."
Oh Gawd - Gawd! TPE is going to think this is about him, isn't he? And then I'll have to admit that Yeats wrote it, not me.
Well, I turned up. Just like the traveller, knocking on the moonlit door:
"’Tell them I came, and no one answer’d,
’That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners
's late. Feelin bitsick. to much smirnof an cider - b seein u
Christ Almighty, Signs of Our Times, you nearly killed me on my morning bus with that comment. Of course TPE's going to think it was about him. I thought it was about him, how well it would describe him, my mind irresistibly drawn to him, somehow (it must be the thighs) (although naturally I knew it was a Yeats not a Signs). But still. Funny and brilliant and scary-sexy-gorgeous and altogether lovely (that poem, the context of it being here, you two, me, cetra).
Hello, you party animal. You'll find that I've sent them all to your house with the Anniversary Post you made me write. Yes, you. Nobody else would have thought of such a thing. Still, it is a good idea even if I didn't have it. And listen, Skins, fighhyhh is very deserving of our attention. Allow me to explain - well, I needn't explain fig, we all know what Adam and Eve wore after the fall from grace. But do you realise, Siskins, that hyh is Finnish onomatopoeic (again - we are surely plagued by this now?) describing disgust - a bit like yuck? Hmmm? So let's see -
fighhyhh - n., lit."fig-yuck". An expression of a heartfelt opposition to the wearing of fig-leaves in an attempt to conceal one's nudity (here: sexuality) from (the prying eyes of) God; symb. a refusal to accept shame alone as an adequate response to matters divine and sexual.
Word. Thank you for coming to this little party tonight, Signskins. Mwah and mwah and spurtings of champagne.
Conventional sexual orgasm, drug based or religious transcendental ecstatic states all pale in comparison to Echo & the Bunnymen's "In Bluer Skies" or "Flaming Red."
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