Posted by: scintillatingspeck | December 1, 2015

Inhabiting desire.

I thought I’d try on a question I wrote the other day and elucidate a bit on it, slowly and deliberately.  Here is the soft, woolen garment I’m wrapping around me, right now, embroidery needle in hand, ready to vivify the fabric:  How can I fully inhabit my desire?

I suppose I’m revealing that I don’t think desire is passively received, other than in our original incarnations stretching back and back and back—we are born to desire the way stars are born to radiate and expand.  Not-desiring is a sort of death, a depressive annihilation, anti-matter.  We’re alive.  I’m alive.  Everything in me rebels against what would squelch my vitality, or yours.

Desire is too magnanimous to be hastily shoved into cramped definition.  Desire is not merely sexual, nor is “sexual” ever “mere”—how deeply this culture has conditioned me to disavow, or at least create vast dissociations around what is sexual.  This culture tells me: you should put in disclaimers about your desire.  You should make it presentable.  You will face consequences if you don’t.  Even a word like “desire” is a little suspect—can’t you tone it down?  Can’t you stop wanting?  Or can you at least just want what you’re told to want?  The imagined Harsh Judge of Behavior and Expression is such an imperious asshole, honestly.

In defiance of this Judge (do I even need to describe the outlines of this creature’s shape?  do we not all know?), I have something to say to it:

Don’t presume to ask me to draw lines around my desire that conform to your expectations.  Don’t ask me to indulge your madonna/whore dichotomies.  Don’t demand that I be some sort of detached icon, elevated above, trammeled below.  Screw your hierarchies.  I swore no oath to your invented dystopia.  I belong to the elements and the shared pulse of Being.  That pulse thrums with desire.  I won’t dissect it, segment it, shred it into unrecognizable ribbons.  I won’t carve up my heart to fit more neatly into your contrived systems.  There is nothing natural about those systems.  My love, my ardor, my resonance follows patterns of roots and lightning.

Fully inhabiting my desire requires resistance to the bombardment of false demands, and a vehement faithfulness to heeding the deepest call.




  1. Love that lightning.

  2. That’s a statement of self emancipation of the natural female spirit from the fettering chains of patriarchy. We are the roots and lightning.

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