Undercurrents
by Jonathan Quince
Monday, February 28, 2005 19:44:00
The dream-pool’s depth is far too sacred for merest mortals alone to penetrate its mysteries. Strong are the currents there, yes! Strong runs the purpose of beauty in this world. And when the blind poet sees first light by the opening of his sight, his first steps may totter and weave; sometimes, by meanders idly aimless to the observer’s view, he begins learning in the way of truth.
So may it be; so it may be.
I have wandered oft in these moments of lustful affection. Exploratory dalliance is far from forbidden in these hallowed spaces; and at times of distraction, I have so nearly veered from the path ’fore finding an alternate outlet or two. Yet always, the light of my purpose guides my steps; and with slow struggle covered over by awesome beauty, I have ticked off the waypoints as I passed, counting either silently or aloud.
Passing again this eve by the dream-pool that from it I may refresh my spirit, I have noted yet again an undercurrent: That of religion.
History’s misadventures speak of the oft-rueful relation ’twixt religion and sex. Religion, when organized en masse, becomes a game of power; and as a pillar of Man’s psyche by which he may be either bound or freed, sex, as such, cannot escape its grasp. Petty preachers and potent propagandists alike know well of the leverage wielded with sex as a fulcrum; and whether sex is denied or venerated (though it is, in fact, usually the former), leaders corrupted in power’s grip have wrought that corruption upon sex in one way or another.
Modernity is little different from any other time in this regard. Yes, liberty is far greater in many domains of life; but substantively, sex remains the tool by which hoi polloi are leashed and brought to heel.
O, great tragedy! O grand, ironic sadness. If but only the hand holding sex were different, mankind might thereby be freed and uplifted instead of enslaved and ground into the dirt.
A full exegesis of sex, power, and religion is, needless to say, outside the scope of this brief memorandum. Suffice to note, organized religion is a power-structure in principle; and whether the religion at hand is popery and its variants or the atheistic creed of Marxist communism, or any other major orthodoxy from the dawn of civilization, sex has been wielded ruthlessly toward its furtherance. Sometimes, the reasons may be morally defensible; other times, not so at all. Yet regardless, there lie the pattern’s threads.
At this juncture, it is time for me to admit a confession: I am a religious man, and devoutly so. Mayhap some of my loyal readers have seen such in my writings; others may find it a surprise. Naturally, I must also note that I disown and disavow every organized religion yet heard named on the public stage: Some may have heritage that is cause for pride, others are simply despicable, and none at all are fit for me.
Yet how, pray tell, does this relate to Sopef?
Sex qua sex is a value—period. I have written as much before, and I have no doubt I shall again in plenty. Nevertheless, sex also fits other roles in this richly faceted universe. As such, sex and religion are very much inseparable: Much as religion can ill-resist sex’s draw of power, neither can sex deny its inherent streaks of worship and spiritualism.
Sopef has been founded on a fundament of sex. As with sex qua sex, thus, so with Sopef qua Sopef: Duplicity is not my stock in deviance, and my sexual motives are quite pure in each piece of my beautiful literary bits. Yet again, sex, worship, beauty, spirit, religion, and power all entangle in an incestuous orgy, each being born from the others in a never-ending cycle—and all together, now, giving birth to Sopef through my Muse’s womb.
Sopef draws its lifeblood from the dream-pool’s vibrance, and thereby do they share of both genetics and deep-run tides. The undercurrent of religion is no exception. Visions hang before my eyes in synchronicity with orgasm; as I am not a ghost, spirit and body must live in reflective harmony. The carnal must be blessed, and the holy must be housed in physicality. And while, thus far, I write not of the holy but by physical reflections, what human may know yet of the future?
God and the prophets may tell, but they say not here, tonight; time almost certainly shall speak, but only at its leisure. That leaves us, now, to swim in the dream-pool, sighing in peace at the undercurrents’ touch and knowing that someday, they may hit the surface in splendor. So now say I, hark to your body! and let us return this eve to the never-ending orgy.