Why I Hate You

Let me tell you why I hate you.

Here's a key premise in Katie and my first book, "The Game of God: Recovering Your True Identity:" (a) the source of all fear is the unknown, (b) the source of all hatred is fear. In other words, what we don't know is what we fear and what we fear is what we hate. It is absolutely impossible for us not to fear the unknown and it is equally impossible for us not to hate what we fear. Fear and hate are simply the emotional/psychological expressions of flight/fight.

"Know" is a very big word and, like "love," "God" and "friend," much misunderstood. To "know" means to absolutely know. I once read that Charles Darwin became enamored of using the word "infinite," until he was advised by friends more familiar with the concept that "infinite" is a lot more than a very big number; it is mind-stoppingly powerful medicine.

The only thing I know absolutely is that some sort of experience is occurring. That's it. Everything else is limited by some degree of ignorance. I do not absolutely know that the sun will "rise" tomorrow. I do not absolutely know that I will live another second. And because my ignorance is vast and incessant, so is my fear and so is my hatred.

I grew up not trusting people. I did not know them thus I feared and hated them. I still do (and this means you). Of course I don't know myself either. That's why I fear and hate me too.

My life's work has been to discover what the flying duck is going on here. What is truth? Who are we and what is existence all about? A very important answer that my life-mate Katie and I arrived at is that the human race is universally insane. We define "insanity" as the state of confusing our mind-generated reality with actual reality. Insanity, to put it another way, is convincing ourselves we "know" when the truth is we don't know. Some anorexics starve themselves to death because they "know" they're fat. A more blatant nut case "knows" she's Queen Victoria. The more subtle nut case "knows" he's Arthur B. Hancock. All are delusional.

The antidote is humility: simply being experientially cognizant of our limitations. Humility does not make us weak. It makes us strong. Being in touch with the reality of our vast ignorance--and our insane beliefs that we really know who we are, what we are, where we are, when we are, why we are, what we're doing, where we came from, and where we're going--is to be grounded in the way it is, and opens the door to the possibility of meaningful learning and change.

Even as a child I knew something was wrong with people. It's taken a lifetime but Katie and I have discovered what the problem is: we're all encumbered with an insidious form of insanity. When I'm experiencing the actuality of my madness, and yours, I can reduce the fear and hate and have compassion for us.

Katie and I define "love" as the experience of unconditional acceptance of what is. Face/accept is the lone alternative to flight/fight. Facing our insanity means the end of self-hatred, blame, and arrogance.

Please do yourself a favor and read Katie's "We Are ALL Innocent by Reason of Insanity: The Mechanics of Compassion" and my autobiography, "Exposing Myself: A Life of Sex and Truth."          

Erotic Art or Porn?

I recently saw an art exhibit whose theme was women (and guns!) that included some nudes. It prompted me to think about the difference between "erotic art" and "pornography." Where is the line that separates the two?

What I’m coming to realize in my latter-daze dotterage is that lines do not exist. Whatever life, the universe, and everything proves to be, it very much appears to be one seamless thing. Everything is connected to everything else; there is no fixed line dividing anything, much less one that neatly divides the so-called artistic from the so-called obscene. I suppose I should say right upfront that when I’m reasonably sane I do not find sex obscene at all; I find it beautiful.

What I noticed in the exhibition was, with a couple of exceptions, a conspicuous timidity about sex. There was, for me, an overall coldness in the works that I soon realized was due to the absence of all sexual heat or passion. I invite the reader to Google “erotic art” (images) to see what I mean.

And then it hit me! Any artistic rendering of sexuality that conveys passion to the point of sexually stirring the viewer is deemed pornographic—and must be avoided like the plague. Throughout my life I’ve been aware that this screwed-up world of ours largely holds sex as something dirty, or shameful, or in need of concealment. We must not talk about sex in polite company, we must behave as though we don’t have genitalia, etc. Incredibly, I'd never realized that even sexual arousal itself was taboo! In any case, I checked my New Oxford American Dictionary and found this:

pornography (noun): printed or visual material containing the explicit description or display of sexual organs or activity, intended to stimulate erotic rather than aesthetic or emotional feelings. [My italics]

It very much appears that Puritanical bullshit about sex remains not only alive and well among the general public but has infected and inhibited the avant-garde as well. Many artists are apparently so fearful of having their work labeled “pornographic” that they bend over backwards to make certain that nothing which could possibly arouse the viewer remains. From the same dictionary:

art (noun): the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form such as painting or sculpture, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power. [My italics]  

“Aesthetic” (in the pornography definition) and “beauty” (in the art definition) is used to delineate the wheat of art from the chaff of pornography. Say what? I suppose there are some people who find the sex act devoid of aesthetic beauty; I am not one of them.

 

“Emotional feelings” and “emotional power” are used in both definitions to distinguish “art” from “porn.” But is not sexual arousal an emotion? It is for me! And, if it is, why should this particular emotion be denied a seat at the gallery table? Why is any other emotion—anger and repugnance at a crucifix immersed in a jar of piss, say—fiercely defended as a legitimate artistic expression, while the emotion of being turned on by a depiction of sex is condemned as sleazy pandering to lust, as filth, as lacking in importance?

“Don’t do that! It’s a very important work of art!” said the home invasion victim to Alex in Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange. Remember the piece? It was a white porcelain-like sculpture of a penis (not erect) and balls. The point I’m trying to make is that the object was as cold and devoid of sexuality as one could imagine.  Alex wielded the thing as a weapon and fatally bludgeoned his victim with it.

For me, standard pornography’s greatest shortcoming is its failure to communicate the beauty and honesty and fun of the sexual experience. Are the participants really enjoying themselves or are they faking pleasure? Do they really feel beautiful or are they acting beautiful? Is the artist—painter, photographer, filmmaker, sculptor, etc.—sufficiently gifted to capture and convey that beauty and honesty? 

Erotic art—including graphic depictions of human sexuality—would be included in any gallery, were it not for our mass lunacy about sex.