Love-making
Love-making is never simply pleasure. Sex manuals or feminist tracts which imply the infinite plasticity of position and pleasure, which counsel assertiveness, whether in bed or out, are dangerously destructive of imagination, of erotic and of spiritual ingenuity. The sexual exchange will be as complicated as the relationship in general - even more so. Kiss, caress and penetration are the relation of the relation, body and soul in touch, two times two adds up: three times three is the equation. The three I harbour within me - body, soul, paraclete - press against the same tripicity in you. What I want, my overcharged imagination, released inside your body, taken up into mine, with attack and with abandon, succumbs so readily and with more joy than I could claim, to your passion, pudency and climax.
The Name: there is yet the Name. The Name of the Beloved cries out in rhythmic throes words the world: it abolishes the safe uncanniness of the ordinary, when the world is normally absent to the world. My name at every thrust returns me not to myself, but to the root of you flush in me.
Night time is psyche time: the accumulation of excess emotion, aroused but unattended during the day; it must have its say - in dream or in prayer, in love making and taking. Neglected or unrehearsed, these residues exact their revenge: they trouble my sleep or keep me awake with an acuity unknown to the day.
Morning is holy terror: awakening, a naked dawning with no consolation of the work of mourning. Grief has been expended during the night; curiosity for the day is still held at bay. There can be no preparation or protection for this moment of rootless exposure; the comforting contraries of diurnal acknowledgement are in suspense. Eros passion is fled: its twin, the passion of faith, is taunting my head.
To spend the whole night with someone is agape: it is ethical. For you must move with him and with yourself from the arms of the one twin to the abyss of the other. This shared journey, unsure yet close, honesty embracing dishonesty, changes the relationship. It may not be a marriage, but it will be sacramental even without benefit of sacraments. To navigate this together is to achieve the mundane: to be present to each other, both at the point of difficult ecstasy and at the point of abyssal infinity, brings you into the shared cares of the finite world.
Gillian Rose, Love's Work
The Name: there is yet the Name. The Name of the Beloved cries out in rhythmic throes words the world: it abolishes the safe uncanniness of the ordinary, when the world is normally absent to the world. My name at every thrust returns me not to myself, but to the root of you flush in me.
Night time is psyche time: the accumulation of excess emotion, aroused but unattended during the day; it must have its say - in dream or in prayer, in love making and taking. Neglected or unrehearsed, these residues exact their revenge: they trouble my sleep or keep me awake with an acuity unknown to the day.
Morning is holy terror: awakening, a naked dawning with no consolation of the work of mourning. Grief has been expended during the night; curiosity for the day is still held at bay. There can be no preparation or protection for this moment of rootless exposure; the comforting contraries of diurnal acknowledgement are in suspense. Eros passion is fled: its twin, the passion of faith, is taunting my head.
To spend the whole night with someone is agape: it is ethical. For you must move with him and with yourself from the arms of the one twin to the abyss of the other. This shared journey, unsure yet close, honesty embracing dishonesty, changes the relationship. It may not be a marriage, but it will be sacramental even without benefit of sacraments. To navigate this together is to achieve the mundane: to be present to each other, both at the point of difficult ecstasy and at the point of abyssal infinity, brings you into the shared cares of the finite world.
Gillian Rose, Love's Work
posted by mh at 8:35 PM
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