Sunday, 12 April 2009

COPACABANA - THE MEMORANDUM




Jonathan said: How was the fishing?



Always fishing for information, Jonathan. And I, for once, have none to
impart. Except, perhaps, for what my experience taught me. What I had expected
to find was a real summer sale of sexual solicitation. Couples copulating on the
beaches, and making love in casual encounters. Women who were discarding all
modesty or freely exposing their intimate parts. Animal intimacy and an erotic
fever. But forgive me casting doubt on this, for what I discovered was a diverse
and inviting expanse of beaches and a healthy and happy conjoining of the sexes.
A heterogeneous but cohesive people who, under a statue fortuitously named
Christo Redentor, seem to have no sense of moral displeasure at their own
inherent disposition. A point not recognized in Europe, but surely compelling in
the moral behaviour of a culture which so wholesomely contrasts the image of
lascivious exhibitionism that has for so long attended the European female. Nor
does it fail to grasp that the body is not meant to be a pornographic gift, but
a natural affirmative statement. Sex is a perfectly proper pursuit in the
circumstances, and I read no sinister connotations into it.

No subversion, no insinuation, no measures of voyeuristic coercion that
any foreign intruder might introduce will shatter this South American
equanimity. To me, the most striking thing about them is an extraordinary happy
quality in their animate eyes and their Latin temperament, their vitality and
good humour. The whole interweaving pattern of racial counterpoint and ethnic
distinction which is mirrored charmingly in the manner of their vernacular and
its symphonic construction, communicating, as it does, with a phonetic,
gesticulative impact. Some people might say that a gift for mimicry is the sign
of an undeveloped language. In this case it is an example of the extraordinary
rapport the indigenes can establish with the minds and emotions of strangers.
Even South America’s dispossessed, the campesinos and the urban poor in their
barrios or favellas, seem a breed supremely more vibrant than the blue-eyed
Caucasian elite which, in spite of outward appearances, is already carrying the
senescent virus of a declining race.

Let’s face it, the beleaguered fortress of Europe has fulfilled its
Faustian compact with what is now a truly demonic civilization. Its modus
vivendi
having acquired a deftly nightmarish tinge, compounded by collective
paranoia if not the wholesale departure of the will to live. Which is a problem
with a far less definable solution than poverty and destitution. A sort of muted
psychosis, one might say, within this ghastly twilight zone that has gathered
closely around us. A cultural Gö tterdämmerung, no less, where all the rules
and exhortations of moral history and enlightenment are abruptly beginning to be
held up to a different light. Nor is it difficult to reconstruct the reaction of
those tormented minds and bodies which are solemnly informed that the pursuit of
pornography is compatible with full mental health. For that, to me, is the
supreme example of a rampant schizophrenia which allows some to trample on every
erotic secret and gynaecological mystery, while others are being forced into
stranger and stranger orientations, often bereft of the apposite sex, and then have to find something else to fuck, and that generally means themselves.

I am, heaven knows, no mere bystander in the business of fornication - but it seems to me that all this must be part of the ever more desperate self-deception underlying our mental development, which is increasingly fuelled
by the terrifying urge for wealth, as in the field of economics, and virtual pleasure, as in the field of electronics. The moral side of it does not bother me, but I have no doubt that this curious borderline reality has its effects on the collective mind. For whether you finally crack and are taken to A&E suffering from repetitive-cyber-attention-psychosis, or perish from a cocktail of heroin, cocaine and skunk, is pretty much the same thing once you've become
dependent, or even addicted, to the almost hourly fix of being injected with
yet another online-dopamine rush.

Soma for the feeble-minded!

The actual world is simply too real for us and we don't want to be part
of natural life. We want to create a magic world in the likeness of our own
image, a blueprint no less, to become actual when linked and twittered, blogged
and face-booked en masse. In this way we can enjoy a fantasy as if it were a
reality. Not to mention those whose minds have come to dwell exclusively on
electronic images while looking for the one thing they can never find, which is
reality. Nor is it generally realised that we now have four species of man: the
celebrities, the pornographers, the politicians, and the mutants. For even if
you are not as yet an active pervert, an electronic mutant or hounded into mental
paranoia, there are plenty of people around you who are. All those unsavoury
habits of diseased little minds, incapable of appreciating the balance of the
world's forces and concentrating instead on the parochial conflicts of religious
wars, Keynesian politics and how to improve the technology for killing other
human beings. Flotsome amid this greater enterprise, their proliferating miseries of interest to no one but themselves. For the inspired sense of the art of the impossible which so characterized the ascent of this once great Western civilization has long since become submerged in the
limitless links for the never-ending distractions which are all virtual, without roots, intangible and circumstantial shortcuts to arousal on a journey that is made unwillingly, without appetite or positive hope of a welcoming and redemptive climax...

And there you are, folks: So I went to South-America and - discovered Europe. God help us all!










Dreamy