Eye

I had spoken to a close friend - a reader of this blog - who wishes to have a cool sobriquet; like Cato.  Let it be known that I do not find Cato to be a cool nickname. The OJ Simpson trial forever sullied this epithet. My friend, let's call him X for now, has no clue about the difficulty of creating a cool a nickname. It needs to be apt, catchy and descriptive - the description predicated upon a relevant and easily observable character trait of X. Indeed, it is a variable that X should be equal to, but how to solve this challenging equation? Perhaps recruiting a professor would be helpful. Too bad Professor X is taken. He shall remain X until we solve for the variable.

X and I were talking earlier, and he revealed to me that he has a problem of sorts. He is tormented day and night by the need to masturbate, profusely. Holy shit Batman! Profuser X! This is perfect.  The definition of profusely: (esp of something offered or discharged) exuberantly plentiful; abundant.  This is beyond fitting for him; like a glove. His opinions, abundant, he relays always with plentiful exuberance to anyone he can detain for more than a moment. And with his recent rise in ejaculations, which he discharges probably with the same exuberance, a more fitting moniker is hard to conceive.  I know what you're thinking: not another masturbation post. I promise, it isn't.

So the ole Profuser and I were talking, and he was professing that I would be the last of my brood if I don't repent and start rapaciously rapping with my skin-serpent. He suggested that it's a signifier of a sickness, a kind of cellular apathy ushering my DNA into obscurity. I claimed that my cells are simply focusing resources on more pressing matters, and that there is no need for alarm, but he insisted I see a urologist and confess my sickness to him, the urologist. I imagined, comically, beseeching the urologist in a dark wooden booth, through a mesh metal screen, to save my libido from lassitude and sterility, reciting The Act of Contrition and a few Hail Marys to restore the carnal lust to my somber scepter.

The notion that there is an expected level of arousal is a fascinating one, and how readily some would declare another abnormal is proof an expectation has been created. But who would do such a thing, why? A few reasons, I'd venture. First, money. It would seem that to pathologize sex-drive is to open another avenue for the pharmaceutical industry to profit. Convince someone something is wrong with their mind or body, and make them see how they should fear it and seek salvation at any cost, any cost, then provide them the cure - one that requires a continued vigilance and continued purchase against this evil. Come to think of it, it's the same tactic used by religion. And you wouldn't just want to take Viagra or Cialis, no, because that's only targeting the physical aspect of the disease; you'll also want to take some some anti-depressants to help you with your feelings of unhappiness due to your perceived inadequacy, and probably some Valium or Xanx to ease your mind, because worry and stress are harmful to sexual health. Create unease, and then sell salvation; step three, profit. Simple.

Perhaps more insidious than the greed, or the exploitation of the insecurities of others, is the power of the idea of impotence to inspire ignorance. The unhealthy preoccupation with the failings and inadequacies of ones body; libido, muscularity, weight, general attractiveness and desirability, happiness, all tend to divert attention and distract. It is a form of control; a civil war waged in your mind. As technology inspires an increasingly more personalized but still interconnected lifestyle, where our Facebook pages serve as a glimpse into our personalized space for all to see and admire, with our personalized adds and personalized friend recommendations, personalized search suggestions and app recommendations, it's easy to turn that conflict inward instead of outward. Why do we need a common enemy if each of us can be our own hero and villain?

That's not to say this preoccupation with body image and potency doesn't still serve those old means, and that the morbidly obese, pimple faced, balding 20-something year old with a little dick doesn't have a deep rooted sense of anger and resentment for the well muscled, clean shaven, blue-eyed football player that gets all the girls; that outlet for an enemy still sleeps, waiting to wake, roused by gun-fire. That perceived enemy inside ourselves or in another, keeps us distrustful - of ourselves and others - and keeps us obsessed with things that take tremendous time and energy to change, even more to maintain.

Then, while we're all staring at reflections in our mirrors and in our phones, wondering whether we look fat - with eyes like palindromes - we cannot see. Multiplied infinitely are the illusions to which we subscribe.

"Then Bioy-Casares recalled that one of the heresiarchs of Uqbar had stated that mirrors and copulation are abominable, since they both multiply the numbers of man.
-- "Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius"