A Hazy Shade of Winter
Generally, the initial reaction of a thwarted animal is to try harder to attain its goal. A starving chicken (Gallus domesticus) prevented from reaching its food by a wire fence will make increasingly frantic efforts to get through it. Gradually, however, this behavior is replaced by another which has no obvious purpose. When unable to find food, for example, pigeons (Columbia livia) will frequently peck the ground even if nothing there is edible. Not only will they peck indiscriminately, but they start to preen their feathers; such inappropriate behavior, frequently observed in situations of frustration or conflict, is known as displacement activity. Early in 1986, just after he turned thirty, Bruno began to write.
-Michel Houellebecq, The Elementary Particles
Karl Marx observed, with some humor, that on the eve of the storming of the Bastille, French intellectuals were still preoccupied with balancing the Estates, oblivious to the great transformation that was already well under way. Today we might refer to such behavior as rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. Examples abound. The much-hyped political upheaval of November 2006, to name but one, brings to mind another of Marx’s witty asides about history repeating itself — the first time as tragedy, the second as farce.
But I don’t intend to drone on about politics; I long ago developed Cassandra syndrome, having learned everything I need to know about the future from the yellowed pages of Orwell, Dick, Burgess, Huxley, Gibson and Stephenson.
You see, during the winter months I found myself struggling to balance my own Estates. In Mexico I birthed all sorts of new ideas, and though I carried them around with me, largely unexamined, in the weeks that followed, I had by Halloween succumbed to postpartum depression. I’ve heard this is not uncommon, the return to reality being a jarring experience to freshly tanned and fucked swingers. I suppose this is why resorts like Desire get so much repeat business, why some people even make biannual pilgrimages. However, I am a stubborn, serious-minded hedonist. Banishment to a sex-positive ghetto, no matter how well appointed, is not for me.
I knew I had to move forward, to make some changes in my own life and, perhaps, inspire others (if I were more ethically flexible I might establish a cult or religion). But I was at a loss. I felt alone. Sure, Leslie and I made the rounds, sharing wondrous tales of enlightenment. And I would sit at my desk filing reports, sipping from a glass of straight gin, drawing out the process as long as possible, clinging to the memory of that feeling that came over me for a few days in late September. I, however, couldn’t be certain anyone understood me. Indeed, I’m not even sure I understood myself. “The problem is that we haven’t taught women — or men — how to say ‘no’,” I told someone at a cocktail party, “nor have we taught them how to say ‘yes’.”
People disappointed me. I fell back on old habits yet I couldn’t help but compare every experience to Mexico. Leslie confessed to me that our project felt like more trouble than it was worth; I agreed with her. I remember fooling around with an ex, aware that we were both too deeply embedded in our own narratives to truly let go. Now I realize no one was ever at fault. The conditions weren’t right. People can only join us when they are ready.
But as surely as a long winter must end, so must our confusion. It dawned on me I had been surrounded by people who understood me all along, that we sexual revolutionaries squandered so much energy emphasizing our differences we’d neglected to celebrate our commonalities. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who felt this way: it was as if we’d all woken up one morning with the same idea… and the resolve to do something about it.
By the time the last patches of dirty snow melted my Estates didn’t matter anymore. A new feeling came over me nearly overnight. No wall was torn down, no statues came tumbling to the ground, but it was a revolution nonetheless.
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