pleasure after
making the long list
It feels weird to talk about pleasure after June 24th, 2022. I’ve been writing notes for an essay about “pleasure in practices” for weeks; nothing came together. Not in time. Now it seems… anachronistic? Incongruous? Of topics, pleasure is not even on the long list.
On June 25th I went to the Met. I saw two of my favorite paintings, which hang next to each other: Copenhagen Harbor by Moonlight by Johan Christian Dahl and The North Cape by Moonlight by Peder Balke.
I smiled under my mask. I had not seen them for more than two years. Seascapes and cityscapes always mean something to me. I like to see things from a distance. I get this feeling, like possibility, from an image of a ship; even a small wooden boat with one oarsman.
I can find very little information about the wives of Peder Balke and Johan Christian Dahl. Only that Dahl’s wife died in childbirth; her fourth child. Dahl’s second wife—his student—died in childbirth too. I wonder what her paintings were like.
I was in a bookstore on June 26th looking at the politics section. All the books had titles like “the death of…” and “how to win…” and “how to save….” Every topic in terms of war or desperation. I did not want to read any of them. I did not want to learn how to finally be victorious. I wanted to figure out what was worth saving.
In my notes I wrote: “If our activities cannot be pleasurable to us, then why would we ever want to do them? I reject the idea that pleasure is not trustworthy. Pleasure is not something we need to overcome.”
My casual, pre-June-24th assertions! How presumptuous. As if people only do things that make them feel good. I think people do things that make them feel bad all the time—and then say there was no other way.
The word we have is “fight.” The fight is for words like “autonomy,” “healthcare,” “bodily.” Pleasure is not even on the long list. This is not a criticism: there is no time and no mercy. Pleasure does not help you win wars.
But body is much sexier than bodily, as far as letters go. One of my body’s favorite feelings is a blanket draped over the skin, with a breeze coming through the window, making contact. Con-tac-t. These words demand something from me today. Bo-dy. I wish I could ask them: what do you need me to say?
I wish I could also ask: are you afraid because I am body more than bodily?
“Pleasure in practices.” Something-something-something writing process. Talk about presumptuous. But it meant more than that, I swear. There was something important. I took notes for weeks. I see too many people who hate the things they want to love. Don’t say hate if you don’t. Don’t be ashamed to care. Obviously, it’s possible to love something that takes real effort. This is not about avoiding what is difficult. I don’t even have to say that. You know the difference—it is felt. And it is trustworthy.
I got a bug bite on my chin and a splinter in my foot. The splinter is invisible. I tear up my skin with a needle, looking for it, until I bleed. Fuck. Nothing. I clean it with hand soap and cover it with a Band-Aid. I have to keep walking on it, even though it hurts.