Celibate sociability

July 11, 2016

Even as an adolescent, even in the throes of an infatuation, I’ve never been strongly tempted by sex – at most, the act represented, when I was a virgin, something undignified that I was curious about in a distant, skeptical way. Once, the object of my affection pointed out to me that I was in love with the idea of being in love. He was right; I liked him, and found in him a pretext for writing love poetry.  I didn’t want anything else out of him, except perhaps his conversation.

I can’t fully explain the skepticism and indifference I’ve always felt towards sex. Interest in sexuality constantly surprises me in other people; my reaction is to feel bemused that they can take such a keen interest in each other at all. In part, I suppose this is related to my attitude toward family life – I’ve never wanted marriage or children. I tend to see children as a public nuisance rather than a blessing. But in a world with birth control, you wouldn’t expect that consideration to be decisive.

I was never told to associate sex with shame or disgust as a child, and reading a moral philosopher expounding on asceticism only makes me smile, e.g., “It is not for nothing that the immediate feeling of shame is connected precisely with this act. To stifle or pervert its testimony; after many thousands of years of inward and outward development, and from the heights of a refined intelligence to pronounce good that which even the simple feeling of the savage acknowledges to be wrong – this is, indeed, a disgrace to humanity and a clear proof of our demoralisation”!

I would love to have witnessed an exchange between this philosopher and his contemporary, one of my current favorite poets, Algernon Charles Swinburne. In Swinburne’s verses lust is at once cherubic and luxuriant, drawn in a heavenly chariot by a coterie of doves, the dominion of Aphrodite and the Muses, in mortal forms pitifully transient, but still a transcendental mystery and an end unto itself.


But to get around to my point, it turns out that decisions about children are to be decisive for me after all when it comes to the world of sexuality. My doctor, when she learned that I was using birth control, told me in no uncertain terms that if I want to be sexually active, I should go off my meds. They both cause serious birth defects, and she considers birth control an inadequate prevention method – if I am to stay on my meds, I am supposed to be celibate.

That no other doctor had ever warned me about this was my first thought when she told me this. I had been on these meds for more than five years and no one had said anything about birth defects. I had looked up their side effects on-line; still nothing. Lesson learned. If you want to know about a drug’s teratogenic side effects, you have to dig deeper to find out about them.

But as far as relationships go, this news didn’t come as a major blow to me. It just clarified a solitary habit to which I had already grown accustomed. When I was waiting for puberty to strike, I told my friends I didn’t know whether I was gay or not, but these days I feel confident I can rule those alternatives out, from my own experience of my disposition around members of the same sex. This means that in fact I will never marry.

Ironically, it was a student counselor who prompted me to give internet dating a fair shake when I was in my twenties, touting dating as the only sure-fire way I could gain experience of conversation and build up my social skills. I had been asking for advice on developing soft skills for professional networking, and in hindsight I have to question her judgment. But most of the first dates I’ve been on (and they were almost all first dates) were on her account.

Because what I wanted out of the experience and what they were looking for obviously had nothing in common, these dates didn’t amount to much. Maybe, in the long run, they did bolster my confidence when it came to making small talk at conferences. But what I really learned from this experience was that small talk couldn’t hold my attention.  By the end of each date, I was bored to tears and impatient to go home.

And that’s essentially why I never wanted family and kids. Because the little miracles of the everyday hold no real fascination for me, because the companionship of “unburdening at the end of the day” feels oppressive to me, and because I would rather nurse an abstract ambition to leave some concrete idea or body of work behind at the end of my life than take on the organic tasks of child rearing.

But if that counselor was drawing on unspoken social norms that are pervasive in our society, in seeing something abnormal and unhealthy in my lack of interest in sexual sociability, what broader set of challenges does celibacy pose for me going forward, in terms of access to conversation and companionship?

I could socialize with asexuals, a broad category that includes both romantics and aromantics, and one that has its own internet dating sites for those looking for platonic relationships. But socializing with asexuals presupposes wanting to talk about asexuality and finding personal meaning in such an identity. I can relate, but I don’t feel strongly about the fact that while I find some people very visually attractive, I never feel physically attracted to someone.

The question of whether platonic companionship is right for me, and if so, how difficult it would be to come by, just doesn’t feel pressing right now. But I do feel removed somehow from the social life that goes on around me at work, and it may be partly because I can’t relate to the priorities of young people who dream of starting families of their own. It’s as if we don’t entirely speak the same language.

An Aristocracy of Means

July 7, 2016

Earlier this month I finished an engaging modern history book entitled Imperial Gamble: Putin, Ukraine, and the New Cold War. The author provided abundant context to the contemporary crisis in Ukraine and offered a detailed glimpse into the thinking of Russia’s president, drawing carefully on the way he presents himself to his own government.

Marvin Kalb, the author, has been a diplomatic press officer and once worked under Edward R. Murrow at CBS. His account of Russian imperialism is diplomatically modest, with several disclaimers about his own biases dating from his experience of the cold war era. So when he paraphrases Putin, he inspires curiosity about what was really said, and how the president really meant it.

He cited three books that Putin referred to in a keynote speech as the cornerstones of his own political philosophy, Ilyin’s Our Tasks, Berdyaev’s The Philosophy of Inequality, and Solovyov’s The Justification of the Good. Then he went on to sum these up by putting forward the philosophy of a Tsarist advisor that Putin didn’t mention at all – emphasizing “orthodoxy, nationality and autocracy”.

This only made me want to read the books Putin had actually mentioned, two of which are available in English translations. I even found another book by the author of the third available in English. But to be fair, Putin is reportedly lobbying for the reinstatement of the royal Romanov family as an institution with special status in Russia.


This third one I read first, a book of meditations by Ilyin. Then I picked up The Philosophy of Inequality, which begins with the not-very-encouraging remarks: “These letters, in which I want to sum up all my thoughts on social philosophy, I address to my despisers, people hostile to me in spirit, against me in the feel of life, alien in thought to me … these are despisers of my faith, apostates from Christ in their spirit, betraying Him and rising up against Him in the name of earthly idols and gods.”

Naturally, I concluded that the letters were addressed to me.

I read the whole thing with as much suspension of disbelief as I could muster, with all its nostalgia for the Russian aristocracy and all its spite for the vulgar institutions of communism and democracy, only to come to a postscript at the very end in which the author himself, amending a later edition of the book, disowns the whole tirade as a reactionary outburst that failed to recognize, in communist revolution, a moral verdict on the bankruptcy of the authoritarian system of government that had come before.

This, then, is the philosophy Putin wants to be known for? Not some later, more mature work by the same author? Clearly, in Putin’s rise from KGB officer to the practice of statecraft, there has been something of the reactionary, and a deep disaffection with the communist system of government for which he worked before the “end” of the cold war.

In Berdyaev I found remarks that cut to the heart of the problems of neoliberal justice described by Martha Nussbaum as “frontiers” – boundaries defined by fee-for-service justice systems. “Power” he writes “has to be admitted as the source of rights”. He goes on to discuss ontological power, which has deep religious significance in his thinking, but on a more superficial level, this observation rings true in effect, even if it is not the way things ought to be.

Berdyaev, however, would more accurately be described as a patron saint of neoconservative Russia, preaching “tradition” as a bulwark against “savagery” and “chaos”. His philosophy of power acknowledges obligation on the side of the aristocracy, and demands that the aristocracy be preserved as a bulwark against the cynicism of special interest politics that he thinks predominate in any democracy.


In a way, Berdyaev’s thought could be loosely reconciled with the liberalism of a contemporary thinker like Richard Sennett, who likewise disowns anarchist idealism in the name of noblesse oblige. In his book Authority, Sennett writes, “The dream of the Spanish anarchists was of a society without hierarchy of power. This belief was tied to a faith in the possibility of living spontaneously – to work, fight, entertain, procreate as one is moved. Because there would be no hierarchy of power, there would be no need for authority, no need for images of the strong and the weak.”

Sennett sees this vision of utopia as sinister because, in abolishing the notion that there are distinct social roles for “the strong and the weak” respectively, an anarchist society would abdicate any responsibility on the part of the strong toward the weak. He frames authority as an obligation, not just as a privilege. And in the universal aspiration towards power, he sees the meaning of life; for (quoting Giovani Baldelli), “A life appears completely meaningless when nothing is felt to depend on it.”

Having finished his book, I’ve started Solovyov’s, and this one I’m enjoying immensely – I plan to write more about it later. This 19th century author’s vegetarianism and syncretism won me over from the very beginning, and I find much of his logic very persuasive. But I haven’t yet gotten to his discussion of political philosophy, in the second half of the book.

But I should return to my reasons for reading these books. I picked up Imperial Gamble because from what I’d heard about the conflict in the Ukraine, the Russians were fighting neo-Nazi fascists there over the control of natural resources like oil and gas. This was a gross misapprehension of the big picture, however. As it turns out, Ukraine is a net importer of natural gas and oil from Russia, and energy prices are one of the most powerful weapons Russia has been able to leverage against the Kiev government thus far in the conflict over who will control the industrial southeastern region of the country.

If Kalb’s book raises more questions about the Ukraine conflict than it answers, I found two other books on the subject that are full of sweeping statements and incautious assertions. One of these, conveniently enough, paints Russia into a corner as an aggressor, while the other, which I picked for a fair and balanced view of the conflict, makes every effort to rehabilitate Putin from the quagmire he seems to be in.

The second book is absolutely the most unbridled display of sycophancy I’ve ever seen in the independent media. It was edited by the Progressive Radio News Hour’s Stephen Lendman, and features not expertise on Russian foreign policy but rather a smorgasbord of opinion writers on the American far left parroting press releases from Russian-backed think tanks. Every one of them should be embarrassed. I suppose they were well paid.

You could be forgiven for thinking, from the way they tried to build Putin up as a hero locked in a deadly struggle against Western imperialist encroachment, that Russia was still communist. And in a very superficial way, it is. The national newspaper still trumpets propaganda about capitalist encirclement and Western corruption, and through the FSB (which used to be called the KGB), Putin also controls the Communist Party as a puppet opposition party, the main one against which he prefers to run in periodic “elections”.

Their book can’t hold a candle to the scholarship of Andrew Wilson, whose book Ukraine Crisis attributes nearly every atrocity in the history of the Ukraine conflict to Russian false-flag operations. The exceptions are an incident in Mariupol and the Odessa massacre, the latter being (according to all accounts) a Ukrainian fascist false-flag operation.

Wilson explains that the conflict isn’t over whether Russia will annex the Ukraine – Russia annexed part of Ukraine (Crimea),  but with only one casualty (although this was done at gunpoint). The conflict is internal to the Ukraine, over federalization – which would allow certain Russian-leaning regions to secure more favorable trade relations with Russia rather than being drawn, together with the Western-leaning parts of the Ukraine, into the EU’s fold. Wilson names names to link pro-Russian forces to Russian oligarchs and pro-Kiev fighters, in some cases, to Ukrainian oligarchs who control their own private militias.

This is what “hybrid war” amounts to:

On May 2, 2014, a group of thugs belonging to a fascist political party (Right Sector) that currently controls the intelligence and security sector in the Ukraine put on red ribbons to identify themselves as pro-Russian protestors opposed to the Kiev government (i.e., the false flag operation). They attacked anti-Russian protestors outside the trade union building in Odessa to establish their credibility as pro-Russian partisans. Then they proceeded to herd pro-Russian protestors into a trap laid inside the trade union building, where doors had been barricaded with furniture.

The building was then set on fire, but photographs of the murder victims inside indicate that they were not passively consumed by the smoke an flames. Rather, individuals were shot, garroted, beaten, and killed before they were doused with a flammable substance (usually on the head and hands, which may have been bound). Then their bodies were burned, the flames were put out again, and the bodies were rearranged, sometimes with a new change of (unscorched) clothing. One murder victim, a pregnant woman who worked at the trade union building, was garroted and photographed in an image disseminated by the attackers, who compared her to the city’s nickname, “Mommy Odessa”, and under her dead body, published the words “Glory to the Ukraine!”

– Paraphrased from a Russian think tank’s press release, which was published without substantive alteration on NBC’s website.

Hybrid war is information war. Journalists are kidnapped and beaten, some activists simply “disappear”, and the feared Berkut security forces responsible for these human rights abuses under the pro-Russian government before the Ukrainian revolution installed the current Kiev government have now changed sides to work for Ukrainian oligarchs currently in power against the Russians – although the Russians claim that many of the forces that have been sent to stop them have defected to their side.

Indeed, Wilson argues that it was these same Ukrainian Berkut fighters who installed the pro-Russian government in Crimea. Wilson even believes that when the Russian-backed president of the Ukraine was first ousted, at the very beginning of the conflict, it was a Russian false-flag operation that set fire to the outgoing president’s party headquarters, where several staffers were burned alive.

None of these accounts ring true, taken together. What all commentators seem to agree on, though, is that the power of the oligarchy is here to stay, both in Russia and in the Ukraine.

On the Gyre

June 26, 2016

The new title of my blog was inspired by the story of the Endurance expedition, led by the famous Ernest Shackleton. The Endurance was lost in the antarctic, in an attempt to sail through pack ice. The ice soon surrounded and ultimately crushed the ship, stranding her crew neither on land or at sea, but on a shifting surface of packed together ice floes that was slowly describing the circular motion of the currents in the Weddell Sea.

Navigating the ice on foot and dragging their life boats with them, they eventually found open water and sailed for Elephant Island, a barren outcrop from which the crew could be rescued after the sturdiest lifeboat traveled a further eight hundred miles to contact whalers on the island of South Georgia. What makes the story so special isn’t necessarily the level of adversity they faced as the astonishing fact that every crew member survived.

Today I decided to write a poem with the same name, this time in free verse.  This one is dedicated to a friend.

The noumenal gyrations of the ice
that packs in memories
and serves them up with little explosions
like leopard seals at blow holes,
expected but unexpected,
mistrusted but accepted,
the after-the-fact recognition
of predictions fulfilled, the déjà vu
and the unfulfilled –
what remains to be done about it
amidst the everyday that crowds out all ambition
with its timeless mundane grind
the need of a long-delayed understanding
a long-awaited explanation
the retreat into imaginary conversations
the waiting around
all retains the rhythms of sea ice.

A yellow horse on a blue field is a wish
and the field is peopled with wishes
and one of them is red
and the blue grass is new and bending
the way grass should always be
and I see them in the courtyard
but none of them are mine.
If I give them names
they will still have their own names
unknown to me and real,
more real than wanting makes things so.


I write in little circles,
pacing the ambit of the vanishing
here and now
and I wonder about my reader.
My turn to know has finally come
and if I don’t tell you know, I will
as soon as the weather breaks.
I grow impatient with a project barely begun
and how have you been?
You must have retired by now.
Maybe not. But I remember
how you talked about falling in love
so I know you must have fallen in love.
I like to think you have a daughter
and a good book to read and a dog.
Maybe not a dog. But a snug home
and a full household set of habits,
as good as retired if not as bored.

When I picture you sitting down with the paper,
I imagine you look very tall,
but that’s perspective for you.
I can’t imagine anyone being patient enough
to follow along on the adventures
of an iceberg
but I like to make-believe you do.
I wish I remembered our conversations
better, but maybe I will soon.

Stained Glass Synaesthesia

June 24, 2016

This week I’ve been especially self-indulgent, writing poetry for the first time in over a year. I’ve been playing around with colors a lot in my spare time, so I decided to rewrite a poem I’d written years ago that is entirely about color. For the first time, I’ve accomplished a long-standing goal of pilfering gemstones from the Book of Revelations for their exotic colors.

The result is an unfinished poem in ballad meter – seven feet (in most, but not all of the lines) for  the seven colors of the spectrum and the seven notes of the scale. Unfortunately, the missing word that makes it an unfinished poem is probably the most important word in the poem. I guess you’ll have to use your imagination.

The poem calls for a fictitious adjective, one syllable long, that aptly modifies what Daniil Kharms called verses that “have become a thing, and one can take them off the page and throw them at a window, and the window would break.”


A __ projectile word destroyed the great Cathedral window’s glass;
and scattering, the shattering of colors stirred the winds and brass.
The players wake, first tuning on a prism’s white palette,
then finding out a melody, beginning with garnet.
A hyacinthine accidental note – the curtains rise –
and with the strings bright symphonies of lights materialize.
The ancient world, its sea green bays, appear upon the stage,
a city’s honey-colored walls, besieged, a husband’s rage:
a minor third beats rose gold into Priam’s tempered bronze –
then from the sixth, upon diffuse white scales the cellos pause.
Venetian blue the bannered sky, saffron the grit below,
For pity’s sake no lover dies – a duel is overthrown;
The purple blood of Menelaus stains ivory thighs pale red.
The rose quartz arms of lovers touch again in languid dread.
An opaline caesura lifts the scene to other shores:
the brassy pink of twilit ponds disturbed by insect oars.
The sphinx moth mauve of bruises left by Leda’s magic swan
disturbs the lozenge blue of summer skies at break of dawn.
The ground is painted evenly in Cleopatra’s green –
Swinburne’s red rose blooms, glistening, the dew aquamarine.
The black green of a peacock’s breast arrives with much fanfare,
a jockey’s wood duck orange sport coat, a gleaming chestnut mare,
chrysanthemum gold sleeves, parrot blue flags – the gates fly up,
and pangolin gold fillies chase a Scythian gold cup.
Easter egg pink ladies’ hats turn, giddy, in the stands;
the winner’s burgundy shirt speaks of knightly caravans.
The indigo of iris blooms then shutters up the sky,
and all’s obscured but lightning bolts that dazzle low and high.
The silvered grey of Spanish moss emerges from the gloom –
the mist gives way to Mandarin red poppy fields in bloom.
There Aztec orange crowds oriole’s breast golds and Monarchs’ wings
confuse the ocher panoply of bright like-colored things.
The scarlets of Florence, a cantaloupe pink –
but again the scene vanishes. Dogwood stars wink.
A kite blue field – the redbud cheeks of saints now reappear,
their violet cloaks, gilt haloes and a halcyon blue tear.
The bearded purple of an orchid’s tongue describes the throne –
upon it, in a turquoise light, the son of God is shown.
A watermelon carpet is laid out beneath his feet,
and bottlenose blue bishops bow before him on their knees.
Beside him, in a lion’s bed of elm spring green, there lies
a lamb, beluga white, with nodding umber colored eyes.
Then first and last there blazons forth the trumpets’ call to war:
a city made of gems takes shape as prophesied before
with brecciated jasper walls of blood red heart shaped stones
and sapphires brimming with light. Inside each, white stars shone –
beyond them spread a chalcedony edifice of clouds
and emerald gates that burned from inside scarab green glass shrouds.
A banded black sardonyx arch rose past them, deep and wide,
with honeyed red sardius stones towering alongside.
A chrysolyte watchtower glowed like white wine, set within
a golden beryl curtain wall with steep and polished plinths.
Then smoky columns of topaz burned, striated with light,
and past them chrysoprasus ramparts rose, green facets bright.
At last the tangerine red jacinth buttresses were met
with amethysts, their glassy purple lattices uncut.
The strange twelve-sided citadel is gone before the sound
of trumpets fades into the bells that peal, cascading down
a silvery arpeggio that rings with Christmas cheer.
A grace note like a swallow’s tail trips toward the crystal clear
high octave’s ruby crowning note – the flutes then light upon
a major fifth cut from the fourth with mallard green élan.
The particolored planets dance with stars to harpists’ chords
and candlelight processions come upon the ocean’s shores
to twinkle at the cusp of glassy breakers and white foam,
anticipating twilight’s warmth, a reddish or blue roan.
The darkness just before the dawn then overtakes the scene;
no light transfixes what remains of the rose window’s green
and indigo and violet shards of glass – the orange and blue
lie darkling over red and yellow fragments, drained of hue.