December 23rd, 2004

Wille zum Leben

A particularly vivid dream last night: I’ve been awarded a starring role in a movie with La Prima Donna, and I’m on the set, lying on my back on the hardwood floor. The camera is rolling. She straddles me, with her hands flat on my chest. For the sake of verisimilitude, I push my pelvis up against hers in a slow rhythm. I know I must display as much emotion as possible because this is an important film, and I must give my best performance. Pushing up against her feels very good and soon I have an erection.

She leans down, puts her face close to mine. Her emerald green eyes glisten, I feel her warm breath on my skin. “Take it,” she whispers. “Take it!”

I reach down, undo my pants and pull out my cock. It grows even harder as I position its tip against her vagina. I thrust up, and feel her slippery readiness, and penetrate her deeply. She gasps, “Ah!”

I’m wearing my black leather gloves. I take them off, and then slide my hands along her legs and cup her buttocks. It pleases me she isn’t wearing panties. She has been naked under her dress all along, which indicates she planned to do this before we began the scene. She, too, is intent on verisimilitude!

I climax. My orgasm is prolonged, and it seems I won’t ever stop spurting semen into her. The camera continues to whir, and I hear the director say quietly, “Va bene!”

Eyes shut tight, still ejaculating, I think of Shopenhauer’s Wille zum Leben. Yes. My conscious mind may be governed by reason, but my unconscious is wholly subservient, as it has always been, to this will-to-life. And how odd that I would at this moment think of a German philosopher named Arthur.

Analysis: Here is a dream I’m analyzing as it’s occurring. Her saying “take it” is a phrase that is her invitation to me to possess her, as opposed to a blunt, vulgar “fuck me,” which would suggest a transient act. Taking means the encounter is a beginning. A relationship.

Arthur sounds like author. In dreams there are no coincidences. The black leather gloves? In them my hands are insulated from all tactile sensation, part of my elaborate strategy of keeping people at a distance.

Do I really want a relationship with that woman?

I recall sitting at my red-clothed table at La Piazzetta two summers ago, and Chiro, my young friend, says everyone on the island is buzzing about the news circulating through Italy and the rest of Europe about La Prima Donna’s abandoning a baby in Naples 40 years ago.

“What are they saying?” I ask.

He smiles. “Quando mai non era una zocchola?” he says. When was she not a whore? Chiro adds that as long as the famous star remains silent, nobody will know for sure if the story is true or not, “Which probably is exactly her intent.”