Erotic Images

An erotic image is simply an illusion, a gestalt of countless
colored pixels upon our senses. The individual pixels have reality and existence. The woman in the image has no real existence. And yet we are aroused by the woman and are not conscious of the individual pixels. We can respond to this non-existent image because it is an outer reflection of something which is actually within us and which resonates with that inner woman just as the two arms of a tuning fork resonate and produce tone.

Should some, but not all of the pixels fade, yet the image of the woman persists. Cells in our body, and possibly even our brain, are dying, and yet our individuality and continuity of memory persist. Lockes and Jeffersons and Lincolns die, yet constitutional democracy persists. Democracy, a gestalt and illusion of countless pixels of
generations of anonymous humanity which arouses in us noble feelings of justice and inalienable human rights, persists. Stars explode in supernova, yet the starry night sky which fills Kant with wonder and fills Van Gogh’s canvas with intoxicating imagery, persists. And
should this very planet of ours die and grow cold, extinct, is there not something which yet persists, somewhere, elsewhere in the ever-collapsing kaleidoscopic telescope of being and reality?

Democracy is our erotic woman, our Statue of Liberty in provocative pose, a gestalt formed by the myriad pixels of suffering throngs of humanity which come and go like mist and spray as waves crash upon the rocky coast. And our libertine lady, provocatively posed, this non-existent idea of Justice and Truth, is like Dante’s Beatrice, enticing us up a ladder of Divine Ascent, like Socrates’ school mistress Diotema and her teaching on the ladder of love in Plato’s “Symposium”.


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