The Latin word ‘prostituta’ is the etymological root of the word ‘prostitute’; the former is in turn a composition of ‘pro’ (forward) and ‘statuere’ (to cause, to effect). Therefore, the literal translation of the composition would be “to place forward”, “to proffer”.
That being said, I will now assume the liberty to dissociate the word from its meaning in order to elaborate on its other domains of applicability. By virtue of being the world’s oldest profession, the coinage of said label for the practice calls into question the very nature of prostitution owing to the seeming semantic incongruence.
For instance, the offering of sexual services in return for monetary compensation hardly deserves the vague conference of such a term that has acquired any connotations in a non-autotelic manner.
In that case, a simpler recourse could be suggested that the word be replaced with one more, in a manner of speaking, “meaningful”. However, that is not the purpose of this discourse.
Now, consider the nature of these sexual services in whose regard the aforementioned connotations exist.
If not for the indignity associated with trading such commodities, the essential transfer is quite similar to one governed by literature by way of the writing and reading of books.
Let me rephrase, rather paraphrase, the question: what is the difference between two trades, one of which allows for the performance of sexual activities in return for money, while the other allows for the exhibition of literary skills in return for money?
Further, if congruence can be established, within the bounds of reason, between the performance of sexual services and the exhibition of literary skills, would the congruence imply that authorship and prostitution are congruent, too?
First off, it is important to address the purpose of a sexual service, namely gratification.
This gratification may be for the purpose of satiating an opinion that a reward is necessary in order to appease a growing sense of disorientation on a “hard day‘s night”.
In other words, the sexual gratification awarded by a sex worker becomes the reward for some work performed, the representation of which, in this context, is the money paid to avail that gratification.
At other times, sexual services may be procured as an occupation of relief, with the same, rather similar, contractual mechanics.
Similarly, what is the “kind” of gratification received from, say, reading a good book? It must be noted that only if the contractual mechanics are different from those of the procurement of a sexual service will the gratification received from engaging in a sexual activity differ from the gratification received by reading a book. However, such an argument excludes a purely “qualitative” contention, which will be addressed later.
The effects of reading a good book can be summarized by an important aesthetic dimension the act of reading proffers: by the employment of a language that may or may not represent (through references) the material world, literary texts provide an impression that the reader is wrapped in one that touches him or her in the lightest possible ways, making him or her feel a part of the world, of its objects, and of its bodies.
In keeping with the truism that artistic expression is a collateral of man’s search for meaning, it can be concluded that the creation of an artistic product is a form of declaration, one that establishes some (although fixed) meaning in the eyes of the artist, and the subscription of which is established by a person who conforms to that system and character of thought, the conclusion of which is the proof of its semantic validity.
Therefore, the procurement of a book, a journal, or any product whose contents include something of literary value, represents a gratification received by the purchase through the validation of certain doubts expressed by him or her.
In such a case, is not the writer prostituting his or her skills for money?
How is this trade not congruent with that of prostitution?
In furtherance of this discussion, if a defence is put forth that establishes incongruence of the contracts by calling to attention that our bodies are all that we “enter this world” with (akin to the definition of a system in the context of thermodynamic analysis), and that prostitutes (in the modern connotation of the term) debase the dignity of the same institution that is the source of a state’s constitution as well as definition, I would point out that the same body is also the source of our literary skills, and in corroboration of this position, I would nominate the contributions of Noam Chomsky and, more recently, Steven Pinker.
Thus, in conclusion of this discussion: a reasonable parallelism exists between the creation of literature and the performance of sexual services while, surprisingly, there exists an incongruence of perspectives, especially in the jurisprudential domain (if a constructivist approach is given prominence).
Showing posts with label prostitution. Show all posts
Showing posts with label prostitution. Show all posts
Wednesday, 6 July 2011
Writers and whores
The Latin word ‘prostituta’ is the etymological root of the word ‘prostitute’; the former is in turn a composition of ‘pro’ (forward) and ‘statuere’ (to cause, to effect). Therefore, the literal translation of the composition would be “to place forward”, “to proffer”.
That being said, I will now assume the liberty to dissociate the word from its meaning in order to elaborate on its other domains of applicability. By virtue of being the world’s oldest profession, the coinage of said label for the practice calls into question the very nature of prostitution owing to the seeming semantic incongruence.
For instance, the offering of sexual services in return for monetary compensation hardly deserves the vague conference of such a term that has acquired any connotations in a non-autotelic manner.
In that case, a simpler recourse could be suggested that the word be replaced with one more, in a manner of speaking, “meaningful”. However, that is not the purpose of this discourse.
Now, consider the nature of these sexual services in whose regard the aforementioned connotations exist.
If not for the indignity associated with trading such commodities, the essential transfer is quite similar to one governed by literature by way of the writing and reading of books.
Let me rephrase, rather paraphrase, the question: what is the difference between two trades, one of which allows for the performance of sexual activities in return for money, while the other allows for the exhibition of literary skills in return for money?
Further, if congruence can be established, within the bounds of reason, between the performance of sexual services and the exhibition of literary skills, would the congruence imply that authorship and prostitution are congruent, too?
First off, it is important to address the purpose of a sexual service, namely gratification.
This gratification may be for the purpose of satiating an opinion that a reward is necessary in order to appease a growing sense of disorientation on a “hard day‘s night”.
In other words, the sexual gratification awarded by a sex worker becomes the reward for some work performed, the representation of which, in this context, is the money paid to avail that gratification.
At other times, sexual services may be procured as an occupation of relief, with the same, rather similar, contractual mechanics.
Similarly, what is the “kind” of gratification received from, say, reading a good book? It must be noted that only if the contractual mechanics are different from those of the procurement of a sexual service will the gratification received from engaging in a sexual activity differ from the gratification received by reading a book. However, such an argument excludes a purely “qualitative” contention, which will be addressed later.
The effects of reading a good book can be summarized by an important aesthetic dimension the act of reading proffers: by the employment of a language that may or may not represent (through references) the material world, literary texts provide an impression that the reader is wrapped in one that touches him or her in the lightest possible ways, making him or her feel a part of the world, of its objects, and of its bodies.
In keeping with the truism that artistic expression is a collateral of man’s search for meaning, it can be concluded that the creation of an artistic product is a form of declaration, one that establishes some (although fixed) meaning in the eyes of the artist, and the subscription of which is established by a person who conforms to that system and character of thought, the conclusion of which is the proof of its semantic validity.
Therefore, the procurement of a book, a journal, or any product whose contents include something of literary value, represents a gratification received by the purchase through the validation of certain doubts expressed by him or her.
In such a case, is not the writer prostituting his or her skills for money?
How is this trade not congruent with that of prostitution?
In furtherance of this discussion, if a defence is put forth that establishes incongruence of the contracts by calling to attention that our bodies are all that we “enter this world” with (akin to the definition of a system in the context of thermodynamic analysis), and that prostitutes (in the modern connotation of the term) debase the dignity of the same institution that is the source of a state’s constitution as well as definition, I would point out that the same body is also the source of our literary skills, and in corroboration of this position, I would nominate the contributions of Noam Chomsky and, more recently, Steven Pinker.
Thus, in conclusion of this discussion: a reasonable parallelism exists between the creation of literature and the performance of sexual services while, surprisingly, there exists an incongruence of perspectives, especially in the jurisprudential domain (if a constructivist approach is given prominence).
That being said, I will now assume the liberty to dissociate the word from its meaning in order to elaborate on its other domains of applicability. By virtue of being the world’s oldest profession, the coinage of said label for the practice calls into question the very nature of prostitution owing to the seeming semantic incongruence.
For instance, the offering of sexual services in return for monetary compensation hardly deserves the vague conference of such a term that has acquired any connotations in a non-autotelic manner.
In that case, a simpler recourse could be suggested that the word be replaced with one more, in a manner of speaking, “meaningful”. However, that is not the purpose of this discourse.
Now, consider the nature of these sexual services in whose regard the aforementioned connotations exist.
If not for the indignity associated with trading such commodities, the essential transfer is quite similar to one governed by literature by way of the writing and reading of books.
Let me rephrase, rather paraphrase, the question: what is the difference between two trades, one of which allows for the performance of sexual activities in return for money, while the other allows for the exhibition of literary skills in return for money?
Further, if congruence can be established, within the bounds of reason, between the performance of sexual services and the exhibition of literary skills, would the congruence imply that authorship and prostitution are congruent, too?
First off, it is important to address the purpose of a sexual service, namely gratification.
This gratification may be for the purpose of satiating an opinion that a reward is necessary in order to appease a growing sense of disorientation on a “hard day‘s night”.
In other words, the sexual gratification awarded by a sex worker becomes the reward for some work performed, the representation of which, in this context, is the money paid to avail that gratification.
At other times, sexual services may be procured as an occupation of relief, with the same, rather similar, contractual mechanics.
Similarly, what is the “kind” of gratification received from, say, reading a good book? It must be noted that only if the contractual mechanics are different from those of the procurement of a sexual service will the gratification received from engaging in a sexual activity differ from the gratification received by reading a book. However, such an argument excludes a purely “qualitative” contention, which will be addressed later.
The effects of reading a good book can be summarized by an important aesthetic dimension the act of reading proffers: by the employment of a language that may or may not represent (through references) the material world, literary texts provide an impression that the reader is wrapped in one that touches him or her in the lightest possible ways, making him or her feel a part of the world, of its objects, and of its bodies.
In keeping with the truism that artistic expression is a collateral of man’s search for meaning, it can be concluded that the creation of an artistic product is a form of declaration, one that establishes some (although fixed) meaning in the eyes of the artist, and the subscription of which is established by a person who conforms to that system and character of thought, the conclusion of which is the proof of its semantic validity.
Therefore, the procurement of a book, a journal, or any product whose contents include something of literary value, represents a gratification received by the purchase through the validation of certain doubts expressed by him or her.
In such a case, is not the writer prostituting his or her skills for money?
How is this trade not congruent with that of prostitution?
In furtherance of this discussion, if a defence is put forth that establishes incongruence of the contracts by calling to attention that our bodies are all that we “enter this world” with (akin to the definition of a system in the context of thermodynamic analysis), and that prostitutes (in the modern connotation of the term) debase the dignity of the same institution that is the source of a state’s constitution as well as definition, I would point out that the same body is also the source of our literary skills, and in corroboration of this position, I would nominate the contributions of Noam Chomsky and, more recently, Steven Pinker.
Thus, in conclusion of this discussion: a reasonable parallelism exists between the creation of literature and the performance of sexual services while, surprisingly, there exists an incongruence of perspectives, especially in the jurisprudential domain (if a constructivist approach is given prominence).
Wednesday, 16 February 2011
The Miracle Worker
A car zipped past a few inches from his head, the quickly vanishing blue metal having all his attention. Bradley Johansson couldn’t believe his eyes.
Someone jolted him out of his reverie, and he came back to his senses, the subdued clamour of his environs rising up around him once again. The whores of the night mistook his incredulity for awe, feeling him up as he dodged one after another as he spanned the alley. Once on the other side, the walls fell off on either side to a long road, the sea frothing and foaming on the other side, beyond the low grille. He turned to his right and maintained his pace, not letting the wondrous decadence of New City turn him from his path.
The cars continued to shoot past him with their screaming blue and red lights, the buildings were also unfortunately aglow with similar hues. Stars were no longer a sight to behold, perhaps to even have romantic walks under, and the enchantingly platinum light of Anarion was nowhere to be found in the hearts of blacksmiths and poets alike. This was the misbegotten anarchy of an ill-advised nuclear holocaust, but nothing could be done now.
Or so they had thought, the gypsies and nomads of the world, agglutinating like sticky oil stains simply because nobody was an urchin if everybody were urchins. A smile lit up on Bradley Johansson’s smooth peachy face. He kept walking, but the more and more he thought about his task tonight, the less and less became the pain in his calves, the greater the eagerness to keep moving.
A cold but salty draft wafted his way and he breathed deeply, the saline pungency cloying at his lungs. Without missing a beat, his nose wrinkled as he reached within his coat, looking for the pack of Lucky Strikes he’d remembered at the last minute to bring along. When the cigarette was found, the lighter was not; frantic, he stopped and looked around, and just then, his gaze locked with a young girl’s, standing a few feet behind him.
She couldn’t have been more than 16 even though her height said otherwise, the depthlessness of her eyes being a giveaway. Or, he thought, she’s psychotic – they were quite common these days, what with crime being a pleasurable pastime for a small fee. Before he could ask, she reached a flickering Zippo to his lips, and he partook of the flame. Not a word spoken, not a word offered. He drew a deep breath, the fumes billowing in translucent clouds as he held himself from blowing into her face. Not that she would have minded, though.
She was wearing a tight T, the sleeves rolled back to her shoulders, slender bony arms tucked into the waistband of her beige hotpants. Muttering a word of thanks at someone who looked eager to begin a life of being a spoor, Bradley Johansson turned and began to walk again, toying with the damp cigarette while his mind began to whir again with a hairtrigger expediency that only came with indifference to one’s health.
Reflected in the mercurial faces of a hundred mirrors draped over the shoulders of a prostitute, he caught a movement of gold just behind him. Turning around suddenly, he saw it was the Zippo girl. Had he looked at her for longer than was necessary?
“What do you want?” She didn’t flinch at his sudden volte-face.
She said nothing as her hand slowly uprooted itself from some diamond mine at the meeting of her thighs and rubbed over her crotch, the grease from her fingers leaving a slippery track of peevish nights behind, like she didn’t care much for what happened there if only it brought a strange smile to her face.
“Not tonight.”
His eyes quickly sharpened into slits of anger, not quite appreciating the touch of milky white skin against his own, and the backhanded slap caught her squarely on a breast. She only smiled more, the mischievous glint of some bygone pain visible all too clearly. Bradley Johansson had an idea.
“It’s not just me tonight.”
She nodded. He continued to walk as if he didn’t give a damn – he didn’t – and was not surprised to notice the now-conspicuous tapping of her porcelain heels behind him. She could be a fitting gift to the man who was waiting for him at the end of this road; after all, there was some gratitude due him. A spar of doubt that had been spinning across his mind now came to the fore, but he dismissed it: none but he knew what he carried in his pocket. A minute more, the trees were already thickening on the seaward side to adorn a lush facade of blue-green tassels.
He sashayed mindlessly across the road, drunk drivers yelling after him and his consort. There was a subtle cleft in the sidewalk that pointed into the woods, and he turned into it. He should have known when she didn’t hesitate that she’d been here before, but it slipped past him as the tension in his guts tautened perceptibly when the shack became visible. Well, it was not so much of a shack as it was an old man sitting under a tarpaulin sheet that was strutted skywards by four wooden planks nailed into the ground.
“You have something for me.” It wasn’t a question.
“Plural.” She stepped out of his shadow, still as callous as she had been under the neon beams, the grease visible even under the dull glow of a bulb that hung from a wire that seemed to emerge from Hell. The old man smiled toothlessly, impetuous strands of spittle dribbling past his jowly chin. Voiceless in her obeisance, she stepped past her procurer and towards the “residence”.
In a second followed the stack of micrometre-thick mirabilium crystals, glowing with an electric blue shade of iconoclasm in the night’s grey tones, turning the skin on his fingers purple and the old man annoyed.
“What’re you doing?!”
Smiling, Bradley Johansson dropped them back into the bag that had held them and handed them over to the “party”, known only as Nigel in the trade. The mirabilium would be ground and recrystallized to erase the quarry-signature that would be etched into it by nature’s machinations, and then packed into the core of plastic explosives. Then, they would be redistributed to terrorists across the globe to be used as biological weapons going by the name of “blue bombs” – one blast and all things living would collapse dead in a quarter-mile radius.
With one last nod at the girl, already scarlet and perspiring with extraterrestrial anxiety, he turned around and walked back, slower this time, to the heart of New City, fumbling once more for another cigarette. Again, the need for a flame presented itself, but he was sure he’d find someone in a minute or so, someone who could never understand the pleasure of starlight but knew only the coming and going of nights by the coming and going of irreverent relationships. Soon enough, he was offered a light.
On her lapel, a sham of a red cross was stitched with a border of black. He smiled as the brand came to life, throwing a dull orange glow across her lips. “Doctor mirabilis, indeed!” Tonight, miracles would be worked to restore mankind’s stature in the eyes of the Captors, a deluge of death was going to descend on the non-believers, and the name of Bradley Johansson had to be screamed into the night with fitting ecstasy.
Their gazes locked, and he blew the smoke into her eyes. She smiled.
Someone jolted him out of his reverie, and he came back to his senses, the subdued clamour of his environs rising up around him once again. The whores of the night mistook his incredulity for awe, feeling him up as he dodged one after another as he spanned the alley. Once on the other side, the walls fell off on either side to a long road, the sea frothing and foaming on the other side, beyond the low grille. He turned to his right and maintained his pace, not letting the wondrous decadence of New City turn him from his path.
The cars continued to shoot past him with their screaming blue and red lights, the buildings were also unfortunately aglow with similar hues. Stars were no longer a sight to behold, perhaps to even have romantic walks under, and the enchantingly platinum light of Anarion was nowhere to be found in the hearts of blacksmiths and poets alike. This was the misbegotten anarchy of an ill-advised nuclear holocaust, but nothing could be done now.
Or so they had thought, the gypsies and nomads of the world, agglutinating like sticky oil stains simply because nobody was an urchin if everybody were urchins. A smile lit up on Bradley Johansson’s smooth peachy face. He kept walking, but the more and more he thought about his task tonight, the less and less became the pain in his calves, the greater the eagerness to keep moving.
A cold but salty draft wafted his way and he breathed deeply, the saline pungency cloying at his lungs. Without missing a beat, his nose wrinkled as he reached within his coat, looking for the pack of Lucky Strikes he’d remembered at the last minute to bring along. When the cigarette was found, the lighter was not; frantic, he stopped and looked around, and just then, his gaze locked with a young girl’s, standing a few feet behind him.
She couldn’t have been more than 16 even though her height said otherwise, the depthlessness of her eyes being a giveaway. Or, he thought, she’s psychotic – they were quite common these days, what with crime being a pleasurable pastime for a small fee. Before he could ask, she reached a flickering Zippo to his lips, and he partook of the flame. Not a word spoken, not a word offered. He drew a deep breath, the fumes billowing in translucent clouds as he held himself from blowing into her face. Not that she would have minded, though.
She was wearing a tight T, the sleeves rolled back to her shoulders, slender bony arms tucked into the waistband of her beige hotpants. Muttering a word of thanks at someone who looked eager to begin a life of being a spoor, Bradley Johansson turned and began to walk again, toying with the damp cigarette while his mind began to whir again with a hairtrigger expediency that only came with indifference to one’s health.
Reflected in the mercurial faces of a hundred mirrors draped over the shoulders of a prostitute, he caught a movement of gold just behind him. Turning around suddenly, he saw it was the Zippo girl. Had he looked at her for longer than was necessary?
“What do you want?” She didn’t flinch at his sudden volte-face.
She said nothing as her hand slowly uprooted itself from some diamond mine at the meeting of her thighs and rubbed over her crotch, the grease from her fingers leaving a slippery track of peevish nights behind, like she didn’t care much for what happened there if only it brought a strange smile to her face.
“Not tonight.”
His eyes quickly sharpened into slits of anger, not quite appreciating the touch of milky white skin against his own, and the backhanded slap caught her squarely on a breast. She only smiled more, the mischievous glint of some bygone pain visible all too clearly. Bradley Johansson had an idea.
“It’s not just me tonight.”
She nodded. He continued to walk as if he didn’t give a damn – he didn’t – and was not surprised to notice the now-conspicuous tapping of her porcelain heels behind him. She could be a fitting gift to the man who was waiting for him at the end of this road; after all, there was some gratitude due him. A spar of doubt that had been spinning across his mind now came to the fore, but he dismissed it: none but he knew what he carried in his pocket. A minute more, the trees were already thickening on the seaward side to adorn a lush facade of blue-green tassels.
He sashayed mindlessly across the road, drunk drivers yelling after him and his consort. There was a subtle cleft in the sidewalk that pointed into the woods, and he turned into it. He should have known when she didn’t hesitate that she’d been here before, but it slipped past him as the tension in his guts tautened perceptibly when the shack became visible. Well, it was not so much of a shack as it was an old man sitting under a tarpaulin sheet that was strutted skywards by four wooden planks nailed into the ground.
“You have something for me.” It wasn’t a question.
“Plural.” She stepped out of his shadow, still as callous as she had been under the neon beams, the grease visible even under the dull glow of a bulb that hung from a wire that seemed to emerge from Hell. The old man smiled toothlessly, impetuous strands of spittle dribbling past his jowly chin. Voiceless in her obeisance, she stepped past her procurer and towards the “residence”.
In a second followed the stack of micrometre-thick mirabilium crystals, glowing with an electric blue shade of iconoclasm in the night’s grey tones, turning the skin on his fingers purple and the old man annoyed.
“What’re you doing?!”
Smiling, Bradley Johansson dropped them back into the bag that had held them and handed them over to the “party”, known only as Nigel in the trade. The mirabilium would be ground and recrystallized to erase the quarry-signature that would be etched into it by nature’s machinations, and then packed into the core of plastic explosives. Then, they would be redistributed to terrorists across the globe to be used as biological weapons going by the name of “blue bombs” – one blast and all things living would collapse dead in a quarter-mile radius.
With one last nod at the girl, already scarlet and perspiring with extraterrestrial anxiety, he turned around and walked back, slower this time, to the heart of New City, fumbling once more for another cigarette. Again, the need for a flame presented itself, but he was sure he’d find someone in a minute or so, someone who could never understand the pleasure of starlight but knew only the coming and going of nights by the coming and going of irreverent relationships. Soon enough, he was offered a light.
On her lapel, a sham of a red cross was stitched with a border of black. He smiled as the brand came to life, throwing a dull orange glow across her lips. “Doctor mirabilis, indeed!” Tonight, miracles would be worked to restore mankind’s stature in the eyes of the Captors, a deluge of death was going to descend on the non-believers, and the name of Bradley Johansson had to be screamed into the night with fitting ecstasy.
Their gazes locked, and he blew the smoke into her eyes. She smiled.
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