My ideal is not of the parish confessor, nor of cloistered celibacy. It is not even the saint of the forest who has a squirrel on his shoulder and a bird perched on his finger. Its also not a quaint little monkey eating porridge in his zen-hut. Not a flagellant, or an ascetic, or Brahmin victim of self-conquest. Not the Übermensch, as an Aryanist fantasy. Not a free-spirit or mister mojo rising. Not a man of power. Also, not a master technician or bureaucrat of the spirit, or a programmer in a computer of global flows of desire.
I would be just this, if I could: a genius of desire.
Perhaps this would include still a regulatory, symbolic function. I don't know. But if it did, I'd like to think it would be to the fecundity of a good and noble species: the Eden-making ape. Whose mind is breathing in the living air that's the sky of heaven.
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