When I contemplate the US presidential hopefuls I am struck by my respect for
John Kerry; not for his policies or his political philosophies - he doesn't appear to have any of either - but because he is a killer. He has killed. He has expressed
the killing urge, face-to-face. He has pulled a trigger and ended the life of one who was weaker than him. He is a strong man,
a man of will, and I respect that. But he is not
Kali, albeit that he might take
California, haha. He does not produce life. He only has two arms, and his necklace is made of silver rather than of human heads.
I respect Margaret Thatcher for converse but complimentary reasons, for she has produced life. The existence of her son, Mark Thatcher, is proof of this. She has borne a child, a healthy child, a child which was not sickly, a child which lived beyond infanthood. The fact of childbirth is also proof that Margaret Thatcher is a sexual being. It is impossible to tell whether John Kerry or George Bush have made love. Their children could have been sired by others. Margaret Thatcher, however, was intimate with a man. This is undeniable.
For these two reasons I respect Margaret Thatcher. She has produced life, and she has been intimate with another person, two things I could never do myself. Perhaps I might one day kill, indeed I would love to, but I cannot envisage myself giving birth to a child or being intimate with another person. I have a mortal fear of physical intimacy. The simplest physical contact - holding hands, hugging - is beyond me. Sexual congress is therefore impossible. Not because I lack desire, not at all. I have plenty of desire. Too much, perhaps, too much desire. No, I do not lack desire. I am Howard Dean, I have too much desire. I lack nothing; the force which prevents my contact with another is a disincentive, for I am repulsed by my own body, filled with a sense of shame at my own deficient physique. I cannot subject another person to the torture of my own body, a body which counterweighs my considerable mental gifts. My physical appearance has closed so many pathways which I might have taken; so many jobs, so many friends I lost because of my looks. I can never be accepted as an artist, or a poet, despite my hypercreativity, simply because I am not attractive, not pleasant to the eye. I do not smile. There are no ugly poets, ugly artists.
When she was in the prime of sexual life, Margaret Thatcher was pleasant to the eye, as was John Kerry. It is interesting to speculate on the offspring of their union, the union of killer and lifegiver. It cannot come to pass now, because Margaret Thatcher is no longer fertile. Would their child have been ultra-human? A force of good or evil? Or chaos, chaos being neither good nor evil? Would it have worn a necklace of human heads?
All children are the sons of lifegivers, yet few are the sons of killers, fewer still in this time of peace amongst the civilised people of the world. Perhaps one day our children will not be the sons of lifegivers, instead borne from a tube; cut off from the fundamental realities of life and death, of beginning and end. Will these people be better heirs than the ultra-humans?