We tend to treat the body as though it were a skeleton wrapped in flesh and stuffed with organs. When it gets ill, we expect pills and surgery. We separate the body, mind, and emotions as though they were neatly contained in separate departments. As a result, our qualitative experiences are treated mechanistically: from depression to erectile dysfunction to wrinkles, all sorrows can be fixed with remedies of the flesh, completely neglecting the deep engagement of the soul that gives humanity its depth.
For example, when someone says something cliché like ‘music is medicine’, we know they’re describing how music can be healing on some level similar to what ibuprofen can do for a fever. Sensuality and romance may not be important in keeping us alive, say, by making the heart pump blood, but they are what make life worth living. We may not ‘need’ petit fours, pudgy west coast oysters, perfumes, or lingerie, but the richness they add to our lives goes beyond economic value. Material things are anything but materialistic. Pleasure—when carefully negotiated with the deadly lure of hedonism—has so much more soul than we give it credit for.
I’ll start with the eros found in chest muscles and veiny arms:
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