For the majority of my adult life, my life was punctuated with regular sex (mechanical more than intimate), ensuring a steady flow of hormones, as shared with my long-term serious boyfriends. ("Serious relationship", what an exciting way to describe it.)
In fact, from 17 years old to 27 years old, I didn't really know what it meant to be single, and my friends made bets that I wouldn't be able to enjoy such freedom. I was a safe girlfriend, because I was closed off. I never asked anyone to open up. I didn't know "intimacy" wasn't a brand of tampons or something.
During these periods of physical comfort and stability, the creativity that had blessed my younger days also diminished. After years with the same good boyfriend, it came to a point where I barely ever wrote, drew or danced anymore. It led to a semi-depressive functional state, which I dismissed because my life was "paper perfect".
In the winter of 2014, I left Boston and embarked on a self-exploratory phase in California, which brought on a lovely emotional chaos, and an irregular sexual life. Yet, I felt alive. Some majestic mountains and powerful waves, but mostly a clear valley, fertile of personal growth.
At the moment of writing this, I haven't had sex more than two months, which is uncommon for me. Yet, we are sexual beings, as a way to experience a state of communion with humanity, celebrating the beauty of the human machine, and healthily digest the hormones that flood our veins and that drive us to multiply.
Sex, as the mystical magnetism that ensures the survival or the virality of the human race, seems to be humanity's biggest driver.
And for reasons I have yet to detail here, masturbation is not part of my daily routine, and I hesitate to engage with the practice, partially for the potential benefits I am about to illustrate.
I am not Saint-Aude-Olivia, and I don't escape the wiring of a sophisticated little ape. Which makes it so that right now, after two months of involuntary abstinence through uncontrollable circumstances like traveling, a heart in repair and because of my growing standards for a relationship of substance and my newly affirmed sapiosexuality, I feel like I could explode like a firework, but in a good way...
To give you an idea, I sleep about 5 hours a day, and never drink coffee, I dance instead of walking, and do so across anywhere from 4-6 miles a day. I also do advanced level hot yoga every day, to burn some of this life force that electrifies my body. I'm often asked what drug I am on.
It's really like there is a motor inside me, an infinite source of sustainable energy, green and all the other colors known to the eye.
On a creative level, it is nirvana: this is my third post written today, and I wrote a poem in about five minutes. There is very little friction in my creative process, I am in a state of flow and have been since I've separated from the typical modern dating dynamics, about 18 months ago or so.
As I was dancing home and feeling like Molly was here with me, listening to hip hop just to accentuate the feeling, I remembered how this hyperactivity led to some attention trouble in school, or our favorite condition and excuse to be distracted and uncaring: ADD, dun dun dun. Indeed, I have read less books than I have fingers, and the doctor suggested I should be medicated, which I immediately refused.
Now, aside from this destructive desire we have to normalize everyone and to suppress people's natural gifts so that the masses can be comforted in their relative skill set, I think it's time we change our outlook on relationship challenges and "abnormal" behaviors, in this case, my apparent state of hyperactivity, which I believe is linked to this phase of abstinence, and the resulting benefits of it, which include incredible levels of creativity.
Let me explain through empirical data. Here's an example of how sex can trump other forms of creativity, in my life at least:
This man and I had been seeing each other for a few months. He taught me many things about love, and it was consuming on all levels. Looking back, I wasn't quite ready to embark on such a journey. It's one reason it was better to come back to Canada.
Upon our return from EDC, a multi-day rave in Vegas spent swimming in pools of people and abundance of all sorts of substances, he stayed at my place for seven days straight.
Quick math, with the rave: 10 days total, 24/7, same room, same air.
He didn't go to work, and even cancelled an important job interview. I was quite surprised, but whatever, let's Netflix and chill. It was idyllic. A vacation from all concerns, out on the island of our minds.
We had sex (or made love I guess), ate decadent food, laughed, and watched Rick and Morty, Portlandia and The Office, like our lives depended on it. A wide range of useless social studies.
Our biggest dilemma was what kind of pizza or sweets should we get: ice cream, or donuts? Donuts filled with ice cream? Ice cream with donuts chunks? Not an easy life.
We were the least productive human beings you can imagine. Sophisticated humans sloths. Even the couch started to wonder what was up with us.
But I think I know what it was, but I have yet to tell the couch:
We were content, sexually satisfied and in love (intoxicated by endorphin and oxytocin). We had everything humans ever really need, or at least a version of it, one that could satisfy the both of us at this time.
We were on vacation of life's most common source of anxiety: loneliness, as we were feeling blissful, appreciating stillness, and being obnoxiously lazy through the calmness provided by each other's embrace.
Guess what: I did not write for ten days, which, in my case, is highly unusual. Otherwise, my cruising speed had been thousands of words per day, just to put things in perspective.
This pattern repeated itself through every episode of romantic and physical proximity we shared. Comfort, as calming at it can be, also seems to tame our motivation to go above and beyond. Beyond what, in this case? It's already here and now.
I believe that your energy can be released within the bedsheets, paper sheets, workouts, or any other way to wish to use it. You have a certain amount of life force that builds up within you, and you decide how to invest it.
Now I am sure that the initial phase of romantic love can surely be uplifting, energizing for some, and very much inspiring, but still, the resulting comfort that ensues over a longer period of time, I think, might make some stagnate and dampen the intensity at which with you used to create.
In the alternate case, I believe that emotional trouble and physical separation has the potential, if it is well channeled, to stimulate your creativity, through the space that it creates within yourself that will be filled with inspiration. This space allows you to receive the " divine data" (we'll talk more about this over time).
Think about this sweet feeling you get after an orgasm... You just want to relax. Nothing else matters. What a lovely high. And that's okay, it's great, it's wonderful, but the opposite should be examined, experienced, and celebrated too.
When do we ever practice self-control?
In fact, let me develop an even bolder theory:
Emerging artists often create their very best work in their early days, as their genius is coming to life. They're making something, like making love, but simply with a different medium.
Let's assume that their atypical view of the world results in some level of isolation, and silence. I believe that this is when there is a stronger vibration and communication with the divine source of inspiration, because there is space to receive the signals waiting for our receptivity be stronger.
There is a search, a hunger, an openness to receive the data, the love in other ways than the one we can get from another human being. Loneliness is patched with spurs of inspiration. Their creative energy yields art, instead of being consumed orgasms, or to grow humans.
Then, they might experience some level of success. I know that I will, but as of now, the secrecy and the loneliness of the exercise maintains the purity of my creative process, which I honor, enjoy, and very much respect.
This success might mutate to some kind of fame; ensues attention, fans, sex and love in all sorts of external forms, some being healthy, some not, some being substantial, some being superficial.
Whereas you once opened yourself to silence (out of choice or isolation) to signals transforming you into a channel for incredible beauty to be expressed through your innate talents, you now feel satiated with physical distractions, external attention and entertainment, inadvertently muting the signals from within, and from above.
The hunger is gone, you're full of human love. The words and the notes don't sound the same. The magic feels plastic. The source has changed: it is now driven by the ego, the fear of losing the attention of the people you once didn't know.
Fear is certainly a powerful driver, but it is not as pure as the desire to be one with all, through art. In fact, I believe that art is God's expression through us. (When I say God, it's a substitute for a higher force, and a polite rejection of the new age vocabulary that is overused. God can be anything you want, you choose, as I trust your critical sense. I do not refer to any religious dogma or to any caricature of a white bearded man).
I am ready to submit this hypothesis to a more rigorous scientific evaluation and I predict that there will be an inverse correlation between the quality and the quantity of art created and the amount of sex and external stimulation a person has in her life.
It might also be why some sexual practices like Tantra teaches the withholding of orgasm, as a way to preserve your energy and increase pleasure. Orgasm is seen as losing this vital energy into the other. Tantra brings the observer to sustained, long-lasting states of bliss, instead of a short-lived overspill in a latex bag.
Should we build up our powers or give them up under greed, lust and impatience?
Others practice "edging", surfing below orgasm levels for long periods of time in order to increase the explosiveness of the well anticipated and spectacular orgasm that follows through this self-control we too rarely consider.
Clearly, our society doesn't really value patience and anticipation, negatively affecting our desire, creative capacities and levels of energy. We live in abundance, and often fall in gluttony.
So now, these last few months have been blessed with beautiful creativity, and haven't been marked by constant physical proximity.
To me, the relationship between both variables is getting clearer, and it feels magical.
I enjoy this incredible wave of inspiration, and I write as much as I can, well knowing that the velocity and the quality of my writing will mutate as I partner with another soul, transforming this vibrancy into physical intimacy and other forms of creation.
I will feel content, calm, my cravings will soften, and my creativity will be expressed in other ways too. Ultimately, all this energy will concretize into beautiful children, whom I will enjoy meeting and getting to know, just like I now enjoy birthing art.
Of course I will always write, dance or draw, but maybe not to the point of breaking / fucking my keyboard, dreaming about words, and being physically aroused to the idea of a good metaphor.
As a creator, I invite you to think about making room for your body to channel this powerful vibrancy which can be expressed in a multitude of ways, beyond binging and humping.
This love that flows within you can be consumed and transformed in many ways, but I doubt it can be done in all forms, at all times, and such expectations will lead to frustrations in one area or the other.
The sexual energy that flows through us, I believe is this electric current, this life force, or "God", and can be transformed into spiritual, or creative energy.
Therefore, you might leverage your sexual healing and abstinence to deepen your presence within your body, connecting more strongly with the mind and allowing yourself to tap into greater wisdom, which is what many meditative and spiritual practices invite us to do. Happily enough, we don't need to be monks on a top of a far-away mountain to do so.
Cum of paint or ink, covering white pages and canvases of your vibrant genius, or be delighted to paint her white skin with your secret of life.
Cum, deep into our minds and hearts horny for your art.
(Hmm. I loved writing this... It feels so good.)