I was walking home from class thinking about the upcoming IUI, and how it has to be timed according to my cycle (which I have no control over), and wondering how it’s all going to work out, and whether T (aka the Bear) is going to have to make an unplanned 7-hour drive to deliver his contribution in the middle of the week, when it hit me – it’s really sex by machine. Industrialization has reached its fingers into even this intimate realm.
Don’t get me wrong; I use industry-produced computers, cars, cell phone, etc. all the time; even books – those wonderful analogue anachronisms – are available to me cheap because of industrialization. Rah rah for the Industrial Revolution. But, being a Romantic and Marxist at heart, I have to hold it all rather lightly…
(A friend of mine here actually wrote a paper for class on ART as alienated labor, it was quite fascinating.)
But anyway, my point was, I had to ask myself why it feels so alienating and alienated, and thought back to those dimly-remembered years when my friends and I started getting curious about “where do babies come from,” and how, after some hemming and hawing, the story we got was the one we all know, that when a man and woman love each other very much, he — well, y’all know how it goes. This was the ONLY story we got.* This becomes the metanarrative. ANY deviation is then seen as aberration; as deviant.
This is a problem.
Let’s not pass it on to the next generation.
*Actually in my case, I found a copy of “Now We Are 12” on a friend’s bookshelf, but I already knew the “facts of life” since I’d looked up “sex” in the encyclopedia when I was 9…yeah, I was kind of a nerdy kid!