On hedonism.

Hedonism is an intelligence of the flesh. It is the active choice to make, of an indifferent and ugly world, a better one. Bite into the correct fruit, something spotless, pulpy, and wet, and you've not only gained admittance to the garden, but created it.

Why rely upon vulgar biology and accidents of time and space when we can make choices? We can invoke our best selves. We can wrap ourselves in strange glamours and furs, in suits with silken and luxurious linings never to be seen save by ourselves and a few lovers¹. We can inform the universe of what we are, rather than accepting the things we are told to want and be.

The current incarnation of the world, this thoughtless and slovenly beast that feeds on waste and plastics, is, indeed, disappointing. Materialism, we're told, is nothing but the cheap, the new, the replaceable. It is to be consumed without question at the same time that it is to be distrusted. That distrust is not revolutionary, but built into the creature itself. It is expected that we should resent without either fighting or ignoring the corporate gods we are told we cannot escape. In our discomfort with the physical we rape the planet because, for all our desires, we do not respect the things themselves. The objects will, they must, be replaced by something newer, so they may rot, and the earth and the materials and the people that made them, being also things, may rot with them. The segment of the world from which I hail, as noted by Mister Thomas à Becket, does have too much, and we certainly have more than we've earned. My nation is fast becoming a landfill because we feel that we need, that we are entitled to, things that we do not enjoy. However, the material of materialism, I might suggest, is not the problem.

Decadence is a delicate and wounded thing. I do not fear objects. I do distrust the ugly, and the inhumane. So I avoid it, and instead cling to the rare, the antique, the strange, and the beautiful. May I request that you join me?

Hedonism, I posit, requires more than excess. It also relies upon a strong sense of discernment. One wouldn't wallow in just anything. Drunkenness is little more than a vice without knowledge of what we drink. Our ability to afford fine wines and ancient liquors is irrelevant: what matters is that we perfect our own preferences. Knowledge of the textures, the colours, the flavours, the scope of possibility, makes selection a sacrament. Therein lies the indulgence.

¹_{Yes, I am in fact implying that Lord Whimsy's lovers include every one of us to read his blogue. He's a gentle, intelligent, and dashing man. We cannot be expected to restrain ourselves.}