I’m writing this from Rimini, where the evening air smells faintly of salt and warm bread. The rubber whirr of my wheelchair on the cobblestones keeps a steady rhythm, like a metronome for thinking. I’ve learned to listen to that sound—soft, insistent—because the body always has a way of talking. Tonight it’s telling me that our politics isn’t only about ideas; it’s about breath, skin, nerves… and the quiet courage to change.
Three Ideas We Rarely Question
We tend to believe our bodies are private objects, sealed like jars on a shelf, yet public policy—schools, clinics, labs—touches them every day with a paper-thin rustle of forms and rules. We also assume that changing a body is a dangerous line you cross, as if a new organ or a new identity smells of smoke and alarms rather than of soap and morning light. And finally, we act like the only safe society is one that hardens us, polishing us to a sterile shine, even though the world’s real texture is closer to driftwood—worn, knotted, unexpectedly beautiful.
Those beliefs sound neat because they’re simple, like a bright poster on a quiet wall. But neatness can hide harm the way strong disinfectant stings the nose while missing the mess in the corners. The truth is messier, more human, and more hopeful; it squeaks like sneakers in a gym, never quite still. Let’s test these beliefs against a single story and see what cracks—and what lets light in.
A Night With Cronenberg That Changed My Mind
Years ago, the TV flickered in my small kitchen, the screen humming like a mosquito near the sink. I stumbled into David Cronenberg’s “Videodrome” and later “Crimes of the Future”—two films separated by about 40 years, the space of a generation learning and unlearning how to care for flesh. In a smart essay I read recently, the author argues that Cronenberg’s arc moves from cheering bodily transformation to protecting the freedom to change—without forcing it—offering a politics that’s less about spectacle and more about shelter . The takeaway hits like the bitter-sweet taste of dark espresso: real solidarity means defending bodies—old or new—so people can choose their path without a boot on their ribs.
I’m deliberately simplifying big ideas here—complex concepts are simplified for your understanding. When philosophers talk about biopolitics, they just mean this: who gets to decide what happens to our bodies, from health to hormones to hardware. In plain daylight, with the kettle hissing, that question isn’t academic; it’s as physical as the warmth of steam on your cheek. And Cronenberg’s answer, as I read it through that essay, is to turn down the panic and turn up the protection .
So, What Exactly Is At Stake?
If government is a thermostat for our shared life, then the dial often twists around bodies—from school lunches to implants to the air in our bedrooms. The Aeon essay traces how power shifted over centuries from ruling souls to managing flesh, a change you can almost hear in the dry click of a clinic door closing behind you . That click isn’t neutral; it can mean care or control. And which one you feel depends on whether your body is welcomed or disciplined.
This isn’t just cinema talk. Think of a classroom that smells faintly of pencil shavings: budget choices shape brains and bellies. Think of sports halls echoing with whistles: rules decide who gets to run, who must sit. The argument I find persuasive is modest but strong, like a cotton sleeve against the skin—secure zones where change can unfold, free from surveillance and shame, serve freedom better than megaphone revolutions or moral purges . Tomorrow’s policy, then, should sound less like a siren and more like a soft latch—space to breathe.
One Story, One Shift
Here’s my small story. After a long day at Free Astroscience, I wheeled home with hands tingling from the textured push-rims and the faint scent of rain in the tyres. I rewatched “Crimes of the Future,” and when Saul bites the plastic bar, there’s a single tear, a tiny sound of cutlery settling on a plate, and a question that settles in your gut: is change liberation, or is it simply the right to not be stopped? The essay’s reading suggests a careful middle: reject the panic that paints every altered body as a threat, but don’t command anyone to alter either . That’s the shift I took to bed with the murmur of the Adriatic in the window—protect first, preach later.
Tomorrow, I want to test that shift in the wild—at meetings, in classrooms, at the café that smells of orange peel and fresh brioche. If the future is a negotiation, then the negotiator is the body you’re in. And the best negotiation begins with room to speak.
Translating Theory To Plain Life
Let’s keep it simple. Autonomy means you decide; dignity means you’re treated as if your decision matters. Smell the disinfectant in a hospital corridor and ask: is policy here to help the wound heal, or to hide it? Touch a new prosthetic’s cool metal and ask: am I being made “useful,” or simply supported to live as I choose?
In schools, protection looks like quiet spaces and curious teachers, not loud bans and louder headlines; you can hear the difference in the low murmur of students who feel safe to think. In clinics, protection sounds like consent read slowly, the paper crisp under your fingers, not rushed signatures. In law, protection feels like air moving through an open window—non-interference as a baseline, targeted help when harm bites—so bodies can change or not, with no one standing over them with a stopwatch . The future version of this is boring in the best way: updates, not upheavals.
What I’m Choosing, And What I’m Asking Of You
As a science communicator and as the President of Free Astroscience here in Rimini, I’ll keep simplifying without dumbing down—like sanding wood until it’s smooth but still smells of pine. I’ll keep favouring policies that sound like whispers over shouts, because whispers carry farther in rooms where people actually listen. And I’ll keep insisting that bodies aren’t battlegrounds; they’re homes with lights that flick on at dusk, soft and human, one window at a time.
What about you—what does your body need protected from, and for? Sit with that question the way you hold a warm mug, feeling the heat on your palms. Tomorrow, try naming one rule in your life that polices your body, and one you’d keep because it truly protects. Then tell someone, quietly, and see if the room changes temperature.
Looking Ahead
I can already hear the future in small sounds: a pen tapping as a committee rewrites a form; a door opening where a barrier once groaned shut; a shy laugh when someone realises they don’t need permission to be. If Cronenberg’s early cry was “Long live the new flesh,” the mature echo might be simpler and softer: “Long live the free flesh”—old, new, or somewhere in-between . We don’t need more panic; we need better rooms. And in those rooms, may our bodies speak first—and be heard.
Note: I’ve simplified philosophical ideas for clarity; for a richer dive, see the Aeon essay that inspired this reflection, which traces the move from celebrating altered bodies to protecting the freedom to change them without coercion .
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