Go Bonobos in 2026
Image by A Chosen Soul.
Happy New Year, Brothers and Sisters, Lovers and Sinners… though frankly, I’m not too happy about it. Old 2024 may have been an Annus Horribilis, but 2025 marked The End. Finis for me. That is, on Tuesday, May 13, 2025, my beloved husband, publisher, producer, muse, witness, sweetheart, best friend and better half, Max, aka Pr. Maximillian Rudolph Leblovic Lobkowicz di Filangieri, aka “Captain Max,” aka Mickey, passed away, and nothing else much matters to me now.
Maybe you know how that feels.
I have lost the love of my life, and since my life revolved around love, I have lost my life.
Physically and mentally, I am, as they say, a ghost of my former self.
At least, that’s how I feel.
Yes, it’s personal, but “the personal is political,” isn’t it?
From the tearstained corners of my bleary eyes, I see the world being torn apart – as my darling Max has been torn away… leaving me in tears – ripped clothes and crying.
Not that I don’t enjoy a few laughs of the gallows genre. Laughter is a mental orgasm, healing the pain of loss with a balm of endorphins, if only for a moment.
Of course, life isn’t as funny as it used to be with Max. Even after the stroke took away his ability to tell jokes, he’d roll his eyes and wrinkle his nose into the funniest faces that made me laugh so hard, I’d forget for a moment that he couldn’t walk or talk, and that all his doctors said he didn’t have a chance.
There’s nothing like the laughter of love.
Now those laughs are gone, though other types of humor will do; even dumb political jokes can ease the pain. The mainstream media inadvertently serves up the occasional dish of comic relief in its frantic attempts to be relevant, but its shameless sugar-babyish pandering to its billionaire sugar-daddies is getting deadlier (and less mainstream) every day, so it really isn’t funny anymore. Especially when what you think is only a joke – like, say, the U.S. President casually declaring, “We’re just going to kill people” turns out to be real.
Or has grief broken my funny bone?
Social media isn’t much better, what with our all-powerful Tech Lords censoring pretty much everyone but their own nakedly self-absorbed self-interests. Moreover, their Artificial Ignorance is so baked into the feeds they force-feed us that we need to do deep research to distinguish fantasy from reality, and this little old weeping widow is just not motivated to bother.
Are you?
Does all this interconnectedness to everything just make you feel less connected to anything – especially anything that matters?
Breath of Eros
Sigh. I wish I had something sexier to say at the grand opening of another Happy Nude Rear, but my sex partner is gone.
Of course, Capt’n Max was so much more than “my sex partner,” although good sex (eros) is the essence of life, and, in this mourning sexologist’s view, the bedrock of human well-being, a happy marriage and a less violent society.
I’m thankful to have been blessed by the Breath of Eros for over 40 years of artistic collaboration and friendship overlapping 33 years of love and marriage – before Eros’ evil twin Thanatos (death) took my love away.
It almost took my breath away.
But I’m still here (much to my adversaries’ chagrin) and, though I’m not so sure why (except to keep Max’s legacy alive), I’m thankful for that too.
With all these tears, I’m also grateful for veils. Not veils that censor or suppress, but veils that reveal as they conceal – from the sheer white veil of the bride that conceals her beauty as it reveals her hope for the future to the shadowy black veil of the widow that shields her anguish as it displays the glory of her grief.
Bonoboville Still Breathes
While I’m feeling thankful, let me also give thanks to the real-life human community we call Bonoboville that keeps going in the face of relentless attacks by unscrupulous extortionists, liars and one city government, that began in the wake of Max’s stroke and escalated after his death, despite the complete and utter lack of merit to all of their claims.
More about that later, but in the meantime… Go Bonobos for us!
Max and I brought Bonoboville to life 32 years ago, having *discovered* – at the tail end of The Nature of Sex on PBS – a then-obscure species of ape called bonobos. It was about a year after our rather traditional wedding, and we knew we both loathed war and loved making love, but we didn’t know they were so intimately connected. Then suddenly, it all made sense…
Utterly captivated by these Make-Love-Not-War bonobos – as well as each other (call it the honeymoon phase, if you’re cynical, but the feeling lasted over three decades) – we began crafting both traditional and unorthodox therapies to “release your inner bonobo” (with other consenting adults only; we were among the first in modern times to focus on the importance of “enthusiastic consent”), and we called the community that organically grew around us “Bonoboville.”
Captain Max was the Founding Father, the George Washington of Bonoboville; interestingly, one of Max’s more illustrious ancestors, Gaetano Filangieri, Fifth Prince of Satriano, was a friend of Benjamin Franklin and correspondent with Thomas Jefferson regarding matters of the day, like liberty, equality and revolution.
And rather like Betsy Ross is said to have sewn up a flag, I stitched together The Bonobo Way of peace through pleasure, female empowerment (females rule Bonoboville), male well-being (we nurture and support our dudes), ecosexual intelligence (save our planet!), a strong sense of real connection (community is key), caring and caregiving, as well as sharing resources.
For 33 years, romance ruled our lives. Born into “nobility” on both his Lobkowicz/Bohemian and Filangieri sides, but raised for revolution by relatives who escaped the Nazis, Max conjured a real-life fairytale existence for us, infused with art, zany and erotic adventures, political free speech activism, revolution and evolution.
But no couple is an island, and the key to our longevity was (and is) community, both in theory and in the living breathing reality of Bonoboville. Now that community is keeping me afloat (with a little turbulence) as I try to navigate through the dark and stormy seas of tears, without Capt’n Max at the helm.
The Bonobo Way of Grief
At least, the Bonobo Way still guides me. Bonobos are, of course, now well-known for great sex. I’m proud to say that this is partly thanks to Max and me, along with a few savvy scientists, who helped to make these “hippie apes” famous for having such fabulous sex that it reduces violence and has completely eliminated murder and war in bonobo society (so far).
If only we humans could do that too! Could we? What do bonobos know that we don’t?
Bonobos are our closest living great ape cousins, after all, and I believe that the pro-bonobo drive to make-love-not-war – in addition to more violent, greedy urges – is within us all. It’s what drove Max and I to share The Bonobo Way. It’s what’s driving me now to write this somewhat perky piece, even though I’m calling it out from a dark, deep, bottomless well of grief.
Here in the darkness, I am discovering that bonobos are not just remarkable for how they handle Eros, but also Thanatos. As sightings and studies show, bonobos grieve – exhibiting personal feelings of sorrow due to a loved one’s death. They also mourn – publicly wailing, grooming and attending to the bodies of their dead friends.
For instance, a Mpechi Forest patrol team came upon a tribe of bonobos gathered solemnly around the corpse of a deceased female under a canopy with the area surrounding her cleared of twigs and debris. No signs of injury were apparent; it seemed she had died of natural causes, and her beloved bonobo community was grieving her loss.
The human patrol team buried her body while the other bonobos watched in apparent sadness and cautious curiosity. The team put up a sign reading, “Cimitière bonobo” (bonobo cemetery), and marked her grave with a cross. A few days later, the patrol team noticed that several bonobos stayed close to the grave, some even building their nests to sleep in the tree above it. This “bonobo mourning” period continued for at least another month.
Anthropodenial is the Lie
Of course, the humans dug and marked the dead bonobo’s grave, but her fellow bonobos mourned over it for weeks.
And no, it isn’t anthropomorphizing to call it “mourning.” However, to deny bonobos their deep grief, awareness of death, public expressions of sorrow and care for the dead could be called “anthropodenial.”
According to “A Concept of Death in Genus Pan: Implications for Human Evolution” by Dr. Katherine H. McLean, University of Auckland, “Frans de Waal (2019) coined the term anthropodenial for when researchers reject similarities between humans and our close relatives to keep humans on an evolutionary pedestal. Many scholars criticise anthropomorphism (Gruber & Clay, 2016), but I believe anthropodenial is worse. If two closely related taxa act similarly under similar circumstances, then it is reasonable to believe they are similarly driven. Therefore, I describe [bonobo and chimp] emotional response to death as grief, and the behaviours that stem from it, such as grooming and keeping vigil, as mourning.”
Max and I met the late, great Dr. Frans de Waal (October 29, 1948 – March 14, 2024) back in 1998 at the LA Library. Ten years later, I was touched when Frans defended me against The New Yorker’s attempt to mock my “anthropomorphizing” of bonobo sex, pointing out the New Yorker’s “anthropodenial.” Now Frans’ work is being utilized to defend the perception that bonobos (Pan paniscus) mourn their fallen comrades – more or less like we do.
More research on bonobos is needed in this emerging field of evolutionary primate thanatology. But it’s not hard to imagine that bonobos might well be even more attuned to death than humans are, given the remarkable lengths they go to in order to avoid killing each other.
Some nay-saying war-enthusiasts point out that bonobos can be “aggressive” like it’s some sort of trump card (and let’s not get started on that pitiful excuse for a primate who gives orangutans a bad name). But nobody called bonobos angels; they’re animals like us. The fact that bonobos are not completely nonviolent but just *know* – or are taught by their elders – where and how to draw the line before fighting devolves into murder makes them even more remarkable.
It also renders more feasible – albeit remote in our current homicidal climate – the possibility of humans living “the Bonobo Way.”
Everyone Grieves for Someone
Nevertheless, you don’t have to be bonobo to grieve deeply. Common chimpanzees (Pan troglodyte), known to commit murder and engage in territorial wars, also grieve and even mourn their dead friends and lovers, as Dr. Jane Goodall showed us so well. Dr. Jane “loved” The Bonobo Way and aptly compared Trump to an “aggressive” male chimp “competing for dominance”; sadly, we also lost Dr. Jane in 2025.
Since there are far greater numbers of common chimps than bonobos in the wild and captivity, more examples of chimp grief have been documented. “Cases of chimpanzees exhibiting distress after a death are numerous,” Dr. McLean continues, “one male made persistent ‘wraaah’ calls (a known sign of emotional distress), whimpered, watched the body for hours, and became agitated if others approached it (Teleki, 1973)… after a male failed to rouse a female he was bonded with, he screamed, tore at his hair, tried to prevent the body’s removal, and spent days moaning and crying (Fiore, 2013)…. after the death of an older female, her close friend and daughter groomed the body and kept vigil through the night—they also refused to eat for weeks post-death and exhibited disturbed sleep (Anderson et al., 2010).”
Sounds like me. What about you?
Mourning Chic
Seriously, is public grieving now all the rage, or is it just me?
With loads of extra-judicial snuff films mixed into the rising death count, it seemed like endless funeral processions marched and swayed through 2025 – from the anguished infant burials in Gaza to the grandiose hosannahs – with fireworks – filling American stadiums for a mysteriously assassinated celebrity-turned-deity.
This is Mourning in America – with no apologies to Ronald Reagan whose demented rhinestone cowboy charm is at least partly to blame.
Indeed, a grotesque parallel to my personal grief is that 2025 was the Year of Mourning Chic.
According to all the grief experts, “everyone grieves differently,” and far be it from me to judge another widow’s tears, pyrotechnics nor her widow’s weeds of skin-tight, black pleather pants. After all, I wore a black miniskirt to Max’s cremation.
That said, when it comes to my personal mourning role models, I’d rather look to the bonobos than, say, Erika Kirk.
Though I have to hand it to the Widow Kirk for that flawless eyeliner (another thing she and JD have in common). Grief, grift or glycerin, the former Trump pageant girl’s mournful gaze is eternally camera-ready, while my own crying eyes resemble two spotted salmon floundering in mudpuddles on either side of the pink baby lobster that is my nose.
Where’s that damn veil?
Grief is the Price of Love
Veiling, grifting and glycerin tears might be human inventions, though primates do engage in trickery. But real, authentic grief pervades the food chain.
Many creatures, including some of our pets and farm animals, and maybe even our oldest trees, seem to register the passing of their companions, carrying the loss in ways both shared and solitary.
Bonobos may be most emotional about it though. After all, bonobos are the “love apes,” and grief is the price we pay for love.
Since Max’s and my love was so deep, wide, and high as the sky, I am now paying the price.
Bonobo Project 2026
Still, my New Year’s resolution is to “go bonobos” in 2026, aka MMXXVI. That’s a lot of numerals, but Max was from Rome, an empire of great aqueducts and a lousy numbering system. Roman or Arabic (we don’t need Sharia Law to make us prefer Arab numerals); Israeli or Palestinian (Free Palestine already!); America First, Last, or just entreating all the Gods, Goddesses and Billionaires that we don’t collapse (at least not this year) – I hope you go bonobos too. Call it My Project 2026.
And yes, it was my last year’s New Year’s Resolution and My Project 2025, 2024, 2023, 2022, 2021, 2020, 2019, 2018, 2017, 2016 and 2015…
But I’m trying again – with tears and many not unreasonable fears – slipping and falling, grieving and mourning, weeping and wailing, moving and shaking, tripping and swinging into the 12th Great Year of the Bonobo.
Amen and Awomen. Here we go…
Save the Bonobos
If there’s any hope for us humans going bonobos – even if our chances are tinier than a war-profiteering billionaire’s manhood – we must do all we can to keep the real bonobos alive and thriving in their native habitat of the Congolese Rainforest in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) – as well as in sanctuaries, primate centers and (the better) zoos.
Lola ya Bonobo (Bonobo Paradise) is a bonobo sanctuary outside Kinshasa in the DRC, sometimes called the “richest land with the poorest people,” currently being decimated over cobalt mining so essential to our precious smartphones and other devices. Lola ya Bonobo, founded by visionary Claudine André, rescues orphans of the devastating “bushmeat” trade – exacerbated by the population displacements caused by logging and mining. Lola cares for these little bonobo “refugees” like family, and eventually releases them back into the wild. Donations are administered by Friends of Bonobos, including our friends, Vanessa Woods and Dr. Brian Hare, authors of Survival of the Friendliest, as well as Ashley Stone and Amanda Kuttner, all of whom tirelessly help Lola to keep studying and saving bonobos.
The Bonobo Conservation Initiative (BCI), founded by another great pro-bonobo friend, Sally Coxe, is developing the Bonobo Peace Forest, saving many bonobos, often giving the orphans to Lola ya Bonobo. BCI also provides much-needed food, medical care, school supplies and jobs to Indigenous villagers who live close to the bonobos in the Congolese Rainforest, and who protect their precious and vulnerable wild populations from the ruthless, desperate or just uninformed poachers who shoot them for bushmeat.
Give what you can (get that good Giving Feeling!), and go bonobos (Happy Nude Rear!) – as much as your circumstances legally and ethically permit.
Even if you’re grieving – for the love of your life or for the world you once knew – it’s (always) a good time to go bonobos.
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