Provocative

There is a painting on the stone wall of my favorite Kingston cafe just now. It depicts a young woman astride a young man who looks to be passed out on the floor. She's fumbling under her skirt at his pants. It is entitled, The Rape of Lot. It is both terrible, and marvelous. I can't keep my eyes off of it when I am in there.

There I sat last eve, w/ AGE. We were there for a meeting, that led to talk about many fine things - spirituality and compatibility and what it is to be needed and how intolerable type A's struggle to be with the perpetually contented. Funny that in talking about S., over chocolate crumbs and frothy milk, I discovered anew the joys in my frustrations: we talked about how i was so attracted to his un-need. The self-sufficiency, absolute hapiness regardless of me, is so freeing, I explained. Freeing because I am so clearly not responsible for the hapiness of another, even at the cost of being also somewhat dispensible. Frustrating because there's insecurity for my moments that want to control a future as yet unwritten - a man is harder to reach if he does not need (but control is an internal state of mind, entirely illusory in any case).

And then we talked of restlessness - the need for stimulus that drives our mothers (perhaps us too?) to being always doing, asking, wondering, wandering... And of fathers and moral/religious upbringings that demand testing each situation, each idea against blacks and whites and a rejection of grey. We talked of many things, and it was good.