Symbols matter a great deal in my decisions, which is why so much of what I do is pointless. There was joking yesterday about having bought a book but not read it. I do that. I am the cultured/politically engaged/intelligent/sophisticated person who would like such a thing, so I buy it as a symbol, except I am not so I don’t read it. I buy food for particular meals, but some people buy food the same way. “I have bought a lettuce- should I throw it out now, or leave it in my fridge for two weeks before throwing it out, as usual?”
I didn’t pay for the book. Neither of us had change, so my friend said, “Oh, you can owe me £10”. I won’t see them for a month, perhaps two months, and wonder whether to cycle over with it, or alternatively to assume (90% certain) that this was a verbal phrase to prevent formal expostulation at the time. Oh, they have lots of money. They won’t miss it. They don’t really want it. That doubt could lessen a friendship if I need to know. How would not at least offering £10 appear? How can I honour her? What would she want?
We had lots of food after the shared lunch, so I kept up my usual practice of not bringing food to share, but taking it away. This is a useful service as people do not like throwing it out. I was even offered cucumber- lovely, except it had been sliced and was already half way dry. I ate it then and there: always showing willing.
I loved the Bhupen Khakhar exhibition. I sat in ecstasy before “He took enema Five times a day” and “At the end of the day iron ingots came out” feeling pity, pain, empathy and fellow-feeling, and delight in his courage and delicacy of expression, revealing the pain of his cancer so viscerally. I sat in the drama of my feelings, yet in part I am there because of the symbol of my sophistication- though such strong feeling comes from this art because it is not serious, high art.
I thought about this post initially as an anguished rant. I regret/don’t regret my op. I would like a working penis. And yet having one would not necessarily transform sex from something in my imagination which isolates me into something in reality uniting me to (an)other(s). A year ago Jim gave me a wonderful gift, taking me to bed, paying me attention, as I just lay there expressing my own feeling yet not active at all. This is just not how I am supposed to be- my understanding increases my confusion and distress. Is that what you like? Really? You might find someone complementary-
and the thought crossed my mind of reverting being Honesty, or the full circle of the Spiritual Journey- total illusion, totally ridiculous, craving a symbol rather than reality. And I would rant about the worthlessness of symbols and my continued attraction to them which I cannot shake. But I know this stuff, and the temptation has far less force than it did.