Just recently "She-Who-Visits" started a little book club - just she and I. She assigns me an audiobook and I, teacher's pet like, greedily listen. I devour the well turn phrase or brilliant, descriptive metphor during the plunging violence of my underground commute. When I finish, I must write a book report which shall comply with strict requirements of proper margin, font and length. If I obey, she will read me. These days, this is the closest I'm gettin' to sex. But for me, sad though it may be - this is close indeed! That she really reads me is actually kinda orgasmic.
I was talking about writing and art with a friend. She noted my passion about my little reading class and told me about her trips with another to our amazing museums here in New York City. They get the audio-tours, stand together in front of a great work of art and simulanteous push the button into another world. What is it that art does for us in these trying times? Why is it that pain and terror compels such ardent connection? Where does art take us that seems so protective and inspirational.
At the risk of supreme grandiosity, my connection to art these days feels like my connection to submission. It just feels ultimately romantic and transcendent. I look to my book club to connect me to her, to connect me to art and to take me away in the romance of my submission. My bond to my submission feels quixotic, artsy and uplifting. It's about redemption, deliverance and salvation. Maybe that's why it all makes me feel like a hero, just for one day.
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