On some level, I am extremely moved by Bouguereau's painting "Compassion". On some level, it feels like the only rational thing to do, in such a world, because I don't have another answer. On some level, I grasp full well what "cruciformity" is about.
But at the moment when I understand it, a lighter me also surfaces. It reminds me of my cat, when it was hurting: it was cudly and it wanted nothing else than to be held close.
And I never have to operate on such a deep level, because in these moments, a peaceful, shiny little playful streak pops up too. If I'm around people I can leap into it without being phony, just a bit reserved maybe.
Like now, I've just been watching Hotel Rwanda for the first time... and a funky little subdued tune by Ladytron is playing in my head: "Playgirl, why are you sleeping in tomorrow's world, hey playgirl".
It's not that I couldn't inhabit the story, indeed one of my best friend lost all his classmates in the genocide, and we cried together on his twentieth birthday when ,after a normal party with cakes and balloons, he couldn't shake the sadness and I could not either. It's just that this forgiving little streak is always there, no matter what, reliable as ever, if barely audible. And if I feel too exposed I can hide behind it.
Some may say: "but retaining that shiny little streak means you don't fully engage with the present situtation". It's quite the opposite: when I know that I will not loose this tiny lifethread, I can plunge head on into quite a lot of shit, I can journey much further into the dark than I could without it. Let's go.
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