I'm making a scrap book like a young English lady in her grand tour (oh, those childish strategies that help us to negotiate life transitions!). I chose two pictures from a pocket edition of John William's anthology of erotical paintings and photographs; they are the best to characterise me and the type of relationship I dream about. One is Gustave Moreau's Galatea, featuring the contemplative glance of the cyclops, admiring the radiant and luminous nymph consubstantial with the luxuriant vegetation surrounding her. The other is Alma-Tadema's scene in which Antonius, represented as yet another dark, wild and hairy Mediterranean man, bends forward as if he had just been hit right in his stomach, glancing in awe into Cleopatra's boat crossing the Nile.
Dark, wild and hairy is that I want them. And to be myself the luxuriant queen shining bright, clothed in heavy blossom and leopard skins. Everything is in these two pictures, my longing for purity and authenticity of a primitive race, that is at the same time something so deeply cultured, something clothed in abundant draperies of civilisation centuries in the making and a lifetime in being studied. That's me, and at the same time something I never accepted. I denied all knowledge of this image of myself.
I cheated myself into believing that I had anything in common with the submissive and downtrodden womanhoods of Poland or any other place, real or virtual. With a salty tomato soup coming as a bonus!
Everything has been wrong between me and my desert. Something has been deeply falsified. While firstly, the desert neither requires nor accepts submissive women.
I wrote in one of my previous posts that I feel inexpert with western guys and would never feel at ease with them. I maintain it. I totally lost any interest in them that might have remained. But it is in my own desert that now I am lost.