movies that I haven't processessed in my mind yet, or in conversations with others, because barely anyone I know has seen these: 

Marco Bellocchio's Leap in the Dark, and then Fists in the pocket. That second one quite disturbing. I saw it over many days, bit by bit, turning it off whenever I was overwhelmed. Somewhat similar: The Dreamers, by Bernardo Bertolucci, but less disturbing, just as scandalizing/stunning though in a different way.

I've always marveled at and been fascinated with italian cinema, the old and the new. But these really pushed my boundaries, made me u comfortable, even watching them by myself.

I think I made him see Leap in the dark with me again but he doesn't view things as I do, doesn't dissect them and unwrap meanings...

But Anatomy of a Fall I dissected while watching with him a second time, that was quite a revelation of a movie without making me squirm in my seat. Should have been called Anatomy of a marriage, of growing up and old together, of finding fears and anxieties and rivalries and insecurities and ugliness within us as we grow, about the irrelevance of 'truth': I mean what does that even mean...? of perspectives and grey-ness and in betweens.

Why do we teach our kids that 'snitching' is bad, when it is the same thing often as 'whistleblowing'? Why do we call it 'snitching' with such a negative connotation to it? When does our teaching evolve into the Blue Code and also the idea that 'boys don't tell on their mates' even when they cross a 'crime' line? Why don't we teach our kids the nuances important and help them build an intuition they can trust and then give them the courage to act upon it. 

I saw Armaggeddon Time on the flight to amrika this time. And here have been wondering how to talk and listen to my lil nephew about difficult questions, many of which even he tends to avoid or says he has 'already forgotten'; that last were his words to my asking him about his note of 'bad things my classmates did when the teacher went to the bathroom'.

Sex is a waste of time when time is in short supply. With some ppl I crave conversations, even though that is also limiting. 

Margaret Mead had an affair with a colleague 20 years her senior, he was also a student of Papa Franz. While she was married to a third person, and while she was falling in love with Ruth Benedict, also a student of Papa and his teaching assistant then. 

woke up this morning a lil late. sleep has been erratic these last couple weeks. found a brutal full frontal red ants attack on the kitchen bin and all over the kitchen rug. we hadn't even thrown mango peels in there, but he had cooked fish last evening, I know the ants here to be non vegetarian, they love fish oil. just last week I was nostalgic about the ants; this year has been different, they were so far very few and very late in the season, and out of the wall opposite their usual annual.

spent the next couple hours or so cleaning up. washing the ants down, wiping every surface. he took the rug and trash out and away. I mopped the kitchen floor and walls, and then plugged any holes in the walls with the tile fixer pour cement thing.

had that can't live here feeling for the umpteenth time. called mom who is unwell. and finally sat down for breakfast at 11:30. 

and then noticed the usual late morning flameback woodpecker visit on the peepul outside the guestroom window, which is my summer breakfast reading spot. the red headed golden backed guy traipsed flauntingly up and down the tree for a long time. I put aside reading about Margaret Mead's childhood, gasped and smiled and tried unsuccessfully to click it yet again. and then a lil female sunbird swung on a wire just out the window a while.

such is the balance in life in the Aravallis, the pain and pleasure, the awe and angst of living in human houses at the edge of the jungle.

I dreamt of both of them. One night of seeing him in different places in probably multiple intersecting dreams, and then him disappearing in each. This was after they declined our invitation. And then this morning I dreamed of her after seeing why they had declined: she couldnt make it, was to travel and had a visiting sibling. In this more coherent lifelike dream, of sheltering in some home of hers, changing bedsheets and she telling us it was the wrong sheet, there were lots of people at some large Langar lunch of sorts, and I was swimming in her tiny L-shaped garden pool free like a fish, and when I got out her guard tried to talk to me, lecherous; I found some beautiful taps and buckets of water and plants in some of them, and then a broken bottle which when I showed her turned to harmless translucent soft plastic bits. 

I have discovered Wim Wenders on MUBI. Perfect days, Alice in the cities ("When you drive through America something happens to you"), and then will watch Paris, TX with him; had been searching for that one for years. I feel a strange nostalgia when I watch 70s amrika in movies, although I wasn't even born then.

sometimes laziness comes over me like destiny. I've been reading and watching stuff more than anything else this summer so far. and thinking and dreaming. we did also have some younger colleagues home one evening. some women and their spouses. I realized that day that ppl didn't take Linda Goodman setiously because barely anyone had really read her, "from cover to cover" as a spouse specified, most people barely just skimmed their own zodiac pages and who they would pair best with, no one but me thought of her as a poet and a lyrical writer. and then I found a fan club of her poetry online.

and we are finally somewhat friends. we dined at theirs. he showed me pics from when he was young, mustachioed. she fed us warmly, like we were her kids. their son licked the palm of his right hand clean when eating and then reached out with his fingers for some honeydew she cut for all of us; she scolded and protested in tamil, and the two of us smiled and helped ourselves to the fruit (which she had cut despite my "please don't bother" because he chose unthinking when she gave him options to choose from). their regular house help had gone off for a month and the woman helping left soon after dinner was served, but dirty dishes kept disappearing as if someone was washing them in between bits of our conversation. she didn't know where bones should be thrown when we were searching for their bin, and I forked them into her lil compost bin confirming it was compost material. he barked instructions at me to get the top right drawer and some spoons from it. I couldn't figure how it opened so I kept opening everything else around it. later he seemed annoyed when I wanted a serving spoon for something that didn't have one in it; that made me smile inwardly. they invited us over because we had some crisis level water problems. I really felt for her and warmed to her. they argued with each other over the role of the Supreme Court and the CJI in the institutions and politics of these times, even though they all have the same political inclinations. I felt like I hadn't learned how to swim in those waters, and both of us smiled to each other like we knew their weaknesses and stared from one of their faces to another. we realised they barely knew the shops in the market between our houses or they barely ate outside food. he flinched a lil and smiled and mumbled in embarrassment when i looked at him directly and complained against his distaste for a netflix series i thought was very good. I felt her eyes on me and him then, wondering how much we knew each other. I was meeting her after about 5-6 years. she is a morning person, always rushing from one thing to another, taking care of others more than herself, dislikes exercise other than swimming, is a doting mother, and has a caring soft spoken manner. other than being an economist and writer I admire. he is a lil impatient, not always aware of how his words might hurt or possibly believing that honesty is more important and the casualties worth it, trying incessantly to make sense of things, curious, and willing to be corrected. both have a frankness about them, simplicity, a sense of humor, and an awareness of the fragility of things. both are precious. my mind has been replaying words said and the expressions on their faces this whole week, sometimes also continuing conversations beyond where they were interrupted by failings of memory or thought, keeping me awake sometimes.

I was reading Sarah Polly's memoir of all kinds of trauma in her life. The bit about her erasing from her memory and retaining no recollection of a bad sexual episode and being choked and how she slowly recalls it in the midst of other similar reports only when her siblings remind her of her own, and her unpacking of it, was like nothing I've ever read or understood before. Like I've said before, sex is a lot more and a lot less than we give it credit. People remember selectively, they lie about it, they depict themselves in it selectively, and they manipulate their recollections of it to sometimes manufacture an image of themselves that they are comfortable with or that they would desire or that they can live with.

I am now reading Jill Ciment's memoir of growing up. And waiting to get my hands on her second memoir called Consent.

I think I'll always be in love with the idea of someone being in love with me. Of someone being curious about me to the extent of wanting to know my every thought, every motivation behind my every choice and action, every lil habit of mine, every practiced gesture. to be cont'd....

(Update on June 9th: randomly came across a movie that felt like it needed to be watched today. Sis was visiting. But she found it too heavy. Women Talking. Realised it's been written and directed by Sarah Polley. And so beautifully written, every word carefully chosen, to describe in a thought experiment, or a metaphor of a situation that tries to capture the entire argument relating to patriarchy and feminism. He and I ended up finishing the movie, me crying as usual; this time about why not everyone can understand this and why the world needs to be so messed up.)

we were in Kashmir this last week, mom sis and me. multiple aunts/uncles/in-laws with a certain political party/man loyalty kept telling us that kashmir had become safe overnight or that tourism had been restored there overnight since the abrogated of Article 370. talking to the locals we met, there did not seem to be much reaction or change since then. seemed like it was more the revival and tourism surge post covid that they found worth mentioning. 

in Srinagar we stayed in a cute cottage on the grounds of a professor couple. we saw the beautiful and long tailed Asian paradise flycatcher there a couple times. the couple's gardens had beautiful irises, lupins, apple orchard, a small pond (where apparently the flycatcher dives in). later we saw one of the same flycatchers flying and dipping in front of a local bus along the Dal lake as well. 

There were crazy rain forecasts for our days in Srinagar and Pahalgam and against our hopes that is exactly what happened. we got out in between rains, we saw some mughal gardens, we walked along the Dal lake, we walked into local bakeries (esp in Srinagar) and came out with bags of different kinds of breads, kulchas, khatais, rotis, bhakar vadis (seems like kashmiris don't cook rotis at home unlike mainland indians; they eat rice for main meals and buy open, literally by hand, from local bakeries for morning/evening snacktimes). the chinar trees were beautiful. our local driver and guides told us names of trees, flowers, food, and stories of bollywood songs shot in different places. the local taxis played bollywood songs from the 80s and 90s. between srinagar and pahalgam, there is a large industry making cricket bats; there were stacks of their wood lying open to drench in the rain which would harden them. After bollywood, or maybe before, cricket seems to be the other source of fandom. Our driver told us Sachin had recently visited and stayed for a week. i tried the various lamb dishes part of their wazwan: daniya/daniwal korma, goshtaba, yakhni; i tried the mouthwatering displays of halwa and paratha in the market next to Hazratbal; and we had kashmiri pulao and ferni in different places. their food is low on spices that are perfectly blended. they use a lot of yogurt, their yakhni is essentially a delicious yogurt gravy which you can find in veg versions for lotus stem (nadru) and louki (al) as well. Kashmiri people were very sweet, friendly, curious about us especially the women, and hospitable. One place in Pahalgam after the rains finally stopped i took mom and sis for a long aimless walk. we met lots of men walking with huge bags or cars that would stop with men's faces poking out trying to sell us shawls and lots of women/girls who would glance at us curiously and then break into large smiles in response to ours. some would simply ask us how we were and where we were from or where we were staying. a group of small girls shadowed mom for a bit and asked her where she came from or where she was going... and in response to similar questions from us told us they were on their way to see a new bride. i asked them if the bride was their age to which they responded with "woh to bahut badi hai". they stopped at a house near where we were looking for a hotel/restaurant to stop for tea, and they guided us to a resort two houses down. at that place mom and sis's grumbling about sugar in kehwa got the attention of a young Kashmiri couple on the table next to ours who demanded the restaurant guys to make freshly brewed kehwa for us without sugar. they turned out to have done wood/interiors for the resort. after we chatted with them awhile and had finished rounds of kehwa, they and the waiters refused to let us pay citing Kashmiri hospitality. that walk gave us some stunning views around Pahalgam that all the much touted tourist points would not have. Betaab/Hajan valley, named after the movie shot there, and Aru were beautiful though. in Betaab there is this dear little river running through, the banks of which are stone-studded and perfect for a picnic and birdwatching. we saw lots of Citrine wagtails (identification thanks to a friend) there, and some white capped redstarts. In Aru mom captured the cute little Plumbeous water redstart. we tried everywhere to distance ourselves from the busy touristy mule paths and to evade the calls for 'sightseeing', 'horse-ride', etc. 

Toilets on highways in Kashmir are dirty. and in many places only the women loos are indian. there is still a big gender difference in many ways and i kept wondering if tourists' presence and the internet (when it wasn't shut by the govt) did not make the youth question their culture. 

And then we went to Sonmarg. soon before that i felt like i was ready to go back home, or that i should go back home because hubby was traveling and had not locked our frontdoor well. i got this funny feeling like my holiday was done. there was also doubt to our Sonmarg plan because the rain had blocked part of the road to there. but the road cleared up and we did get there. even before we arrived the sights around me made me feel like we shouldn't have come, like we were trespassing in such stunning and outlandish landscapes and with such thick snow frozen around the road, that our car and the road built for cars like ours was somehow spoiling it. there was also an under-construction tunnel underway to substitute for when the external road is blocked/damaged by landslides and bad weather. i kept thinking that the weather and the lack of good roads is the place's only protection against us humans, that we should let it be. upon arrival i felt even sadder: it seemed like all the hotels, concrete infrastructure was built in the last 5-6 years, there were roads/bridges under construction and cement dust everywhere at teh foot of these grand jagged rock mountains capped with thick snow. and the 'town' was full of men with mules calling out to every tourist "tajwas glacier; sightseeing; horse ride; only 20 minutes; discount; ...". our car rode up on a mule path to our hotel. we had heaters in bathrooms although the hot water in my bathroom wouldn't work well throughout my stay. and i kept thinking that one should come here only if one was on foot and looking to trek. apparently the Kashmir great lakes trek starts from there. we wandered around aimlessly on those beautiful slopes avoiding the road and its cement colored dust of progress. i found what seemed like remains of a picnic/meal with plastic spoons, paper plates, eggshells, empty plastic bottles of water trashed around. there were mules left to graze with their front legs tied together so that they wouldn't go far. there was plastic waste all around. amidst all of this were some Eurasian hoopoes that would fly away as i tried to get closer to get their pics. i walked up once to some isolated huts that supposedly were homes of goatherds or of those who owned some mules. our hotel did not have Kashmiri food, everything was generic and north indian. the town in the center of the valley was new, dirty, and an eye sore to the majestic beauty of the surrounding peaks. i kept feeling sad that i had come and that the whole infrastructure had been set up to enable my coming. and on the night before we had to leave the place my tummy gave up. i groaned and flitted between my bed and the loo, thankful for the heater next to it. 

The security at Srinagar airport is weird. you have to take all your bags out of the car even before you reach the airport gates, and have them scanned and then put them back in the car. coolie-like men ask if you need their help for a fee for the whole process.

Oh and more than one Kashmiri driver regaled us with stories of how unsafe Paharganj and Purani dilli are...

I realise my sense of morality, ethics, right and wrong, have been moulded by cinema quite a bit, especially Hindi cinema. it might sound ridiculous. especially if i use the word 'bollywood' to describe hindi cinema. but there are numerous gems in hindi cinema that people who reject it are unaware of. i recently met Sudhir Mishra in the market near our home and gushed to him about Hazaaron... and then realised that most of my colleagues were either unaware or barely aware of him and his movies (i on the other hand have watched many of his movies and interviews). then this colleague/friend who is a major foreign films buff but rejects everything indian got curious when i mentioned Om Puri because for him that name stands for 'art cinema' which to his sensibility might merit attention whereas 'bollywood' certaintly did not. this same friend also rolled his eyes when i equated Leo diCaprio's stardom - such that he no longer feels like a character in a movie but always this larger than life star that he has become - and why i no longer like his movies to something similar with Aamir Khan and SRK back home. i realise also how much definitions and boxes irritate me. Om Puri himself in an interview says that he had to accept many mainstream movies because the so-called art/independent/parallel scene did not offer enough money to survive. and then there are all these brilliant people who made and acted in movies that meander across the boundaries of 'art' and 'commercial' movies. have you seen Mahesh Bhatt's Zakhm? that is a classic example. hubby hadn't seen it; he has had somewhat of an aglophile upbringing and found one of its songs ridiculous and was laughing. i started to explain the context and found myself crying, the emotions portrayed in the movie and that song are so powerful even after years in my memory of it. the song is 'Padh likh kar bada hokar....'. it is these movies that shaped my liberal views even before i lived in that country where i still think human ideals are alive and discussed.

there's something wrong with people who haven't yet had covid, that is if their claim of not having had it is correct. if a disease ravaged humanity the way covid did, and the wave of death, fear, and fatigue caused by it changed us for ever, then if you were not a part of it are you even human?!

No one,

but him and me,

has the time to spare 

to stare

at the lonely dancing peacock

this Tuesday morning.

Even the peahens around it

are busy pecking 

the grain

that my neighbor puts out ritualistically,

before the twice as many pigeons 

devour it all.

While on the other side of us

leaf by dozens of leaves

the peepul

sheds its old avatar

in its annual (or biannual?) molt

preparing for its figs and greenery 

that will invite the migrating 

rosy starlings.

Till then

we wait and watch 

the tree's skin descend 

on our terrace.

And in a futile attempt 

at scooping the leaves off it

I find a stubborn pair

of black red moths

stuck at their rear

busy creating their own new life.

Delhi has been so beautiful this March. Its like it's compensating for more than 4 months of awful pollution. There are numerous shades of fresh leaves, in the range of red and green, and birds have been dancing and singing. The kingfisher is visiting us again today. A sunbird is cleaning her wings and coat. Coppersmiths are flying in and out of their tree-hole-home. Its Holi. And people are starting to understand the idea of consent in playing it. The water is still too cold to swim (I went last Sunday and returned shivering). The habitat international film fest was superb, and fell in the week of my midterm break. I saw different moods of women in different films; there was a focus on movies by women and those from Germany. One of those days I wasn't well, and I took my rest in the Stein auditorium, watching 3 movies, one after the other. I need to start running again though, was taking a break to let calluses heal on the sides of my big toes, and was waiting for new shoes (again) to come. I have fallen in love with this city again, and I didn't think that was possible. Been thinking of getting a bike cos most of my movement is in the small lanes in this corner of the city...

I've had some sleepless-ish nights lately. The aftermath of him visiting my campus and me having to chaperone him around. Took me 6-7 years to be able to talk to him finally this last December, after awkwardly pouring my heart out to someone I've known for ages and suddenly realising he was sitting right next to. When I did finally (the next day) initiate conversation with him, we just looked at each other a minute and chuckled/smiled big. But I still tortoise-shell myself every time he comes at me, and he does do that even now. I skipped half a class to be able to meet him, hoping it would clear the air. His knowing smile and intimate-conversation eyes though scared me and made me withdraw within. But I did recover each time within minutes, pretending to have forgiven and forgotten. We had to walk without others, be in an elevator by ourselves and there was nothing I could think to say other than what I was asked. For a minute, in the audience to his talk, I felt like another colleague could see our eyes locking and feel my disturbance and discomfort. And at least once, or maybe more, I looked at him and felt like telling him he was so old, that I admired him immensely and was flattered by the attention and really seeked to get to know him but also "please don't do that, it makes me want to run away". Our words keep playing over and over in my mind. And I also keep craving to see him again. We live close by, but somehow I only see him in work settings where often at first I will notice him staring at me. Does he not realize the power dynamic here? Does he not realise I am not myself at work? Can we still be friends

happy new year

I don't understand why for days and weeks and sometimes months I don't feel like writing. Even though a lot is happening that I would want to put down somewhere, and even if I have had the time to spare to do it. And then someday I will be reading something, about a writer's urge or practice of reading and writing, that will suddenly - like a tic - make me want to write. But if I'm lazy for even a minute around that, it passes. 

It's been very busy in my mind lately, reading and pondering about the human body, esp the female body, about evolution and gender and sex and athletics (was reading Eve by Cat Bohannon and Sohini Chattopadhyay's The day I became a runner; and then of course movies like Thappad, Mammootty's Kaathal, and She's lost control found their way to me).... The books blew my mind in many ways and the movies jolted me. But it was all way too much to pen down. I've been talking so much about all of these things and the way my neurons are connecting them to whoever has been near me...

And I've been running on a treadmill in a gym for a change, cos the air outdoors wasn't worth breathing this whole winter. Gave me the opportunity to measure my Running stats for the first time. Combine it with the reading and I've been trying to increase my speed and aim a half marathon by next Jan. Apparently women beat men on ultramarathon run speeds, and our bodies are in many ways better at stamina, healing, and living longer. So I'm preparing myself for that next phase of aging in my life, equipped with what millions of years of evolution have given me and the possibility that others' words and thoughts keep opening up. Quite the right time in my own life to encounter all of this, and just when a couple months back I felt like I barely knew anything about the female human body...

In fact even just now I picked up the typing act because I was reading Amitava Kumar chronicling Joan Didion's death and quoting her as saying in an interview that the act of writing is a hostile act because it forces one's thoughts and dreams (unwelcomed but tricked into) on the minds of the readers...

So reader, last night I dreamt of participating in a murder and disposing of the body cleverly, after a busy day meeting a friend, buying fresh produce and then an intro bouldering class with sis and her partner and mine that has left me with leaden arms this morning. The murder probably a result of watching Poker Face too long... but possibly also some creative darker version of feminism being play-acted out. 

it was conference season in delhi. I had set myself three difficult tasks: initiate conversation with three specific people, each much older and more senior than me, each a somewhat awkward conversation, one a purely professional "are you aware of my existence" that might be a future tap for a recommendation, the second a very personal "how are you" after the loss of a spouse that I don't know why I kept feeling persuaded to ask because the person left behind is genuinely very nice, and the third a somewhat acknowledgement of my tangled feelings of awe, intimidation, attraction. I am proud I kinda did all three, not very suavely, with very few words (and more body language), but with outcomes that would pass a binary assessment. I feel strangely and simultaneously light and satiated. today, unlike all other evenings post professional/social meetings, I don't think I will be regaling him with post-analytic tales of every wrong word or sentence I blabbered...

I'm reading Virginia Woolf; feels like I couldn't possibly have read her works at any other time in my life but exactly now. 

A few weeks ago I just felt like therapy wasn't helping us any more, especially not teaching me anything more. Coincidentally, things have been feeling more like our early days and years, not because of therapy but just because. I felt like the need to go to therapy, or that to fix something, was possibly misplaced. Even though it taught us things.

Getting older has been more sobering lately. There have been more than 5 people I've had conversations and connections with worth reminiscing. But yes conversation, the idea of it, the potential it holds, is limiting or is limited. So much more is said by a look, a pivoting of someone's gaze or body toward or away from me, shock and embarrassment, chuckles, and involuntary bodily reactions, ...

There's a conversation without words I have been having with someone for about 6 years now, over rare sightings a year or two apart. What will I say if I could talk? Would anything be valid be true and be sayable? Would trying to put a form to that inexplicable thing kill it in the process? There is a restless anxiety to talk and to communicate, and yet the past has taught me that I have wasted it and that it dies it's death after a futile bout of time.

There were times I wondered why he wasn't insecure of my affections, why never jealous. He said it was because I always told him things. Once he did get angry, frustrated. Makes me smile today when I think of his lack of insecurity regarding me, as he sleeps peacefully while I lie around restless in the middle of the night, reading and writing. We have both been sensible, patient, and loving, even when we couldn't make love, or I couldn't desire him. 

But also sex is more and less than everything people attribute to it.

I haven't had the time to write about many things. about our panic and failed attempt at snorkeling in La Jolla caves in the cold pacific ocean in July. about visiting the US after five years. about mexican food and people, and swimming in cenotes - the cave pools created possibly by the impact of the meteor that erased dinosaurs from earth. about our visit to Ghana (erstwhile Gold Coast) and how the tragic history of slave trade and the opposite of anger that I saw in people's faces there has changed me, made me more humble and compassionate. how we made friends with a local cat in Elmina - the place that reminded us of Goa, both Portuguese colonies around beautiful seas - and how the owner said that locals look at you funny if they see you trying to make pets of animals. how I've started to also recognise the beauty of the glow of darker skin; how I was mistaken yet again for an Ethiopian; how I roamed about alone and random people showed me things; how some flavors in their fermented foods and meat stews were way too strong for me and made me smile while I couldn't continue to eat them. about how I felt my life's journey was taking me to places that felt like pieces of a jigsaw that told the story of America and the world, of the intertwined fates of humans, and how now I want to visit South Carolina to dig into the Gullah food and culture.  

about the apocalyptic levels of air pollution (about a week of 400plus pm2.5 and a couple more weeks forecasted) in Delhi this Oct-Nov where people are walking about without masks making you wonder whether their belief of you believing this to be harmful and hiding from it behind your masks and air purifiers is in fact your fragility and your woke-ness. about transitioning to flowy skirts as I grow older. about a slow acceptance of having aged, while airport officials in Accra still marvelled at my age (and also told me that Indian brides are in demand there because they pay good bride price; technically African ideas of bride price imply the groom's family paying the bride's, quite the opposite of dowry in India).

A realization has been perplexing to me, but it persists and is pressing to be more concrete than I at first thought it might be: people often say exactly the opposite of what they want to say.

Sex education is a very good TV series with beautifully thought out characters who are complex yet consistent. There are actors in it I can never like in other roles, they feel so true to their characters in this show. 

And I started reading Alain de Botton's How Proust can change your life. It is funny, amusing, revelatory and engaging.

Both are reinforcing my realization. 

I dig ideas, and values. And I admire them in others and am attracted to them. Psychoanalysis doesn't quite admit such statements as stand-alone. It reduces every action every behavior every habit and personality characteristic as arising from a need or a need to alleviate personal distress. It wears it's own convenient blinders, and uses it's own convenient language to twist meaning to suit it's perception of succeeding to explain. "a higher need". which I call ambition, because one can easily survive without it but chooses not to in pursuit of a goal. Maybe one 'needs' a goal, you could say; maybe one needs ambition; possibly because without it one perceives life and this world to be pointless and hopeless. But you couldn't say that the ambition satisfies the need for hope then. Or would you? It is somewhat similar to how economics has reduced altruism to 'warm glow'. In both philosophies, one wouldn't do something unless it made one better off, satisfied some need or gave some reward or alleviate some pain or personal distress.

I am reading Sherry Turkle's Empathy Diaries. I was struck by how she says the youth of the 70s, politically conscious and active and idealistic, rejected psychoanalysis' diagnoses of their idealism and actions arising from self distress. That's how I felt when my admiration for and attraction to courage was reduced to my need for the other to listen to my point of view; my need to interrupt and argue against patriarchy taken to be arising from personal distress; neither made sense, neither satisfied me. Unless you argue that I have a need to feel and be different, from others around me; a need to feel non-ordinary.

Turkle also talks about how her work was initially rejected because it seemed unlike the establishment, even questioning it. I remember telling the interviewer who came some months ago researching the question of gender in economics academia, that possibly women collaborated less with other people because the nature of research was defined by men into these tight boxes into which women's ideas, thoughts, methods, and work probably didn't fit very well, and that this might lead to a reluctance from women to collaborate (with men).

And then today I read Marilynne Robinson, "There is a tendency, considered highly rational, to reason from a narrow set of interests, say survival or procreation, which are supposed to govern our lives, and then to treat everything that does not fit this model as anomalous clutter, extraneous to what we are and probably best done without. .... We inhabit, we are part of, a reality for which explanation is much too poor and too small."

when I was younger I fell for confidence, even a bit of swagger if I'm being honest. now I realize I am attracted to an open mind that is also somewhat self aware, an openness that is not completely lost, that has the courage to be vulnerable and show it. apparently, Jung said we spend one part of our life trying to prove ourselves, and only after do we understand ourselves and our shadow. 

It is strange that courage and vulnerability are two sides of some same thing. Contradictions that are lock and key to each other. Somewhat like how inoculation is the key to contagion, or how acceptance of anxiety is that to an eventual triumph over it. I feel as a species we have been brave to embrace our vulnerability, and thus cracked some of the secrets of nature.