To three straight movies of Truffaut, browsed in upon, while the Tour rolls into Grand Bonnard, it must be my inner Mormon/devout conservative Christian/Catholic responding.  A man cannot do anything without a woman.  He will have no energy.  He can go nowhere.  It's basic physics, electricity, the solar system, chemistry, biology.  Truffaut is presenting the billion complications that might interfere with such, needless ones.  None of it is happy.  People go mad, drive off bridges, etc.  Thanks a lot, this happy picture of love.



It occurs to me from time to time, how devastating female rejection can be to a male, to his inner sense of justice, his awareness of morality, his compass.  Lights out, it's not fun, you're in the hands of God.  Dejectedly, you plow on;  that's how it goes.  We are all mama's boys, and the harder we come, the harder we fall, so we might as well go on and admit it.  And it's curious to me how not much is written or recorded about the phenomenon directly, as rejection imposes a psychological condition upon a guy with a physiological reality.  (I'm not saying all women should accept all men all of the time; hardly.)  A simple caress, a sweet look in the eye, a simple kiss, a soft hand, would go a miraculous long way to one in such condition.

It makes me think there is a missing gospel, that when Christ, let's say, is broken on the cross, rejected, entombed, there is a woman who comes and resurrects him 'from the dead,' giving him hope, putting him back together again.  For, perhaps quite literally, he has risen.  What else would he get a rise out of, at this point, even after he had helped many people in a similar way, to believe, to have faith, to see the bigger shape of physical reality, the electrical currents and stuff that we were created around.  She would take away the pains of this world, so that he could go on back into the next, back to his philosophizing.  Secret gnostic gospels do exist, mentioning sacred rites of marriage, and even Buddha, free of desire, tells us that "enlightenment is in the vagina," no wonder the content look on his face.

So what do you do with the pain, that makes writers not want to write anymore, not go through the struggles of jobs, lie about depressed, seek comfort in wine at night.  This is Quixote, this is the old fisherman and the sea with the patched sail 'a flag of constant defeat.'  This is Sherwood Anderson's old broken down carpenter who finds within himself a kind of Joan of Arc, a female side meeting the male side of a being, so to then go forth and understand how, in all those stories, people are broken by nature.

There's no need to be 'dirty' about what needs to happen.  There's no reason to feel ashamed, or prudish, or however else we are taught to preserve moral and class distinctions.  There is the institution of 'holy matrimony,' which of course has a large component of intimacy and beautiful embrace, nothing to do with the egotistical.

So it seems like it could be a catch 22, to break down your ego, to leave the confusions of social thought, to just be.  If you were to admit brokenness, how then would the other see any worth in you;  how would they 'get you' and redeem you and restore you to your original hopes?