chaotic order

The basic instincts.. The price we pay for being civilized, orderly, and decent and law abiding members of society is that we have stopped doing several things. We don’t go around carrying axes, spears and clubs beating each other to pulp for flimsiest of reasons; we don’t steal each other wives or husbands because we desire them physically, we don’t migrate from territory to territory scourging for food and water; we don’t give into our instincts that are essentially mammalian and sometimes carnivorous, and dutifully yield to rules that we don’t necessarily agree with but nevertheless abide by; we exercise our appetites to the extent that it doesn’t infringe on our neighbors freedom, taste and preferences - I can keep racking up a thousand things that we all love to do, but do not , for the simple reason that for us to live together we have imposed upon ourselves certain restraints for common good. I am in perfect agreement with this arrangement, until we realize that as Human org

"A Single Man" - the loneliness of separation In the annals of Gay relationships in twentieth century, none had more transcendental quality, artistic flamboyance, endurance and perfect affinity than the celebrated romance between Novelist Christopher Isherwood (1904 -1986) and painter Don Bachardy. They met memorably for the first time on a moonlit evening in 1953, on the pristine beaches of Santa Monica, California. It was coincidentally Valentine’s Day as well; Isherwood was then 48 years old- a celebrated author, poet and a renowned translator of Indian spiritual texts; and Don was an 18 year old boy, fragile, lonely with mellow green eyes studying to be a painter. The fire that crackled between them on that cool windy night was never doused for the next 32 years. It physical, emotional and intellectual heat abated only when Isherwood (86 years) died in Don’s arms in 1986, after a prolonged battle with prostate cancer, and the embers of those last few months were i