Interlude #1

There is this stupid movie, with Keri Russell and *some guy*, wherein the guy's grandfather tells him that the point of life is, pretty much, sex.  Or sex and fruit.  Either way, I pretty much think this is a pile of crap.  And at the same time, this little premise in an otherwise pointless movie is giving me pause this (freakishly early) morning.
Sex is, I think, ultimately the best way some of us know to connect to other people.  Maybe the only way.
The first time I was exposed to E.M. Forster's epigraph "Only Connect...", it wasn't at the beginning of his own novel, where it belonged.  O.R. Melling had stolen, borrowed; had seen the wisdom of those two simple words, and used them at the beginning of one of her books, which happens to be one of my favourite works of ya fiction.  And while Melling's book does have sex in it, the connection she writes about that seems the backbone in her web of overlapping lives is one where not only is there no sex, there's little physical contact.
That is the power of the epigraph, of the concept: connections that can be made through physicality, and in that case, quickly, can be made in other ways, sometimes stronger ways. And those are the ways that often endure long past the memory of a kiss, of even a fuck, even though they often don't have a physical manifestation.
And even saying that, typing that, I know that I'm wrong.  I look at physical proof of non-physical love on a daily basis in things as small as an envelope full of good wishes, a pudding, a surprise present from an unexpected giver.
Given my druthers, I don't want to have to choose between them, between the talking and laughing, the knowing that love is coming at me from miles and miles, and the simple act of putting my arms around another person, of holding on for what I'm worth in the time I get, I'll take both.  And maybe, what I'm looking for is as simple as that, someone or someones with whom I can have both, more, all kinds of connections.