Dulce et Decorum est*
I've been real good lately. Eating vegetables, excercising more. Buying practical mess for the house. Nightstands, lamps, a valance for the kitchen window.
But what I really want to do is drink strong, dark-chocolate-laced coffee, take a sick day off work, buy something outrageously expensive and useless (like a $1300 bag), go to a pub, and write sex stories.
Okay, the coffee and the bag, I could skip. But writing? I miss it. I miss my characters, I miss that climb and denoument -- not unlike a really good shag -- that came with realizing a story, actually seeing the characters in my head, even feeling for them, with them. I read my old Michael and Alice stories (NSFW) and I think "who wrote these?" I read my old letters from Brian and they make me sad.
I've forgotten how to write that way. I can't even think about what characters would do if I could conjure them. It's like hearing the television when you're dozing on the couch: you can sort of see the characters, hear their voices, but the dialogue's fuzzy and the scenarios don't match. All my characters are incomplete in my head, their trysts a jumbled mess.
Is this what duty is? the discarding of what one wants? The murder of one's will?
I think I remember when I chased away my muse: that day I tried to show C what I'd written and he blew up. I still don't know what to think about that. I can't forgive him for that, even though we're married and it's long over and I don't write anymore.
Thing is, I wish i could still write. I'd give up lots of things to do so. Question is, would i give him up?
That's some shit, isn't it? In this day and age, a black woman thinking about breaking up a happy home because of some stuff ain't even happened. I mean, really: I made my bed, and it's not a bad one. He works, he's nice. He tries real hard. He just doesn't read that. (as he would call it).
I wanted to write sex the way Byron wrote poetry. I wanted to be to black erotica what Zane could have been. I wanted to give some sort of perspective on black sex -- how fun it could be, how hard, how tender. How varied. And I waited and waited and finally had really good sex, then lousy sex, and got married and had more lousy sex, and it's like this big ass cosmic joke.
Because my duty is to put up with it. As a black woman and wife, my duty is to have a successful black marriage and have successful black children. My duty does not include being sexually fulfilled or writing books or some dreamy shit like that. I'm supposed to Go to Work, Pay my Mortgage, and Be an Example. Like my dad says, "You're a Standard Bearer."
Standard-Bearers know the difference between dreams and duty.
*from the Wilfred Owen poem "dulce et decorum est".
But what I really want to do is drink strong, dark-chocolate-laced coffee, take a sick day off work, buy something outrageously expensive and useless (like a $1300 bag), go to a pub, and write sex stories.
Okay, the coffee and the bag, I could skip. But writing? I miss it. I miss my characters, I miss that climb and denoument -- not unlike a really good shag -- that came with realizing a story, actually seeing the characters in my head, even feeling for them, with them. I read my old Michael and Alice stories (NSFW) and I think "who wrote these?" I read my old letters from Brian and they make me sad.
I've forgotten how to write that way. I can't even think about what characters would do if I could conjure them. It's like hearing the television when you're dozing on the couch: you can sort of see the characters, hear their voices, but the dialogue's fuzzy and the scenarios don't match. All my characters are incomplete in my head, their trysts a jumbled mess.
Is this what duty is? the discarding of what one wants? The murder of one's will?
I think I remember when I chased away my muse: that day I tried to show C what I'd written and he blew up. I still don't know what to think about that. I can't forgive him for that, even though we're married and it's long over and I don't write anymore.
Thing is, I wish i could still write. I'd give up lots of things to do so. Question is, would i give him up?
That's some shit, isn't it? In this day and age, a black woman thinking about breaking up a happy home because of some stuff ain't even happened. I mean, really: I made my bed, and it's not a bad one. He works, he's nice. He tries real hard. He just doesn't read that. (as he would call it).
I wanted to write sex the way Byron wrote poetry. I wanted to be to black erotica what Zane could have been. I wanted to give some sort of perspective on black sex -- how fun it could be, how hard, how tender. How varied. And I waited and waited and finally had really good sex, then lousy sex, and got married and had more lousy sex, and it's like this big ass cosmic joke.
Because my duty is to put up with it. As a black woman and wife, my duty is to have a successful black marriage and have successful black children. My duty does not include being sexually fulfilled or writing books or some dreamy shit like that. I'm supposed to Go to Work, Pay my Mortgage, and Be an Example. Like my dad says, "You're a Standard Bearer."
Standard-Bearers know the difference between dreams and duty.
*from the Wilfred Owen poem "dulce et decorum est".
posted by Gina at 8:46 PM
2 Comments:
Hi. Just wandered onto your blog a few months ago and really enjoy your posts. I've got to say though, this:
Standard-Bearers know the difference between dreams and duty.
Is one of the saddest and most thought provoking sentences I've read in a while.
I relate a lot to this post. I don't know you, so I'm not sure if I should take your words at face value. But... IMO, your most important duty as a black woman and wife is to explore these notions of what you "must" and "should" do and be. Not succumb to them.
It's getting tough to read your blog. You seem to know exactly what you shouldn't be putting up with and yet...
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