Friday, September 29, 2006

Alas, Poor Yorick! *

I see that my beloved Aaron McGruder is the second victim of The Dark Crusaders.

The Boondocks, the Truth-telling, piss-offing, damned funny cartoon that made sunday nights a little bit brighter, isn't returning to The Cartoon Network's Adult Swim this season. in fact, Aaron's not even returning to make his excellent cartoon strip.

I can only mourn, wear my shirt in protest, buy the series on DVD, and pray they don''t get whoever else dares to tell the truth.

*Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow
of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath
borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how
abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at
it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know
not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your
gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment,
that were wont to set the table on a roar?

Friday, September 22, 2006

"I pray you, daughter, sing, or express yourself in a more comfortable sort."*

"You know, now don't be offended. This is just me talking to you, woman to woman."

When my mother says this, it's code for "I'm about to say something that will either gall or hurt you, and I don't give a shit because I can say things like this with complete impunity because I am your mother."

"You can't trust any man..."

See, right there, I know I'm in trouble. And I stop her. "I don't want to hear this."

But she doesn't stop there, folks. Ohhh no. Because she's had time to mull a few things over. Apparently being retired leaves you lots of time to come up with foolywang ish like:

  • "You aren't allowed to visit me."
  • "He cooks for you everyday, right? Be careful, that's all I'm saying.
  • "Because your father was bad, and well, I'm not saying [C] is bad, but you can't trust anybody but God.
and tonight's winner.....

  • "He might be trying to fatten you up to kill you.
This was almost as much fun as the time she insinuated, mere weeks before my wedding, that I should lose weight because otherwise C. would cheat on me and/or leave me.

Wierdest thing is, she seemed genuinely surprised when I asked her what the hell she was saying, if she thought about what she said before she said it, and told her I couldnt' talk to her anymore.

* from Act 1, Scene 3 of Coriolanus.

Sunday, September 17, 2006

Gathering Ye Rosebuds While Ye May

Know what a good weekend feels like?

  • When you have extra money in the bank (there is a silver lining to losing one's checkcard -- you can't spend a damned thing until your replacement comes),
  • The pretty underthings *(NSFW) you bought (husband and his dislike for lacy/see through etc. things be damned) come in the mail and your
  • husband seems a little...miffed when he sees you putting on said underthings when you're getting ready,but you go ahead and
  • wear them out to lunch under a dress you forgot you had (but it still looks perfect and put together), and feel both rebellious and pretty (which makes for fun waiter-flirting at the restaurant).
  • You spend an inordinate amount of time in the toy section of World Market with your friends, playing with the musical instruments featured, and end up buying something silly (but are elated despite its goofiness). Plans for a Rock band including an accordion, castanets, maracas, and vocalist ensue.
  • Play with makeup and find a decent foundation color;
  • Manage to cook dinner (albeit late) and it come out quite good (husband even brags on it at work);
  • Start a new piece of work, and still have it with you on Sunday night to mull over.
Not bad...not bad at all.

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

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".