The Tudors is back. I should have some grievance with the show, as it is full of White people and celebrates the people of the world who colonized and ravaged the brown continents. But the show is too interesting. History was never this captivating when under the burden of overpriced, underwritten textbooks of my secondary education.
To think, that lust, or possibly unbelievable carnal desire, or a thirst to own a woman, initiated and successfully fueled a religious division that warranted implications for generations to come.
But it is unnerving. The women are disposable. The women are not really humans but recepticles for male fulfilment, nourishing houses for future generations, trophies, mechanisms for political control, currency. I am a feminist, that should bother me, and it does, but it resonates as sexy too.
The Sopranos too have renewed their slot in my life. I remember when I sadly but excitedly awaited the ending, which I was disgustingly disappointed by. I have renewed that same excitement.
It is my imaginary life. I do not like this one He gave me, as of right now, so I live it another way. I get to be Henry VIII's second queen and Tony's well-intentioned, spoiled wife (sometimes his mistress).
Maggiano's would do me so much justice right now. You have no idea.
Fraudulent Behavior
2:05pm
I was sad, initially. I was sad and my eyes welled up, my skin felt hot, and my knees were in serious opposition to the fight against gravity. I should fall down.
I remained standing. I had to wait for the girl next to me to return because she asked me to watch her things.
She returned and I turned to look for a place to reread the Dear Jane email. I needed a chair to rub my back while I thought of what to say back.
I found her, the chair and she looked at me all lovingly. She said I should sit, but do not login, or type, or reread. Sit baby, and reduce your temperature. I obeyed.
Then I logged in. I opened my email and reread it. I did not read the last part, the story I was directed to read. I will read it later. The first part was too overwhelming.
Then one of my darling children texted me searching for validation or coaxing about her life and I knew I could not satisfy her so I left the message unanswered. She will forgive me.
I reached normal temperature and the salty water of my eyes dried up. Then I was angry. Then I was mad. Then I was confused and salty as hell. It is the strangest timing, I feel. Tomorrow is his big day and all my plans are foiled. I do not even want to wish him anything happy.
I too believe in the seasons. I believe people don't last always. I also believe in the idea of permanence. I believe that some people possess a stronghold over your life that they do not even realize and I cannot begin to explain, but it is there and legitimate and real and indomitable.
It makes no sense for the Wishing Marble season to be over. I never intended for it to be a season. It carries me through so much and fills me up and to give it up, especially involuntarily, I feel robbed and betrayed.
Just when he complains that one of his best friends is moving away, he sends me packing.
I cannot love like that. Not that I cannot love you like that. I cannot love like that at all. I feel betrayed and not by anyone in particular, but I cannot love like that.
I could keep my mouth shut. I could keep details of others to myself. I would do that for you. I would do a lot for you.
But you have felt the need to walk away for a long time. I am upset that you don't want to at least have a conversation but maybe it is an awkward conversation to have. I will not push you.
My every moment is filled and made livable only because of the idea that I have my few places to run to. Now, one of my favorite places, my most reliable places has been destroyed, possibly irreparably.
So, I'll buy a new pair of jeans, cut out the knees so that they can breath better, so as to protect me when they feel weak, and I will sit, my hands in praying position between my knees with my purple pumps and add this to my list of grievances with God.
And then...
