mama has just finished Barbara Browning's The Correspondence Artist & yes, mama reads & no, mama is not just all body body...
this bit killed mama:
(wait - spoiler, alert...
if you haven't read Browning's book click click away now, chilluns...)
"I mean, I'll miss the fiction, I'll miss Tzipi and her cruelty and her hair, I'll miss Binh's images and his beautiful cock, and Djeli's angelic voice, and Santuxto's hypochondria. I'll miss waking up every morning and running to the computer so I could be with them again. And I cried a little, again, writing the end."
that little bit made all the games, all the postmodern slippage, all the simulacra worth it for mama in the end.
cos I cried when I was done writing Homegirl! and then I cried some more when I finished the re-writes & now I'm crying cos I know mama has to go deeper & darker at the end & sometimes mama wonders just how much art wants from her. couldn't art just leave her alone to watch her stories & then every now & then drop by for some moon pies?
couldn't art just call, every now and then, even tho mama doesn't have a landline?
couldn't art just text & be like, how u doing?
couldn't art just turn up in a pocket of mama's housecoat, cos she bought it from the goodwills, & just be there, waiting?
couldn't art just come by with the sheriff & be all, this one yours, too?
mama knows better & when art calls mama lays out the good jelly jars, the ones without the chips, & she serves cava & the hummus cos she knows the arts probably likes to pretend its cruelty free even tho art is the first one to smash your face into the pillow ant take you from behind while wearing newly-skinned veal calf boots and baby seal furs.