Freestyle Friday

I did not post on Wednesday. For that, I apologize. I don’t blame astrology for much but Sunday’s lunar eclipse happened right on top of my Moon at 22 Scorpio(1) and I’ve been operating at 40% all week. Here’s hoping I’ll regain some energy as we get past eclipse season.

Okay. Guys. It’s time to have a conversation about The Big Picture podcast and its dreamy ass Host. I will not say the man’s name here, in case he Googles himself. And when I say “dreamy,” I’m not talking Yahya/Sebastian/Charles Matthew I’d risk it all to see you naked kind of dreamy. I’m talking please mansplain the importance of The Godfather to me over aged whiskey and filet mignon sapiosexual non-sense.

Have I made fun of self-described sapiosexuals over the years? Yes. Face-to-face, no matter how brilliant a man may be, if the physical isn’t up to par, it’s gonna be a “no” from me, dawg.


Now that my sex life is between me and my trusty partner Handrew(2), I can indulge my attraction to nerdiness without having to fuck any real life nerds. And this nerd right here? With his soothing not quite baritone but lower than a tenor, dry wit, vast pop culture knowledge, obsession with 90s/00s hip hop, Elder Millennial with Gen X sensibilities, and allusions to being a Type A control freak? I… Yes. Just, yes.

I don’t follow him on socials. Have no desire to look at him or know him beyond his content. I say this with no shame: give me this podcast and a glass of red wine and its officially date night in my apartment.

In my newfound love of movies(3), I’ve spent the last two weekends revisiting the Daniel Craig Bond films and honestly? Between Bond and Don Draper, I’m wondering if we were better off when misogyny = stoic alcoholics in finely tailored suits. Because misogyny hasn’t gone away. We just have 2-3 generations of woman-hating crybabies who can’t dress.

Take me back…

I may be willing to concede that Adele’s “Skyfall” is on par with Gladys Knight’s “License to Kill.” We all have our preferences and a sweeping 80s ballad is an automatic W around these parts, so Gladys=GOAT, but “Skyfall” is excellent. And makes great “driving home at night” music, as I learned over the weekend.

On my quest to read something other than smutty romance novels, I’m working through Didion’s final book of published essays, Let Me Tell You What I Mean. I haven’t spent any time with my girl since her death and was immediately reminded why she’s my favorite when I read “Why I Write.”

Two quotes that made my soul leave my body:

In many ways, writing is the act of saying I, of imposing oneself upon other people, of saying listen to me, see it my way, change your mind. It’s an aggressive, even a hostile act. You can disguise its aggressiveness all you want with veils of subordinate clauses and qualifiers and tentative subjunctives, with ellipses and evasions—with the whole manner of intimating rather than claiming, of alluding rather than stating—but there’s no getting around the fact that setting words on paper is the tactic of a secret bully, an invasion, an imposition of the writer’s sensibility on the reader’s most private space.

I knew I couldn’t think. All I knew then was what I couldn’t do. All I knew then was what I wasn’t, and it took me some years to discover what I was.

Which was a writer.

By which I mean not a “good” writer or a “bad” writer but simply a writer, a person whose most absorbed and passionate hours are spent arranging words on pieces of paper. Had my credentials been in order I would never have become a writer. Had I been blessed with even limited access to my own mind there would have been no reason to write. I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.

What I love about these quotes is that they capture the narcissism and neurosis of being a writer. For all of our altruism — I write to amplify… I want to represent/give voice to… — in the end, we are working through compulsive self-obsession. With our experiences, our questions, our emotions, or the fictional worlds we weave in our imaginations.

And when it’s done well? We spin beauty out of madness.


(1) The moon in astrology (along with the ascendant/first house) signifies the body. When big astro events hit your moon, your physical energy may wax and wane.

(2) We’re grown here. I don’t have to explain who Handrew is, do I?

(3) …and aforementioned Dreamy Movie Podcast Hosts

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a girl named rob

I used to be "skinny black girl." I'm now a slender woman on the other side of 35 with no new moniker who is not quite interested in writing under her given name. Still writing my life, a day (or some months) at a time. Also, still black.

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