Monday, March 29, 2010

My Sexy Three Way with Tupac & Oscar Wilde...Tales of a Scribe Slut

Hellloooo possums!

Mummy is quite perturbed at this young hour. No don't worry love, I have plenty of drink & sleeping pills. But you're so sweet to assume that is what makes me sad.  You see, mummy is what you call a playwright. She gets commissioned to write plays.  The only caveat? They have to be good plays.

Mummy can write about anything she pleases, so long as it is not complete shit.  She was recently commissioned to author a new work, set in the "olden days" and she cannot seem to get it together.

So she decided to take a break from the agony and dive into the blogesphere to flex her writing muscles.

In the midst of this shit storm Junior Mints and a six pack of Trader Joes lager seems to be helping...not with my writing, but gas most certainly. I've got enough gas to kill every detainee on Guantanamo. Whoops, too soon?

The mind is a funny thing.  When things fall apart, the brain will put forth the most terrifying and delectable thoughts.  Take for instance, my beloved forefather Oscar Wilde.  He was imprisoned for gross indecencies. He lived during the Victorian era, and well those old bastards didn't take too kindly to queers.  So they threw his ass in the clink.  While he was in prison (a hard labor prison...just for being gay) he continued to write.  He didn't write wonderful plays like Salome or The Importance of Being Earnest on lock down, but he did write letters. Here's an excerpt from a one letter (1896) to a friend he wrote:

It is the brain that everything takes place.  We know now that we do not see with the eyes of hear with the ears.  They are really channels for the transmission, adequate or inadequate, of impressions.  It is in the brain that the poppy is red, that the apple is odorous, that the skylark sings- Oscar Wilde

Man if that don't make you love Irish people, I don't know what will. Oscar was a bad mothafucker.  I mean this cat had a flair for wit, an insatiable appetite for scandal and a mad gift for revealing the hypocrisies of society.  He was like the Tupac of his time.  The two were both poets and jailbirds. Tupac like Wilde focused on the eternal questions of right and wrong. And partied his ass off along the way.

I don't dare compare myself to Mr. Wilde nor Tupac Shakur...but I do take solace that both men seem to visit me often in the party room of my brain.  Both men make me feel better about my writers block, and assure me that it will pass.  So mummy is not quite ready to give up yet darlings.

Hopefully decades from now, my writers nook will be on display at some national museum. An in the curio box will contain a desk, a quill a box of Junior Mints and a six pack of Trader Joe lager.

Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside while still alive. Never surrender--Tupac Shakur


Never retreat...never surrender. Get in your war face.
Okay, back to work.

ciao for now fuckers!


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