Cobb

I was a subscriber to The Threepenny Review and The Nation. I could dance, as in sometimes a woman would walk up to me and tell me how much she likes the way I dance. (Depending on the amount of spirits, I would dance by myself in the proper club). I was making upscale money, I had a two bedroom flat. In fact I always, during my single life had two bedroom flats. One for my office activities, one for my bedroom activities. I wasn't a great cook, but I was great conversation at great restaurants. OK good restaurants and dive bars.

But still I was in Hell.

I never wanted it to be but the central narrative in my life is the women. There is no Cretaceous, there is no Jurassic era. There were the days of Lisa, the days of Liana, the days of Ditra. Hell was the days in between.

The problem with being unleashed as a black man is simple. Nobody knows what to do with you. You are a puzzle. Black women are like airport inspectors, eyeing you warily, trying to figure out where all your baggage is and what dangerous objects lie within. But I was traveling light. Do I live with my mother? No, I have a nice two bedroom apartment in a coop on Prospect Place. Wanna come up? I got that new Arrested Development CD. What? Why are you looking at me like that? Black men are like disbelieving co-conspirators. Don't you hate working for the Man? No, I have a great job. I built the computer model that showed Philip Morris that they would have to discount the price of Marlboro. What? Why are you looking at me like that?

Boomerang. Boomerang was the movie.

Yes, I'm 30. No I don't have any kids. No I haven't been married. No I'm not gay, I'm from Los Angeles where people have style. (You moron)

Single life is the agony of being all that you can be, in front of everybody all the time. It is the self as advertising and perpetually defensive seduction. It is having an answer for everything you can think of. It's filtering and scrubbing and microscopic analysis of nuance. It is the subtle sending of clues and picking up the radar signatures of sexuality. It is the negotiation of superiority of relative desire. It is the reservation of heartspace real-estate for the ultimate buyer. But it is finally weary submission. It is the biding of time and the measurement of pain. It is self-fulfilling agony. It is being bombarded by unexpected happiness and being blindsided by treachery. It is acheivment of peace, a ceasefire in the battle of the sexes, giving in and saying what the hell, let it go, let it happen. Now look what you've gotten yourself into. That's why women are always talking to their girls and men are always talking to their boys. OK I let go, did I make a mistake? What do you think?

If you can't be with the one you love, then love the one you're with.

Love itself is impossible in such a situation. It is a biological deception. Nobody can honestly say that they are looking for love, they are looking for romance. I didn't realize it until my twitchy energy left my body leaving me with coldly rational eyes. It wasn't until all the reasons why had been debunked that I understood the meaning of the dance. It wasn't until I was feeding my loud, unruly, completely embarrassing babies that I figured it out. Love is entirely a gift.

Perhaps it's something that men don't understand for a long time; even the sensitive man is gaming. We are all gaming, we men. We know that women are impossible to understand because they don't understand themselves. But there is only one way to do it, which is to decide ahead of time that you are only there to give love, to open up your heart completely without hedging. Men don't believe their love can change things. We believe without question that we've got the magic stick, that is if we do. We give to get and we are ever mindful of the rules we are supposed to follow. We are trying to be good men so that we can get what we deserve, according to the rules. But we are not prepared to let love change the rules. We are not prepared to let our hearts lead us by giving love unconditionally and letting love change who we are. Are you kidding? For what?

This is a class thing, of course. You should not date outside of your class, because you'll end up kicking yourself on Sunday night. But that's another story.

A woman cannot walk up to a man in all honesty and say, "Look sweetie, of all the men in here you are the one that gets my juices flowing. You are my type and I'm ready to start working to figure out how I can have you, because as of this moment you have my heart. Maybe I can start by buying you a drink." If she were to do that, she'd be initiating the masculine plot. As men, we see, we know, we begin work.

Instead of saying I want to love you, we have to show them everything we are. Men and women both. The honesty of the desire to give love away is completely corrupted by the desire to be recognized and accepted. But the two have nothing in common, and that is the mistake of single romance. Everybody is trying to prove something. Everyone is trying to be somebody. The act of giving away love in insufficient for our egos. That is why when love fails, we feel unknown and rejected.

For the robust heart, love is an easy come easy go proposition. But our investment in our identities gets in the way. That's why black love is so damned complicated. We're trying to be who we be and hope to god that somebody will see. We are invested deeply in some seriously head tripping games. You're stuck with the urges you got in junior high school and worked so many years to try and achieve.

Who are you that I should love you? Don't you see who I am? Love me, dammit.

Forget it.

It's Sunday night. I know who I am. I keep letting my guard down so that somebody can understand. But I'm sick of it. I've got to be who I want to be, and that keeps me lonely and I hate it. It's Sunday night and I didn't find what I was looking for. Oh yeah I had all my activities and all my plans, but she's not where I am. This is Hell.

That's how it used to be for me, and I still think about it.