"Actual happiness always looks squallid in comparison with the over compensations for misery. And, of course, stability isn't nearly so spectacular as instability. And being contented has none of the glamour of a good fight against misfortune, none of the picturesqueness of a struggle with temptation, or a fatal overthrow by passion or doubt. Happiness is never grand."
-- Mustapha Mond, Brave New World
A hazy kind of sunshine warmed the Madness Media offices, where the operative creates Damage Control for public dissemination. It was late afternoon, Los Angeles' faux winter fading and ripples of cirrus clouds. In short, it was a boring Saturday.
About a year before, the operative sat, watching Hoodlum with the Commissioner and other love lorn Afrakan men, lamenting their woes. A grim smile covered the operative's face as he gazed upon his latest, and hopefully last, paramour -- a dreadlocked pixie with a bad attitude and a heart of gold. A girl named Anger, an alter ego that matched him edge for edge.
A pile of undone things lie on the operative's desk -- responses from the column where he admitted to killing Tupac and wished the same on Fatal by a mixed up Jeter in Atlanta and a near gibbering Ghazanfar Halepota in Tacoma (for the record, disrespect was intended towards 'Pac, the operative loathed Biggie just as much, and a more detailed response will come in time), an overdue assassination of daytime gabfests, a pink slip for wack record promotions with a list of names attached ... all very interesting. But ultimately not diverting the operative from his musings.
"I wouldn't recommend it to everybody," the operative chuckled, reminiscing on the months of strife and chaos his lady love had injected him to before getting with the program. He'd adopted an "eff love" attitude, growling at the concept and resigned to meaningless affairs and ultimately siring and raising his own scion solo. The tenuous, passing each other on a tightrope relationship that developed was not exactly what he had expected, but what's an operative to do? The assignments are handed down from the main office. Ours is not to question why ...
Emails popped up from Soul Review Board members, experiencing turmoils in their love life, and the operative reflected on something Xzibit said in "Recycled Assassins," -- "as I marinated thinkin' bout the 'hood/ I really can't remember anybody doing good for long ..." The operative gazed over packed apartment buildings, seeing that the season of the wolf takes many forms. A year after El Nino, and storms were still flaring up all over the west coast.
But 40 Water wasn't right on this one -- it's not all bad. Take Malcolm and Betty as a template. Mutual compromise may suck horribly, and may be outlandishly difficult, but it can do the job. There's examples all around us, whether we know it or not. Black love isn't a myth, isn't history, isn't impossible, and it's important enough to work for.
The operative picks up a picture of former Rap Pages scribe Marsha Mitchell, now Bray, who's been in love with her also pictured husband since before the Fresh Fest in '85. It was never an easy road for them -- he'd hum "Bitch Betta Have My Money" while she tried to groove to D'Angelo -- but they're so solid Ashford & Simpson call them for tips.
"So how do I keep damage under control this time?" the operative muttered to himself, sipping his apple juice and gazing at his butterscotch angel, a jpeg of her staring back from his Macintosh Color Display. He'd let chaos reign in too many relationships. Like most questions, the answer resounded from within, echoing a line of his own poetry. "It is written in the language of sacrifice," and with that he got up and got out to see a man about a ring.
