Archive for November, 2010|Monthly archive page

earth blood

In Uncategorized on November 17, 2010 at 1:21 pm

I am spending greater attention to my mother these days. How her breathe feels like when it is flying all over my skin , touching me all over and feeling so good. The smell of her tears, I prepare to go inside my house and go inside myself and be at one with she. Or I am outside and I just let her soak me in the wetness and remind me that this is needed for a healing. Everything becomes still and sacred in her tears.  Yesterday after speeding around the world being me, being her daughter I sat on my stoop and allowed myself to look under her dress and see the perfection of an unwet sea and feel the warmth of divine light emanating from her. I was still and connected and wanted to be picked up by her and rocked just a little. Sometimes I feel like I do not listen to her enough, like I can be so distant and rude. So caught up in my own worlds of what is important, when she is who has loved me so deeply, so accurately.

A couple of weeks ago there was an oil spill off the coast of New Orleans and Texas. They were digging deep under the ocean and pumping oil when, what they had control over, or thought they had control over became out of control and all of this oil, gallons and gallons are pumping into the sea. And man is learning that he is only man and cannot control contort and pimp Mother. All of these methods so that the world can be run on and in her, not WITH her or of her wisdom, her knowledge her love.  I am frustrated that my life is wrapped up in this rape, this stealing of my mother’s blood runs the life I lead.  If you see how her dark deep blood is know involved with the sea and how all of the fish are swimming into its dark stickiness and dying, how the birds while searching for fish wings get saturated and they look like little children abused and betrayed, paralyzed by the dark sticky of a theft from nature.  I wanna see it though. See IT though. How does the ocean and sea look like when integrated with her blood? They say the air is smelling different. They are countless people whose lives have been destroyed by this. All of these fishermen and women are devastated. Seeing a part of them that was here before them and is now being destroyed in a moment, in a pop, in a break underneath the sea, underneath their world.


Thoughts on the King and I

In Uncategorized on November 17, 2010 at 1:12 pm

He was a black man. Struggling for understanding and peace and hope. You see those young brothers on the block the ones that wear their pants in the way you disapprove of, whose eyes you want to look into a little bit longer, whose smiles you want to pour directly onto your skin? The ones that feel like a dream personified and electric, flying and sacred. The ones who are the center of wrapped arms, the receiver of copious kisses and the holders of pain and sadness that no one could release? That Black man that belongs to us? Yes that is Michael. I imagine that he was like any other black man. And he was ours.

Who cares if you are rich and famous? You are still where you are from and who you are never changes. Not that it was blackness that was intended to be over-rided, but maybe so, maybe the heavy. We had to witness our condition as a people through him. Despite his talent, recognition and wealth he was a man who suffered with demons that are endemic of being black and being oppressed. He was a symbol of us in a very true way, and ultimately in ways that were becoming harder to watch and accept.

Here you have a beautiful Black man who is more famous then the Pope, enacting fantasies of whiteness and femininity that were mine as a child.  In our faces mind you, in public. He could not evade it (Damn, even he could not evade it.)  He had the money and the access to do something about the desire inside to not be who he was. While a majority of those who were discontented with our darkness had to stop at blonde-colored weaves and blue-eyed contacts, he could erase all traces of himself right before our eyes. The barter was that we would accept him if he did it on our behalf, did it so we wouldn’t have to. In some ways we got to see the folly in our self-hating beliefs because he enacted it to the extreme. We accepted him too, because through his physical transformations he still offered us his divine self generously through his music and dance. He made his freshness so irresistible to refuse that even when he started to look more like a stranger we accepted it and he fulfilled the fantasy of our own self-hatred.

It is interesting to me how on the media when his life is reviewed it is told with the same amount of distance that all journalistic endeavors are, when he was in fact a member of our family if not the very personification of the collective black psyche. In the retelling of it, you would think his joys and demons were for him alone to claim and not for us to take responsibility for on any level. What did we take from him that he realized could not and would not be returned to him?

I am sure that there was a time of pleasure and joy on his part, but in little spaces, probably somewhere deep inside.  I have been looking at footage of his performances and I am amazed at his ability to be a conduit in a way that seemed transcendent of human capacity. There is a dance clip where he is spinning to the point where he looks like he is creating a cocoon of light around him.  Although this apart of a routine for the entertainment of others, I see a secret there, somewhere. The creation of a world, within that is hidden.