poem draft : hearing the call

i'm still working on this one...

see how the ocean waves comes in
quietly retells how we come from
and are called back to it

tears remind us of our watery home,
the concoction of salt, mineral, fluid
where our comfort lies


for many, we are the first generation of women
allowed to be completely free
and with access to that freedom

we birth our ancestors, listen to our ancestor voices
moreso, hear our own calling and realize the voice
behind that call is our own

no longer must we mask ourselves for survival
masquerading to fit
…

poem : wedding day

Oya in an aubergine dress
bare shouldered
orange jewels along its seams
flowering belt draping her hips
tied at the back in a taut knot

Oya’s eyes ablaze
something is coming, even on this day, it insists

Oya, always ready for what approaches

poem : dark mother

arms extended
luminous dark
the night sky
stars
markers for those pains
healed into brilliance

humid air surrounding her
radiance of waters
welcoming yemaya


yemaya, mother of fishes,
yemaya, rejoicing in oya

oya
our first and last breath
her arms forming the center of our lives
the hurricane of the world outside
oya
sheltering

poem : the call

the sky was born in anticipation of our people

the sky was born for us
fresh creation


I watch birds now, communicating through movement,
look now, a flock making circles in the courtyard,
landing then skittering off again.

across the evening sky, a smaller flock approaching
joining the larger one

one bird, perched in the high trees, calls out


the sky, flaked in orange and purple
the sky, a beacon for our approach.

poem : a warning

sometimes it’s bears meandering through the streets
walking up sidewalks, onto porches
breaking the front door
searching

sometimes lightening bugs gathering at the second floor windows
peering in, hoping for conversation

occasionally there are ants along reeds, around puddles of water,
following each other into the house, crawling along baseboards

no matter the animal
multiples of them, seemingly out of place,
mean trouble

mea culpa - refusing mimetic expectations of behavior... or, I've been a very bad girl

In my search for obscure texts to stimulate my writing, I came across the philosophy behind generative anthropology.

This ability to make meanings, this mimesis, makes us learn from others in order to remove that source of learning as a threat or to redefine that source. If that's the case, for philosophers working in generative anthropology, Western Culture might be seen as the ultimate example (i.e. "melting pot"), taking ideas from the individuals present, consuming them and regurgitating a new, clean version, sometimes without the persons present.

In some ways, in dealing with an issue with my daughter, I directly think of what my mother did and, adding some of my ideals and the feminist liberal thinking I brainwash into my daughter, inevitably do something near opposite my mother's example.

I love this idea, even if it seems to argue with itself - isn't activism a constant revolution in the mind, where we live in the world of dominance but end up tearing it away? I suppose I could go Audre Lorde here and say we cannot tear down the master's house with his tools, but there is something in Plato's idea that poets don't tell truths, they are guided by madness, inspiration (when we are lucky) - they reorganize mimetic ideas to retell, redefine what is viewed. Well, maybe he just didn't like poets - he did place philosophers as the highest ranking citizens. Hmmm.

I am saying all this, and its in my mind because I've been trying to write about the politics, around food sources, energy sources, individuals, etc - but hate that I always seem to write better when I'm getting laid. How high-minded is that? It's like I can't focus - my mind so busy I need something to just settle me down.

I have been reading the santeria stories of Oya. I'm still working on that play in poem form and came across one where Yemaya (orisha of the ocean, mother) tricked Oya (orisha of the cemetary, warrior, lover) into trading her the ocean for the cemetary. Oya, angry over being tricked, still ended up in charge of the winds, of abrupt change, of fire and earth and renewal.

I like staying in that space. It allows me to trick myself into writing and, if I fail and just get laid instead, it allows me to find the power through that doorway. No guilt here. Guilt implies conflict and, if I am creating, there is no conflict, only joy. Sheer, immense joy at accessing freedom.

oya coming as a hail storm

I've been writing, very slowly, the Oya piece. Somewhere in the middle of starting this I realized the language I carried wasn't going to work for this play so I'm coaxing a new voice, new language out. This as I hear the news that a huge storm with tornadoes and hail is approaching our area.

I have this so far for that play in poem form:

Oya circles Oggún’s fire,
nothing like the scent of smoldered ore
burning oak nothing like the rich tinge of hammer to metal

Y’moya had heard the cry,
brought a flood onto the land
but the people had not heard Mama Watta

and Oya prepares herself
nothing like the shine of a warrior’s outfit

Oya stands in the moonlight
Soon there will be no nights
only days – the bright light of Oya
on this earth.



Scene I
Act I

the clouds uncomfortable in their sky
darkness entering them swiftly
even hydrogen is suspicious of its oxygen counterpart
sediment swaying left and right, fighting the magnetism building in this high place

viral deep affecting the energy of each creature
below as above

purple swaying skirt in the sky
falls softly to the earth
a visit from Oya is never without change

woo hoo! or, Oya visits

Tigrette wrote me a great note saying:

It's just Mamaaaaaa Magic! Yes, It is!

I got a job. An incredible job. Doing good work. Making a difference, getting paid well and working with people who are smart, humble and earthy.

A strong part of me is sad that Cliffy didn't have the courage to wait for me, for this job to come through. But some foundation in me, some root is quivering with the good fortune that was given to me in not being with Cliffy now. Better now than to have waited for something horrible, like a family death or incredible illness, and find myself without support.

I have been writing my play, which circles around Oya, the orisha of wind, the guide for the newly dead, the woman warrior, the woman who survives hardships and is stronger for them.

Today I worked on the warnings she gives. While I didn't find a color code like the government's, I did develop, based on her stories, a list of warnings.

1st warning: Lightening that does not touch the sky. She is reminding us to look at our actions.

2nd warning: Strong wind before a storm, and the storm. She is more tangible, reminding us of the correct way to walk.

3rd warning: Tornado. She is walking the earth. Something on the earth needs her attention.

4th warning: Hurricanes, monsoons, tsunamis, other major water expressions. Watch out.

But in each destructive act, there is regrowth and development, a chance for true change.

Makes me think of Hurricane Katrina and how quickly people of color journalists and bloggers and community members were, despite the tragedy, hopeful that real change could be made - that life could be turned completely for the better. That, I see, takes hope too. Well, that and belief in the commitment and work needed to manifest hope.

poof

I needed a break from the not-writing so I went to the nearby grocery store last night and bought a San Alejo candle (helps when everything seems doomed, nothing else has tried), and a Our Lady of Perpetual Help (for obvious reasons). I also couldn't pass up more coffee, milk, mexican cokes and an aerosol can of Indian Spirit Money House Blessing (with a banner on it that says "100% Genuine!), available in aerosal cans.

If I lived in Miami, besides being browner and happier, I would have gone to Little Haiti and bought a can of Oya's spray. She's powerful. Here, in Central Texas, you say "Oya" and most don't know what you are talking about. Further south, they'll think you are asking for a big pot to make beans in.

I just started thinking of bijol, my favorite food coloring agent. I must be getting hungry. I've been forgetful the last few days. Coffee really is a hunger suppressant - yesterday I didn't eat until 4 in the afternoon.

I feel better today than yesterday as far as my writing. Still having trouble sleeping so I was up until 4 a.m. and woke at 7. Today's the do or die day to finish the actual poems for the manuscript and finalize their order tonight and tomorrow. So what am I doing writing a blog entry?

Maybe because I was cleaning my desk area and found, again, Cliffy's birthday card to me, where she wrote "te quiero chingos".