collection of writings is an invitation/invocation of those
memories that you have, that frequently get labeled as dreams
or nightmares, that you clearly never created yourself.
This is a bit of the old timey, a visitation of spirits, little
birds, signs, and improbable luck that we have a tendency
to disregard as something that actually belongs to us.
could say that I am the sole author of the things that follow,
but that would be the arrogance of the living. Instead,
I am the one Chosen to Re-member and gifted to Re-lay that
which has been submerged for sometime now in the reservoir
of our collective hurting soul. Just little flashes
of what all else could be down there, I hope that the tales,
recipes and spells trigger rushes of "oh! I heard of
something like that," or "Hmm. That's not what Auntie
so-and-so used to do" and then y'all go on and get the
parts that you know out there for us all to continue the story;
strengthen the verse and scansion.
item that follows was a response to a need of a friend.
One of my gifts is helping people to remember things so that
they can continue to move in an expansive fashion.
Sometimes, I remember that their great grandma forgot to tell
their own mother something. Then I must write. Writing
it down is the working. These I call NewFound Folktales.
Other times I dance. Actually, to be honest,
I dance while I write and frequently smell something bubbling
in some unseen pot. All workings. I fancy myself
a kitchen witch and have been known to cook myself into a
stupor, but it was never really clear that my folk telling
and dancing were also types of cooking for me. See,
I can re-create just about any dish that I eat once, able
to reconstruct the recipe (ok y'all know I'm lyin' now, but
really I'm pretty good with divining ingredients).
Same thing with African dance and Afro hyphenated dances.
Then I realized that some things that I just called "cooking"
were in fact "spelling," and some movements that
I just called dancing were in fact writings that were stories
which are, after all, just long-winded spells so now I am
clear that I'm a Conjurer, plain and simple. In more
organized settings you could call me a priestess, but since
Spirit seems intent, at least for now, on keeping my head
all to itself, the hierarchy of such systems are not pillars
upon which I sit, though I am marked to walk through those
gates, any time now.
you may find me at the foot of a huge tree on the dry side
of a swamp, tree full of Spanish moss at the edge of a pool,
that could be mistaken for a lake, gazing in amazement at
the reflection of my unborn children as they swim on the Under,
waiting for a chance to get to the Upside. I'm in white,
surrounded by many of my ancestors, some I knew as people,
others just decided they needed to introduce themselves so
that I could get the story straight. And we are all
eating, but mostly sitting and listening to the vibration
of good company and years of blood memories.
time to time, one of them leans over and whispers something
in my ear. I, in bad form of course, repeat out loud what
they said and all the others hear, then we all debate the
efficacy of the suggestion. Once I'm clear on the order
of things, proper placement and any urgency required, and
why in the hell I would ever do something like that in the
first place, then I get into motion: get the required items,
"find" the proper incantation, and work it.
Next, I write it down. So here is a plate from that
dinner we been having for the last 20 years or so.