speaking of desire, pandora just reminded me that my first brush with visually-induced lust came with janet jackson's "any time, any place" video.
something about the colors, flashes of flesh...
the unseen, the implications...
that way she tossed her head back when he put his hands there, or there...
the audacity in declaring i don't care who's around... and, somehow, relating to that feeling.
i prayed (as only a 15 year old girl can) that i'd get that neighbor in the joyous days when i was finally grown and living on my own...
haven't met him yet, though.
Showing posts with label prose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label prose. Show all posts
6.24.2011
9.14.2010
4.30.2010
the end (napowrimo #30)
i'm gonna cheat again...this won't be a poem, but a little self-back pat for actually getting through this...
at first i thought it would just be fun, but it wound up being more than that. it was a catharsis. i got back in creative touch with some other writers i'd missed. i got a good bit of flow back.
never thought just trying to write a poem a day could do all that.
see y'all in 2011.
at first i thought it would just be fun, but it wound up being more than that. it was a catharsis. i got back in creative touch with some other writers i'd missed. i got a good bit of flow back.
never thought just trying to write a poem a day could do all that.
see y'all in 2011.
2.20.2010
the island {part 3}
{part 1}
{part 2}
A breeze danced across the garden, bending the tall grasses and tickling the hibiscus bushes. The shores of a teal sea sparkled on the horizon.
The Lady fell into one of her hammocks near the garden wall. The wall itself was covered in honeysuckle vines, the hammock strung between two palm trees. She sunk into the thick, silk sling, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. Golden eyeshadow flecked with emerald green glitter danced off her mahogany eyelids. The breath sent one side of her kimono sliding over her collarbone, exposing a bit of her shoulder to the sun.
Concentrate on the vision, she chided herself. There'll be time later to play with the sun. She allowed herself a smile to thank the sunbeam for its warmth, breathed again. Focused.
{part 2}
A breeze danced across the garden, bending the tall grasses and tickling the hibiscus bushes. The shores of a teal sea sparkled on the horizon.
The Lady fell into one of her hammocks near the garden wall. The wall itself was covered in honeysuckle vines, the hammock strung between two palm trees. She sunk into the thick, silk sling, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. Golden eyeshadow flecked with emerald green glitter danced off her mahogany eyelids. The breath sent one side of her kimono sliding over her collarbone, exposing a bit of her shoulder to the sun.
Concentrate on the vision, she chided herself. There'll be time later to play with the sun. She allowed herself a smile to thank the sunbeam for its warmth, breathed again. Focused.
1.20.2010
brimming abundance
"long as you have your voice...you'll never need arms to hold you..."
~esthero
i feel...full, self contained.
a world unto myself.
content as a well-fed child.
my entire emotional self seems to have shifted into some new phase of evolution.
although my loving, empathic spirit deeply fears loneliness in the long run, i have settled into the extraordinary power of this epiphany.
i can always share myself with the right person, but i will choose and determine the necessity of that sharing.
this is mine to know, to hold.
i am awake.
i have my voice.
~esthero
i feel...full, self contained.
a world unto myself.
content as a well-fed child.
my entire emotional self seems to have shifted into some new phase of evolution.
although my loving, empathic spirit deeply fears loneliness in the long run, i have settled into the extraordinary power of this epiphany.
i can always share myself with the right person, but i will choose and determine the necessity of that sharing.
this is mine to know, to hold.
i am awake.
i have my voice.
1.02.2010
the island {part 2}
{part 1}
On a whim, Amil took Martine to see the ocean.
She had acquired a steady glow--nothing like the frightened, self conscious woman who'd appeared in the cottage a few mornings ago--and found comfort and beauty in the delicate fabrics and bright colors she'd been given to wear. All the fresh fruit and water had cleared her skin, and the massage oils Amil used smelled like flowers and herbs.
On a whim, Amil took Martine to see the ocean.
She had acquired a steady glow--nothing like the frightened, self conscious woman who'd appeared in the cottage a few mornings ago--and found comfort and beauty in the delicate fabrics and bright colors she'd been given to wear. All the fresh fruit and water had cleared her skin, and the massage oils Amil used smelled like flowers and herbs.
12.20.2009
the island {part 1}
{a piece of a work in progress}
The kitchen wasn't clean enough. True, Martine had forgotten to dust the shelves, but she never thought Joseph would notice—when had he ever needed to go up there for anything?
He'd left after dinner, probably to play dominoes with friends. Shaking, she forced herself to stand up and begin the routine of slowly running her hands over her face, assessing the damage.
She started with her forehead—sore, but dry. Her fingers traced her right eye. Ok, but she winced as she touched her left. Another black eye. And her bottom lip was starting to swell. She ran a fingertip across it and ran into a nasty clot forming on the right side. Looking back at the corner she'd fallen into, she noticed red splotches on the tile. Must have been his ring.
She thought about crying, went numb instead. What would be the point? Still, she'd need to wash her face before dealing with the mess Joe had made...
The kitchen wasn't clean enough. True, Martine had forgotten to dust the shelves, but she never thought Joseph would notice—when had he ever needed to go up there for anything?
He'd left after dinner, probably to play dominoes with friends. Shaking, she forced herself to stand up and begin the routine of slowly running her hands over her face, assessing the damage.
She started with her forehead—sore, but dry. Her fingers traced her right eye. Ok, but she winced as she touched her left. Another black eye. And her bottom lip was starting to swell. She ran a fingertip across it and ran into a nasty clot forming on the right side. Looking back at the corner she'd fallen into, she noticed red splotches on the tile. Must have been his ring.
She thought about crying, went numb instead. What would be the point? Still, she'd need to wash her face before dealing with the mess Joe had made...
11.28.2009
sacrifice {part 2}
the visions of the temples returned.
so many men, so many lifetimes.
again and again i was desired...sought after. sometimes loved.
the men were both redeemed and redeemers. no judgment of me, no pretense. only respect, pleasure.
i was so intertwined with them that solitude became sensual; an opportunity to rest firmly within my own body without calling on the Goddess to heal or consult. my personal space was more defined, more precious.
the adornments kept me in constant awareness of my movement. every step mattered, every gesture.
i walked in power.
i was a sacrifice, yes. but never a martyr. there was nothing pitiful or sad about my service.
this knowledge, these visions, are empowering and frustrating all at once. sexuality has been defiled and the spirit of woman stifled. now, offering my body as community property would be disastrous.
still, i am not "alone". my lovers live within me, and they are innumerable.
they hold me in the empty spaces...still praising, still grateful.
so many men, so many lifetimes.
again and again i was desired...sought after. sometimes loved.
the men were both redeemed and redeemers. no judgment of me, no pretense. only respect, pleasure.
i was so intertwined with them that solitude became sensual; an opportunity to rest firmly within my own body without calling on the Goddess to heal or consult. my personal space was more defined, more precious.
the adornments kept me in constant awareness of my movement. every step mattered, every gesture.
i walked in power.
i was a sacrifice, yes. but never a martyr. there was nothing pitiful or sad about my service.
this knowledge, these visions, are empowering and frustrating all at once. sexuality has been defiled and the spirit of woman stifled. now, offering my body as community property would be disastrous.
still, i am not "alone". my lovers live within me, and they are innumerable.
they hold me in the empty spaces...still praising, still grateful.
9.25.2009
the longing
what follows is a freewrite/stream of consciousness.
i shared it with some close friends a little over a year ago and just re-discovered it. i am releasing it now, slightly edited, because it is still true; because these holes are still deep, aching and open.
because the release is the only thing that has ever truly soothed my soul. because there are many days when honesty and transparency are all i have.
because my soul is not satisfied.
i shared it with some close friends a little over a year ago and just re-discovered it. i am releasing it now, slightly edited, because it is still true; because these holes are still deep, aching and open.
because the release is the only thing that has ever truly soothed my soul. because there are many days when honesty and transparency are all i have.
because my soul is not satisfied.
9.06.2009
another introduction...
i am a woman who has always defined herself by the words she's put to innumerable pages.
pens are my scalpels and they spill ink blot guts everywhere. they soak the pages i hide throughout every living space i've ever inhabited--not unlike a schizophrenic leprechaun with an unlimited supply of gold.
i will write until i can no longer breathe.
the idea for this space was conceptualized in the middle of a late night, by a self in the process of nourishing, growing, and blossoming herself into the heavenly creature she was born to be.
that ain't easy to do in this here babylon.
but i'm gonna try anyway.
pens are my scalpels and they spill ink blot guts everywhere. they soak the pages i hide throughout every living space i've ever inhabited--not unlike a schizophrenic leprechaun with an unlimited supply of gold.
i will write until i can no longer breathe.
the idea for this space was conceptualized in the middle of a late night, by a self in the process of nourishing, growing, and blossoming herself into the heavenly creature she was born to be.
that ain't easy to do in this here babylon.
but i'm gonna try anyway.
4.16.2009
the garden
{part 1}
My magic is simple, potent. It's not about nonsensical words and rabbits in hats. It's everyday. I wouldn't know how to live without seeing the way I do. In the blood, I guess.
My breakfast conversations as a child revolved around the night's dreams. We worked through them diligently, like homework. I had to know both, be grounded in two worlds: know the herbs in the garden and spelling; long division and the four directions; geometry and the phases of the moon.
Somehow, my folks were blessedly cursed with remembrance. They killed many of us for what we knew. Many of us forgot in order to survive. It was easier to be ourselves quietly, whispering incantations in babies' ears and reciting singsong chants in the kitchen.
My grandmother silently built her garden. Granny flew to Guinea in dreams and came back with special treats. The colors, “accent” pieces—everything had a meaning. There were veves made of pebbles and specially chosen flowers and herbs—every few steps offered a different scent.
It was years before I recognized the altars in my grandmother’s garden and even longer before I knew they were accurately constructed (for example, the Virgin in the grotto wasn't the Virgin at all, and there was a reason Granny meticulously shaded her face and hands in cafe au lait craft paint). The spirits spoke to her, and she listened. Often she'd wait for a message to repeat as confirmation.
She'd let me work in the sections devoted to my guides. There were some places we could not enter at all. Even my mother knew better. She didn't have to tell visitors, either; they just knew. Strangers would gravitate to particular spots and ignore others.
The church women were intrigued and repelled at the same time. Some became significantly less sanctified after spending an hour or two in Granny’s garden. The change was quiet, nothing dramatic. It just seemed that, over several weeks, they felt less and less of the Spirit in the sanctuary and started building their own gardens. Some spent more hours in the kitchen, giving away wondrous dinners, cakes or pies. Sometimes it was knitting or sewing. Some came back to the garden—same spot—for more inspiration. Others only needed one afternoon. Some found magical men and went away. Others dreamed of Nigeria. Or Benin. More went south—Louisiana, Miami. They'd heard there was more of that garden there.
The church women talked about 'em, then cajoled, then pleaded the Blood. Some went back to church, albeit a little less devoted. Most, if they'd truly been touched by the flowers, never did.
Granny was on the “sick and shut in” list at the church, even though she was neither. The women showed up a few times a month, always in pairs, like good missionaries. They would ask Granny about donating to the church or try to cajole her into attending Sunday’s service. She'd listen politely, chat, sometimes offering fresh herbs or teas she’d made. She'd grown up with most of them and genuinely liked a few.
Every now and then, one of the pair—typically someone she merely tolerated—would want to “take tea in the garden”. That’s when I waited to see which one would be the “inbetweener”—too sanctified to admit she was drawn to the garden, but too nosy to stay away. The inbetweener’s companion would invariably exhibit one extreme or another: excitement, or horror.
When the question came, Granny knew when to say no, when to hint about her space “changing” folks, and when to joyfully lead the way. If she gave the hint, that's when the inbetweener would persist and—except in the most extreme situations—the three women would go outside.
Immediately, one or both women would remark on the beauty of it all, simultaneously noticing the lack of a crucifix, Jesus statue, or “Footprints” plaque.
The inbetweener mused, “You know, they have some lovely Psalms etched in stones. Don't you think a cross would work over by those mums? Lord, You should rest among Your creation. Hm.” All the while, she peered over her glasses, searching for some proof of hoodoo—bloodstains, dolls or something. She'd have seen it all around if she'd known anything about real magic instead of accepting the nonsense she'd been fed.
Meanwhile, an excited companion wandered off, unbeknownst to the inbetweener. Granny noticed and kept the inbetweener busy, imploring the garden to lead the companion where she needed to go. Inevitably, the more respectful visitor returned with some question about a plant or an object she'd seen (sometimes actual, other times a vision). Granny smiled, offering an explanation and making a mental note to give her a cutting, poultice, tea, or phone call.
If the companion was horrified, she’d stick close to the inbetweener, totally thrown off by the magic, but seeing and feeling more than she was willing to say. The inbetweener continued to suggest more inane improvements for the glory of the Lord while her poor partner already sensed some ungodly purpose in motion. Granny told me later that these were the people who remembered but tried so desperately to forget that they clung to the Bible, hoping their visions and dreams would disappear. Many went crazy trying to shut their gifts out.
Sometimes the scared ones returned, alone, unable to deter the dreams. Others refused to ever come back, Christian duty be damned.
The inbetweeners traded gossip, told lies about what they'd seen, and declared the place unholy, but they also kept coming back, grinning wider each time and unwittingly pushing more women away from the Lamb and into the arms of the Goddess.
I'm sure Papa Legba was working them, laughing the whole time—content with letting them believe they were drenched in the blood of Jesus instead of a chicken's.
My magic is simple, potent. It's not about nonsensical words and rabbits in hats. It's everyday. I wouldn't know how to live without seeing the way I do. In the blood, I guess.
My breakfast conversations as a child revolved around the night's dreams. We worked through them diligently, like homework. I had to know both, be grounded in two worlds: know the herbs in the garden and spelling; long division and the four directions; geometry and the phases of the moon.
Somehow, my folks were blessedly cursed with remembrance. They killed many of us for what we knew. Many of us forgot in order to survive. It was easier to be ourselves quietly, whispering incantations in babies' ears and reciting singsong chants in the kitchen.
My grandmother silently built her garden. Granny flew to Guinea in dreams and came back with special treats. The colors, “accent” pieces—everything had a meaning. There were veves made of pebbles and specially chosen flowers and herbs—every few steps offered a different scent.
It was years before I recognized the altars in my grandmother’s garden and even longer before I knew they were accurately constructed (for example, the Virgin in the grotto wasn't the Virgin at all, and there was a reason Granny meticulously shaded her face and hands in cafe au lait craft paint). The spirits spoke to her, and she listened. Often she'd wait for a message to repeat as confirmation.
She'd let me work in the sections devoted to my guides. There were some places we could not enter at all. Even my mother knew better. She didn't have to tell visitors, either; they just knew. Strangers would gravitate to particular spots and ignore others.
The church women were intrigued and repelled at the same time. Some became significantly less sanctified after spending an hour or two in Granny’s garden. The change was quiet, nothing dramatic. It just seemed that, over several weeks, they felt less and less of the Spirit in the sanctuary and started building their own gardens. Some spent more hours in the kitchen, giving away wondrous dinners, cakes or pies. Sometimes it was knitting or sewing. Some came back to the garden—same spot—for more inspiration. Others only needed one afternoon. Some found magical men and went away. Others dreamed of Nigeria. Or Benin. More went south—Louisiana, Miami. They'd heard there was more of that garden there.
The church women talked about 'em, then cajoled, then pleaded the Blood. Some went back to church, albeit a little less devoted. Most, if they'd truly been touched by the flowers, never did.
Granny was on the “sick and shut in” list at the church, even though she was neither. The women showed up a few times a month, always in pairs, like good missionaries. They would ask Granny about donating to the church or try to cajole her into attending Sunday’s service. She'd listen politely, chat, sometimes offering fresh herbs or teas she’d made. She'd grown up with most of them and genuinely liked a few.
Every now and then, one of the pair—typically someone she merely tolerated—would want to “take tea in the garden”. That’s when I waited to see which one would be the “inbetweener”—too sanctified to admit she was drawn to the garden, but too nosy to stay away. The inbetweener’s companion would invariably exhibit one extreme or another: excitement, or horror.
When the question came, Granny knew when to say no, when to hint about her space “changing” folks, and when to joyfully lead the way. If she gave the hint, that's when the inbetweener would persist and—except in the most extreme situations—the three women would go outside.
Immediately, one or both women would remark on the beauty of it all, simultaneously noticing the lack of a crucifix, Jesus statue, or “Footprints” plaque.
The inbetweener mused, “You know, they have some lovely Psalms etched in stones. Don't you think a cross would work over by those mums? Lord, You should rest among Your creation. Hm.” All the while, she peered over her glasses, searching for some proof of hoodoo—bloodstains, dolls or something. She'd have seen it all around if she'd known anything about real magic instead of accepting the nonsense she'd been fed.
Meanwhile, an excited companion wandered off, unbeknownst to the inbetweener. Granny noticed and kept the inbetweener busy, imploring the garden to lead the companion where she needed to go. Inevitably, the more respectful visitor returned with some question about a plant or an object she'd seen (sometimes actual, other times a vision). Granny smiled, offering an explanation and making a mental note to give her a cutting, poultice, tea, or phone call.
If the companion was horrified, she’d stick close to the inbetweener, totally thrown off by the magic, but seeing and feeling more than she was willing to say. The inbetweener continued to suggest more inane improvements for the glory of the Lord while her poor partner already sensed some ungodly purpose in motion. Granny told me later that these were the people who remembered but tried so desperately to forget that they clung to the Bible, hoping their visions and dreams would disappear. Many went crazy trying to shut their gifts out.
Sometimes the scared ones returned, alone, unable to deter the dreams. Others refused to ever come back, Christian duty be damned.
The inbetweeners traded gossip, told lies about what they'd seen, and declared the place unholy, but they also kept coming back, grinning wider each time and unwittingly pushing more women away from the Lamb and into the arms of the Goddess.
I'm sure Papa Legba was working them, laughing the whole time—content with letting them believe they were drenched in the blood of Jesus instead of a chicken's.
11.25.2008
a moment out of time
i removed myself from the larger dance circle, taking a place beside my godsister and opting to do a simple two-step instead. omo sango, i simply cannot hear drums and sit still, but figured i'd be safe if i wasn't too close...
before i knew it, i felt surrounded; ancestral energy enveloped me, awakened by the rhythms, candlelight, shrines and offerings.
i thought i would cry, but instead my hands instinctively raised themselves in namaskaram and i shifted a bit...still two-stepping, but feeling myself drift away slightly. gradually, my body swayed side to side as my feet slowed.
the beginning of the end of me.
i didn't know how long the song would last, so i didn't want to surrender completely, but the pull was too strong to resist. infectious joy.
i allowed another to control my feet, shoulders, arms. i knew i was doing some dance i'd normally have to consciously learn--maybe even with some difficulty.
one of the many foremothers whose names i'll never know was teaching me to dance. was dancing through me. wanted to know how i had found home all the way across the water. grateful that her daughter was as moved by the beat as she once was.
the drums pulsated in my ears...i thought i had drifted towards them, or the master drummer had risen and danced across the room. i forced my eyes open for a moment and realized i had only moved about a foot to the left; the drums remained in a corner to my far right, just beyond the altar.
drums have come to greet me before...calling, calling calling...begging me to come and dance. come and move. come and be.
instead of fighting it off, i let the sounds wash over and through me, partially controlling the dance, partially letting it control me.
the drums faded, and she went with them.
i thanked her; she promised to come again. any time i wanted to dance.
just like the one who grasped the drum and beat out rhythms i couldn't know...
just like the one who wielded a machete to cut sugarcane and lent me her strength...
just like the ones who descended to let me know i was on the right path...
they love us
watch over us
are us.
adupe o
ase.
before i knew it, i felt surrounded; ancestral energy enveloped me, awakened by the rhythms, candlelight, shrines and offerings.
i thought i would cry, but instead my hands instinctively raised themselves in namaskaram and i shifted a bit...still two-stepping, but feeling myself drift away slightly. gradually, my body swayed side to side as my feet slowed.
the beginning of the end of me.
i didn't know how long the song would last, so i didn't want to surrender completely, but the pull was too strong to resist. infectious joy.
i allowed another to control my feet, shoulders, arms. i knew i was doing some dance i'd normally have to consciously learn--maybe even with some difficulty.
one of the many foremothers whose names i'll never know was teaching me to dance. was dancing through me. wanted to know how i had found home all the way across the water. grateful that her daughter was as moved by the beat as she once was.
the drums pulsated in my ears...i thought i had drifted towards them, or the master drummer had risen and danced across the room. i forced my eyes open for a moment and realized i had only moved about a foot to the left; the drums remained in a corner to my far right, just beyond the altar.
drums have come to greet me before...calling, calling calling...begging me to come and dance. come and move. come and be.
instead of fighting it off, i let the sounds wash over and through me, partially controlling the dance, partially letting it control me.
the drums faded, and she went with them.
i thanked her; she promised to come again. any time i wanted to dance.
just like the one who grasped the drum and beat out rhythms i couldn't know...
just like the one who wielded a machete to cut sugarcane and lent me her strength...
just like the ones who descended to let me know i was on the right path...
they love us
watch over us
are us.
adupe o
ase.
2.17.2008
the tale of the magdalene
i identify with her on so many levels...
Thalia Took, "The Tale of the Magdalene"
When I was young, and beautiful—how many tales begin this way? My youth fled long, long ago, and my body is now frail, but my mind is sharp, and this I will never forget—the true tale of my friend, my Teacher, my dearest beloved.
I was born the daughter of a beseiged people into an unjust world. The alien Empire that crowds this my homeland executes its Laws with cruel force and sets soldiers on every street corner who are always eager to demonstrate their power. My people are freely abused while allowed no recourse, until we are become like rabbits, starting at the slightest noise. We are powerless in our own land, and I rage at our God, whom I can no longer even imagine, for in my mind he has abandoned us, or has never existed.
I was young and beautiful when I first saw him. And he saw me, truly saw me—saw my spirit struggling beneath my rage as under a ruined building. He looked at me with such compassion, such knowing gentleness in his eyes, that suddenly I saw it clearly as well: my bitter hatred for God and this world, my useless rage and frustration that I had turned in on myself, my sevenfold anger that I had buried so far below I did not even know it possessed me. I saw the hurts done to my own bright soul for the first time, and in compassion for that soul I cried, as a child weeps at the war-ruined world—for there is no reason it must be so, only the folly of adults. So I wept for that child of me, and he comforted me as a mother, enfolding me in his humanity and warmth.
Through desert and mountain, down dry rivers to the poisoned inland Sea, I went with him. It was a hard way of rock and thorn, and I truly say I did not care, for I was with my beloved. He walked his life as he taught, and in his gentleness and passivity I saw a curious strength. He spoke of the peace and wisdom of the inviolate spirit, and the power of powerlessness—for he would not fight the conquerors, and by doing, so conquered them. For even an Emperor can have no power over another's soul; it is like trying to fetter sunlight.
I knew then, before the others saw it, that my beloved was on a divine mission, and also that brightness such as his cannot last. He knew it too, and said so, but in our love and fear for him we did not want to hear, and closed our minds to it.
Soon the soldiers came for him. As an added injustice, our own leaders had found his gentle words far more of a threat than the might of the Empire. They came for him during Passover, and God did not spare him.
They paraded him through the streets, humiliating and mocking him in public, to make a lesson of him to our people, one more demonstration of their power over us. They piled pain and indignity upon him until another would have recanted, and indeed he did weep. But not for himself; he wept for their ignorance and their poor trapped spirits, shackled within them.
Then, the hardest thing I have ever lived through.
Before our eyes the soldiers cruelly murdered him, and he died slowly and in great pain. I wept and wept to see my beloved in such agony, powerless to help and unable to avert my eyes.
When it was over, they allowed us to take his body to be buried. His mother and I wept together as we worked our women's work, anointing his body and wrapping it in linen, laying him in a borrowed tomb in a garden. Why is it that such sorrow and betrayal should again take place in a garden? Then they shut up the tomb with a stone, and I had to at last say farewell to my beloved.
For some time after I mourned before that door, unable to go on with my Love taken from the world. And on the third day a terrible sight: the tomb was open and his body gone, taken I know not why. In anger and hopelessness at this new outrage I cried and ranted, bent over in the garden, my hair in the dust. Then a gentle voice, as the voice of God, or a child: Lady, what is wrong? Why do you weep? Then he said my name, and I knew him.
I did not stop to reason: I leapt into his embrace. He felt real enough, warm and solid, though with my inner eye I think I knew he was gone to the spirit, and was indeed dead. For a brief time then he walked among us, and told of what he had seen, of the bright kingdom that would welcome us after death. But before long he was gone again, and my heart finally broke.
So I wait until that day, not far off now, when I will be with him again. He is like a star in the sky, and I am a rooted herb, clinging tightly to the dry, unnourishing dust of this life. But I know now that my God does exist, and that he and my Beloved are the same.
6.21.2007
litany of an unreformed magdalene
it may sound silly to say that being violated made me who i am, but it's true.
all i wanted was a big brother. i'd tried to please without reservation, against my conscience, against my better judgement...sacrificing myself on a golden flame of my own making.
but all i got was a broken heart.
when i was ready to fully express my sexuality, there were no virginal hang ups (i lost the title before i could even understand what having "the prize" would mean), no religious dogma to combat.
i was just a girl who got a little too much information a little too early about sex and its emotions, misplaced, unwanted, and unrequited feelings, and the thoughts of men--well, boys.
i was never damaged goods, tainted, or some kind of tart.
i just wanted to be left alone behind my long, layered, loose-fitting clothes to ponder the weight of the love i'd lost.
point is, this sexy ain't free.
i did not become a practically minded, chilled out, emotionally secure woman overnight--although it has always seemed natural that my heartstrings existed completely independent of my pussy.
i had to claw my way up the side of a mountain, learning to love again at each step.
oshun has walked much of the way with me, illuminating the life lived with sensuality as a living, breathing tool.
i read about the ancient ways of sacred whores, and they made sense to me. my dreams suggested that i'd been a courtesan some centuries ago, maybe almost as many times as i'd been a priestess.
it was all natural, and right, and within me to be.
so despite the almost-cut arms, the nights i stared down the gun, and all the bitter tears--i can't say who i'd be today if i hadn't lost what i lost, worked through the pain and healed the wounds.
hell was my cocoon, but the fire tempered a beautiful butterfly.
all i wanted was a big brother. i'd tried to please without reservation, against my conscience, against my better judgement...sacrificing myself on a golden flame of my own making.
but all i got was a broken heart.
when i was ready to fully express my sexuality, there were no virginal hang ups (i lost the title before i could even understand what having "the prize" would mean), no religious dogma to combat.
i was just a girl who got a little too much information a little too early about sex and its emotions, misplaced, unwanted, and unrequited feelings, and the thoughts of men--well, boys.
i was never damaged goods, tainted, or some kind of tart.
i just wanted to be left alone behind my long, layered, loose-fitting clothes to ponder the weight of the love i'd lost.
point is, this sexy ain't free.
i did not become a practically minded, chilled out, emotionally secure woman overnight--although it has always seemed natural that my heartstrings existed completely independent of my pussy.
i had to claw my way up the side of a mountain, learning to love again at each step.
oshun has walked much of the way with me, illuminating the life lived with sensuality as a living, breathing tool.
i read about the ancient ways of sacred whores, and they made sense to me. my dreams suggested that i'd been a courtesan some centuries ago, maybe almost as many times as i'd been a priestess.
it was all natural, and right, and within me to be.
so despite the almost-cut arms, the nights i stared down the gun, and all the bitter tears--i can't say who i'd be today if i hadn't lost what i lost, worked through the pain and healed the wounds.
hell was my cocoon, but the fire tempered a beautiful butterfly.
6.13.2007
sensual deprivation
i've missed the rush i get from flirting.
the feeling of being watched that leads to the first greeting...
first level of attraction, light banter...sharing just enough information to determine whether or not to proceed...
feeling out how proficient he is at wordplay, his sense of humor, intelligence.
(wisdom makes me wet)
the stares in the almost-awkward silences,
light touches,
smiles.
becoming acquainted with body language and subtle hints of cologne.
the jolt that comes with an unspoken connection.
...see, it's rare that i find a man truly interesting. my 6th sense often tells me more than i want to know before i even know his name.
even rarer is the definitive tingle between my thighs that tells me this one has something worth keeping--or at least exploring.
my sensuality is my soft spot. electrify my senses, and you can probably have me at least once. intrigue me and it will win you nothing less than a kiss.
the tingle never seems to be caused by the same thing twice.
with one it may be a voice.
with another, our first true eye contact.
his gait.
a well-placed scar.
the movement of his lips as he speaks.
the quiet strength in his hands.
a quick brush of his fingers on some innocently bare skin.
could be anything.
and i haven't been wrong yet.
still, that can be difficult to find on bar stools and in random street encounters.
but every now and then, i get lucky.
the feeling of being watched that leads to the first greeting...
first level of attraction, light banter...sharing just enough information to determine whether or not to proceed...
feeling out how proficient he is at wordplay, his sense of humor, intelligence.
(wisdom makes me wet)
the stares in the almost-awkward silences,
light touches,
smiles.
becoming acquainted with body language and subtle hints of cologne.
the jolt that comes with an unspoken connection.
...see, it's rare that i find a man truly interesting. my 6th sense often tells me more than i want to know before i even know his name.
even rarer is the definitive tingle between my thighs that tells me this one has something worth keeping--or at least exploring.
my sensuality is my soft spot. electrify my senses, and you can probably have me at least once. intrigue me and it will win you nothing less than a kiss.
the tingle never seems to be caused by the same thing twice.
with one it may be a voice.
with another, our first true eye contact.
his gait.
a well-placed scar.
the movement of his lips as he speaks.
the quiet strength in his hands.
a quick brush of his fingers on some innocently bare skin.
could be anything.
and i haven't been wrong yet.
still, that can be difficult to find on bar stools and in random street encounters.
but every now and then, i get lucky.
5.12.2007
a family story (part of an unfinished whole)
spoken by a female elder
"abeomaka was born beautiful and mad.
"one night, father had been sent away on an errand several miles away. maybe purposeful, maybe coincidence. who knows.
"we were between mistresses. massa paul was sick with loneliness and anger--he'd never wanted any white woman anyway. his father had taken him around the world--no small feat in those days--and he'd seen all kinds of colors. smelled the coconut oil hawaiian women combed into their hair and the pineapple on their hands. samoan softness. the grace and porcelain skin of chinese women. and he loved cherokee, hopi, and seminole most of all.
"he'd never quite believed the bull they spread about african women. he'd never been to the continent himself--it was one of the few places he had no desire to see--but he didn't trust for one minute that africans were simply climbing on those ships. if they were, why'd it take so long to break 'em once they came?
"in any case, he found african women were striking. the mixed ones were all right; pretty much looked like all the other women he'd seen, except in the spanish and portuguese colonies where their colors defied all category.
"when he went to the auctions and saw 'em fresh off the boats, clean as they'd ever be again, he could see their spirit shine through 'em. felt like he could just about touch the very faith he felt he needed to understand the world. a lost thing he didn't know he was looking for but, once noticed, he had to have.
"many of them exuded dignity, condensed royalty. blue-black skin and lips like pillows. hips and thighs conditioned by lifetimes of dancing and celebration. if he treated his people well--as was often said--it was because of their beauty.
"mother--of course he might've known her name, but it's lost to us. 'sarahjane' is something of an insult--was one such woman. maybe even a sort of dutchess or reverend in her homeland. somehow--this came in a dream--she'd made it over with husband and brother. brother was out of reach, maybe on the next deck down. husband stayed close enough to hold her hand. i like to think they were cunning: acted like strangers to stay together. or maybe god allowed it.
"mother was rather tall, nut brown. walnut. full everywhere, but not fat. soft features. warm smile. no scars--i guess our people weren't into such. she was probably jeweled, but all that would have been snatched away.
"for whatever reason, it was easier for the men to keep scraps of clothing and other items. husband had hid a blade in some cloth. story goes: the morning they were to go on the block, husband slit his throat, praying for another man to come and care for mother. and you know prayers that come with blood or tears are always answered.
"mother decided she had to live on. she was ready for her life in the new world, despite its horrors. but she knew husband was too proud. he'd have run away and been hunted and killed anyway. she smiled as she mourned him, loving his knowing. auction over, the man who bought her bought no men. he and mother would have been split up anyway.
"seems mother's owner needed house slaves and planters. a few breeders wouldn't hurt, either, seeing as the men were rowdy. many had forgotten the old ways by then--their minds were broken from childhood. no one from home before grandparent, and most didn't live that long. rape was no longer taboo or punishable.
"mother met father--the man who helped her start our family--her first day at the plantation. his mother was from an area near mother's people and he spoke his mother's language. he taught her english. she understood quickly, refused to speak it. told no one--besides father, maybe--her true name. her records from the ship had been lost. 'sarajane' was all.
"only thing was, massa paul saw mother and fell in love. just like that.
"he was the only white person mother showed even the slightest regard--she'd even say hello to him in english. story goes: she could see he knew enough to appreciate her as a person, more so than his ignorant, untraveled peers. she sensed she--and the rest--were human to him.
"the night father was sent away mother thought nothing of letting massa paul in. figured he needed to give her instructions for the next day, as he often did. instead he tied her down and raped her. three times. each time a little longer than before. mother cried and fought at first. then prayed and left her body. tried to see home but couldn't get that far.
"she went to the sea, since the coast was just a few miles from the plantation. see, her people worshipped the river goddess, but there were no rivers (that she'd seen yet) here. even so, the sea welcomed her. mother told her troubles to the water, and the sea told her she wasn't alone. that these men were mad and did mad things.
"paul left her, weeping uncontrollably. still wanting more. next day he hung himself.
"father came back from his errand and helped her heal. he knew the herbs and incantations--his mother had taught him how to revere earth, sky, and water. he also presented offerings to the sea as thanks for sheltering her.
"mother knew she was pregnant with paul's child. father could have rid her of it, but she said it was the will of the ancestors.
"abeomaka came in with a hurricane. bit mother, kicked father. gray eyes, pale honey skin, black hair with a slight wave. more animal than child. never learned to speak--or at least didn't tell anyone he knew how. he'd hide in the woods for days at a time--from at six years old!--and return as clean as when he'd left. mother said he was a sorcerer, not a child. something from home angry at the new place he found himself in. crazy with his mother's pain and the pain of his people, intersected with the greed of his biological father's race. rage incarnate.
"one day when he was about thirteen or fourteen years old, he disappeared. no body found, none buried. never tamed, never broken.
"as mother loved father, the line began. her true firstborn, jamaal (john to the whitefolk), was snatched away and sold early. after that, prayers were sent up asking that girls always be born first since they were more likely to stay with the family.
"our family's men were given spiritual sight to help protect their sisters, mothers, aunts, and wives. as you know, they'd be killed if they actually fought on their behalf. in the worst times, abeomaka would return to guide our hands.
"and that's how we began."
"abeomaka was born beautiful and mad.
"one night, father had been sent away on an errand several miles away. maybe purposeful, maybe coincidence. who knows.
"we were between mistresses. massa paul was sick with loneliness and anger--he'd never wanted any white woman anyway. his father had taken him around the world--no small feat in those days--and he'd seen all kinds of colors. smelled the coconut oil hawaiian women combed into their hair and the pineapple on their hands. samoan softness. the grace and porcelain skin of chinese women. and he loved cherokee, hopi, and seminole most of all.
"he'd never quite believed the bull they spread about african women. he'd never been to the continent himself--it was one of the few places he had no desire to see--but he didn't trust for one minute that africans were simply climbing on those ships. if they were, why'd it take so long to break 'em once they came?
"in any case, he found african women were striking. the mixed ones were all right; pretty much looked like all the other women he'd seen, except in the spanish and portuguese colonies where their colors defied all category.
"when he went to the auctions and saw 'em fresh off the boats, clean as they'd ever be again, he could see their spirit shine through 'em. felt like he could just about touch the very faith he felt he needed to understand the world. a lost thing he didn't know he was looking for but, once noticed, he had to have.
"many of them exuded dignity, condensed royalty. blue-black skin and lips like pillows. hips and thighs conditioned by lifetimes of dancing and celebration. if he treated his people well--as was often said--it was because of their beauty.
"mother--of course he might've known her name, but it's lost to us. 'sarahjane' is something of an insult--was one such woman. maybe even a sort of dutchess or reverend in her homeland. somehow--this came in a dream--she'd made it over with husband and brother. brother was out of reach, maybe on the next deck down. husband stayed close enough to hold her hand. i like to think they were cunning: acted like strangers to stay together. or maybe god allowed it.
"mother was rather tall, nut brown. walnut. full everywhere, but not fat. soft features. warm smile. no scars--i guess our people weren't into such. she was probably jeweled, but all that would have been snatched away.
"for whatever reason, it was easier for the men to keep scraps of clothing and other items. husband had hid a blade in some cloth. story goes: the morning they were to go on the block, husband slit his throat, praying for another man to come and care for mother. and you know prayers that come with blood or tears are always answered.
"mother decided she had to live on. she was ready for her life in the new world, despite its horrors. but she knew husband was too proud. he'd have run away and been hunted and killed anyway. she smiled as she mourned him, loving his knowing. auction over, the man who bought her bought no men. he and mother would have been split up anyway.
"seems mother's owner needed house slaves and planters. a few breeders wouldn't hurt, either, seeing as the men were rowdy. many had forgotten the old ways by then--their minds were broken from childhood. no one from home before grandparent, and most didn't live that long. rape was no longer taboo or punishable.
"mother met father--the man who helped her start our family--her first day at the plantation. his mother was from an area near mother's people and he spoke his mother's language. he taught her english. she understood quickly, refused to speak it. told no one--besides father, maybe--her true name. her records from the ship had been lost. 'sarajane' was all.
"only thing was, massa paul saw mother and fell in love. just like that.
"he was the only white person mother showed even the slightest regard--she'd even say hello to him in english. story goes: she could see he knew enough to appreciate her as a person, more so than his ignorant, untraveled peers. she sensed she--and the rest--were human to him.
"the night father was sent away mother thought nothing of letting massa paul in. figured he needed to give her instructions for the next day, as he often did. instead he tied her down and raped her. three times. each time a little longer than before. mother cried and fought at first. then prayed and left her body. tried to see home but couldn't get that far.
"she went to the sea, since the coast was just a few miles from the plantation. see, her people worshipped the river goddess, but there were no rivers (that she'd seen yet) here. even so, the sea welcomed her. mother told her troubles to the water, and the sea told her she wasn't alone. that these men were mad and did mad things.
"paul left her, weeping uncontrollably. still wanting more. next day he hung himself.
"father came back from his errand and helped her heal. he knew the herbs and incantations--his mother had taught him how to revere earth, sky, and water. he also presented offerings to the sea as thanks for sheltering her.
"mother knew she was pregnant with paul's child. father could have rid her of it, but she said it was the will of the ancestors.
"abeomaka came in with a hurricane. bit mother, kicked father. gray eyes, pale honey skin, black hair with a slight wave. more animal than child. never learned to speak--or at least didn't tell anyone he knew how. he'd hide in the woods for days at a time--from at six years old!--and return as clean as when he'd left. mother said he was a sorcerer, not a child. something from home angry at the new place he found himself in. crazy with his mother's pain and the pain of his people, intersected with the greed of his biological father's race. rage incarnate.
"one day when he was about thirteen or fourteen years old, he disappeared. no body found, none buried. never tamed, never broken.
"as mother loved father, the line began. her true firstborn, jamaal (john to the whitefolk), was snatched away and sold early. after that, prayers were sent up asking that girls always be born first since they were more likely to stay with the family.
"our family's men were given spiritual sight to help protect their sisters, mothers, aunts, and wives. as you know, they'd be killed if they actually fought on their behalf. in the worst times, abeomaka would return to guide our hands.
"and that's how we began."
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