Come, let me recycle your soul. I will rinse it clean, sanitize it, then send it back to Earth. The sanitization process often erases all traces of memories. For some, however, a few latent memories of time spent here are retained, fully realized through spirit-work The un-sanitized memories are like leftover germs, each one carrying pieces of a past you can barely recall. They are a flash of light in a dark tunnel. There is something there, but you cannot make out the whole. You stretch yourself into the past, feeling in the dark, hoping to unearth what you’ve forgotten. It rarely comes, at least not fully. Shards of memory fall. I gather up the pieces for the recycling, rinsing them of a world that doesn’t need to be remembered. If anything remains, let it be the joy, beauty and laughter of a life well lived, infecting the new soul like an incurable virus.
i am more than the words i speak or write. more than what you see. i am the unseen and unheard ends of the spectrum. i am the invisible that exists, not needing eyes or ears to simply be. i too require instruments to detect my presence in this space. i too can only be seen by that which was made to see me.
i wrap myself inside myself
I knew from the day I met you, that every inch of you would be carved into my soul.
Writing Prompt: Carve
If I don’t begin posting to my blog daily, I will turn to stone. It’s true. I read it in a book.
I had not been home to Jamaica in over a decade. In August 2015 I took a trip, and while there, visited Marcus Garvey’s house, which still stands atop a small hill, with the same ginep tree that was there when he was a child. I ate from that ginep tree and imagined Garvey climbing high to reach the sweetest ones.
Photo: Taken by me in front of Garvey’s house
There are days like today when the living ain’t easy. I sit in the back of the store—breakroom slash stockroom—waiting for things I cannot name. Boxes stacked to the ceiling containing gadgets to keep us entertained. Fluorescent lights hum. The clock ticks away each second of my life for minimum wage. I won’t be dishonest, a dollar more than minimum. I am still a slave without chains. The mental and spiritual shackles are hard and cold, holding me firm to an invisible wall deep inside invisible catacombs. There is no cask here. I am bricked in by this culture. It is wild and oppressive and no longer free. I want to melt coins, burn Franklins and Washingtons to ash, mix them to create magic wands to cast out demons and cast spells to bind the future of capitalism; forever.
The bulbs continue to buzz, the microwave hums, warming food for the one invading my space. She is tall and pencil thin, hair dyed Smurf-blue, voice like Rosie Perez. She doesn’t know that I want to save her from this place, this back room, cold and lonely, not fit for life. We are here because the melting and burning has not yet begun. Instead of a war cry to usher in the next revolution, she waits for a beep, so her radiated meal can soothe her. She eats away her minimum wage, unconcerned with the reality that she may live and die in a stockroom, somewhere on this continent, making less than the patriarchy that owns her life and lives well off her lack. Her Smurf-blue hair will have turned gray and white, her back low and knees pained; but she can’t stop because cat food is expensive these days and she needs to eat.
The light dims and flickers. A toilet flushes in the distance. Footsteps trace their way back to the front to greet an uneventful life, bloodied with microwave dinners, worn shoes, unpaid light bills and a life-dance without music.
Your whispers reach me across time. They find me standing on the edge of awakening. My dreams leave, then your dreams ask to enter the space of love that eases our pain. We go together, warriors of love, into the fields of Elysium. And there we plant ourselves in eternity, seeded and ready to incarnate once again, once again, once again, here. But the place we must wait is distant, taking us across vast barren land. We make love on the dry soil and our cries of ecstasy fertilize what was once dead. We water the land with our love-waters. Green things grow as our orgasms grow. We green the Earth with every drop of us. And life grows, inside and out. Elysium waits for us, again, somewhere off in the distance. It waits for everything we are; and the offering we brought forth from our love.
It snowed last night. This morning the sky was clear and the snow bright. While I do feel a sense of jolly when I look at the blanket of white, I continue to wish that snow weren’t so cold. I know, to achieve such a feat would require a change in the structure of everything in order for snow to not melt at 90 degrees. But if we put enough spiritual energy into it, who knows what magic can happen. Until then, I dream.
Writing Prompt: Jolly
I built a story that was tall and wide, stretching across miles of land like the Great Wall of China. I did not use brick or stone or plastic or metal or wood. I used the purple haze of stardust, sprinkled on sea foam paper that chewed my words into wide-eyed children, nutrient rich and ready for the mind. The paper sang to me, calling me through time, reminding me that it too has a story to tell that even the stones would bend to hear.
I re-flesh the ancestors with naked language that sometimes wants to forget itself; but remembering is the only panacea. I re-flesh memories, piecing together what was forgotten, clothing forests with leaves and branches and ancient trunks, and the dead things that cover the ground to re-life the soil with nearly forgotten ichor. The words grow up through it all, breathing through time to reincarnate, if even for a moment, what fibs tried to erase. I picked the fragrant words that bloomed, and built a story, tall and wide, stretching across miles of existence like a galaxy, big and aged gray, ancient and ready to tell tall tales about its life and what it had seen.
I don’t give two damns about “hate speech” against me, a brown woman. Not two. I have a mighty voice and know how to defend myself against words meant to cut my soul. What I care a lot about is whether someone attempts to do me physical harm, cut my skin. That is my biggest concern. Not the small words of small people with small minds. My words are too mighty to be concerned with the infantile ramblings of those who have nothing better to do with their lives than discuss people.
I wish to be left alone and allowed the right to get away from any “hate speech” I don’t want to hear. Don’t allow anyone to follow me around for the sole purpose of speaking to me any kind of way (they can say what they want without forcing it on me) and don’t allow anyone to touch me, harass me or bully me. My physical person is more important to me than a bunch of words (venom) coming out of an idiots mouth.
Further, I want those who wish to say hateful things to express themselves freely, please, so I know exactly who to stay away from. If those who hate me are silenced, then they could do me even greater harm in the dark because I won’t know who is doing things to me. Could be denying me a job, spitting in my food, giving me wrong medicine, whatever. I need to know who to stay far away from, or who to report if they attempt to deny me access to something I have the right to access.
Nope, don’t ban a thing for me. Keep them away from me. That is all. I know how to use my mighty voice against those who bring small words pushed from the depths of their small souls.
i’ve decided that i don’t want to write, not with my hands anyway.
i want to think words onto paper and screens and leaves and stones and skies. i want words to fall onto the sand and clay soil, carved into ice and cave walls.
i want words to appear on my skin, spinning stories of a life lived and yet to be.
i don’t want pen and ink. no, that is not enough.
i want the words to manifest, conjured from my soul and eager to find themselves atop anything that is not immortal. so they can one day fade, fade, fade, then join the ancestors.
i want my words to live for a million years then without warning meld into the akashic records that house everything we have ever known and ever will. yes, even the words must leave here.
mortal words seeking immortality.
so don’t ask me to write with my hands. it is not enough. it will never be enough.
i am the stream…
it is 2:38pm, monday, the In The Beginning day of the week
august 14. twenty seventeen, whatever that means
it is the day when i want to forget the days and seconds and step into infinity,
when will my day come. this is not a question. not anymore. when will i be the well versed and well fed writer who need only spill ink onto the page and the letters and words figure skate to my thoughts, shaving ice into paragraphs
i stream across the un-pulp, the bits and bytes that give life back to the trees, so that i can write guilt free. still, i am guilty. the words have not yet transformed nations, creating a quasi peace, something i could leave to my children’s children
my words don’t bleed for them, not yet. my words don’t bleed, so they will never need to bleed, and sweat and cry for what could have been
i bleed for the horizon i have yet to reach, for the words that need to be found to conjure beauty and caste a spell upon our heart so it will grow eyes and wings, to see each other in the mirror, to fly into infinity
i seek the un-time, the edge of tomorrow
there is where we will find a wasteland of mondays, their bones almost dust
We all seek freedom in one way or another. But in the end, we live in an age where none of us know what true freedom feels like. We’ve never lived it beyond our mind and flowering imagination.
Although I don’t know what freedom feels like as a tangible experience, I know the swing of its hips, the scent of its hair and the song in its voice. I know how deeply freedom wants to find me. I know how desperately I seek it.
Whether here or in that place we go when we leave here, I will find freedom. It waits for me, in that place we’ve forgotten exists.
The words leave, drifting atop my misconceptions. I am looking backwards.
Why did we come here?
Was it only to see if being human was a strange fad, something new for our soul to do? Or was it something real and lasting and developed from a wanting, from a need to exist inside a space filled with wonder and amazement?
Why are we here? Ask yourself that question without waiting for the answer. Speak the truth to yourself without hesitation. Let the wind hear you, me, us. Because at the end of it all, even the gods will kneel before us, endlessly wondering how we made it through.
They will discover that we fought our way through with the sword of love. Because that is the only thing that could keep us here, the love-fight; that need to recreate our authentic soul existence on Earth.
We came here because of the remembering.
In the space of memory resides the fence we stand atop, teetering on the edge between hard ground and water. In that space we remember the moments that embrace us before we have a chance to embrace them. They catch us unaware and ask us the hard questions we’re not ready to answer.
Why do you feel?
I feel because my joy stitches the wounds of my pain, and salves them into healing. My joy mercilessly threads itself through the flesh of agony, reminding me that in time, the scars may not fully disappear, but they will no longer be noticeable to the world, nor to me. They will be seen only in quiet moments, when the sun is high, or the night stand lamp casts a light over the flesh of my ancient wound.
My joy spoons itself into the mouth of my sorrows, provisions to save it from starvation and death. I am intertwined inside myself, mixed in with everything I have ever seen or known. I am my happiness; I am my disappointments.
Another word is needed, one that melds this essence of me; a word that says, I am everything all at once, in this moment—in this parallel universe.
Your lies won’t save you from death. You will die anyway. Death is the great truth teller. When it comes, all you will know in that moment is the truth; which is, you will soon be gone, into the wind, into oblivion, into another existence, into…
Whatever you go into, it will be the ultimate and final truth. You cannot lie to someone about your own dying.
Bravely be authentic and honest while here.
Writing Prompt: Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt. Expectation.
I am sometimes filled to overflowing with a cauldron of expectations. Ideas mixed in with opinions and beliefs that don’t belong to me or the soup overwhelm every aspect of my life. Which expectations are real and true; which are contrived notions created by someone else’s way of seeing the world?
I place in neat little rows all my expectations on the table. I examine them and wonder about their origins and why they’ve followed me to this point in time. Why do I need them? Do they need me? What are they? Why are they?
I want to detach myself from them so I may watch them from a distance. And see what expectations do when they have no one to hold on to.