Flight of the Hummingbird 1/6/09

Be careful ... the earth is dying. The sea has mourning sickness. Loved ones are leaving. Trees heave truth at those (lie)ing in paynes destroyed during the storm. Unhealthy tradition says economic crisis has been a part of the artist's life. At this point shock should be minimal. Disappointment does more damage. Improvisation is mandatory. It doesn't have to be a downward spiral because I'm a black girl that dances. There is a hummingbird in my chest and at the same time ... the most beautiful things are happening.

I should've known it was Oya's year when the first dance was for her. I saw her on the platform in the Powell street BART Station. She said, "You know this means the ancestors are walking with you." She winked and smiled as I walked away. R.I.P. Oscar Grant.

The corn at the Amoo's house when I left.
(Accra, Ghana 12/29/2008)

I'm balancing on the border between broken and fixed again. Whole ideas delivered in fragments. Soaked, stained, and stretched canvas painted blue and purple. I've done this before. Falling apart takes too much time that I'm not down to waste or spend complaining. So down to memorize and move. No more drowning in the sea of confusion. Concentration is the keystone. There are more than 700 Palestinian ancestors now. Oceans and land masses away my love is with their families. No one is holding back about anything. Productive and destructive are making love and war on the kitchen table. The house is in shambles. Palo was the second dance, but I had to sit out on that one. It made the hummingbird fly into my throat.

Somebody put hate in the pot. It won't stick, just heat up and evaporate. Aftershocks whistle work songs into empty relief silos that once held provisions. Cinnamon sticks can still snap flavor and fragrance into food with broken fingers, just not as loud. There are too many ancestors working to help all of this become anything but a "Love Supreme". For now most of us are sitting in the waiting room anticipating the news of who became one and who didn't.

I've started having migraines again. (I think I might need glasses). The hummingbird likes to fly back and forth between my eyes when I'm listening. It makes me dizzy so I have to wait until it settles down to chase it back into my chest or out of my throat.

Today I thought about the first time I saw my mother cry. I was 9 years old. It was at my grandfather's funeral. He was a preacher. I called him "Pop Pop".

The time is calling for silence in days, minutes in prayer, and marriage to the most precious and power filled things you believe in. Read a lot. Everyone's holy books hold all the information you need to write your own. Cry into songs that sing away sorrow. Take flight in others. Anticipate the movement so you don't get hit. Go home. Buy seeds. (Make sure they're the kind that can grow more seeds). Abandon institutions that manipulate your muse. Harrness the ability to aim, shoot, and fire those that aren't down for the cause and effect of what you have to offer. Demand and attract greatness. Surround and submerge yourself in spiritual ecstasy that will lift you to the clearest part of empirical reality. Make it plain. There you will find your center. Then you can really begin to move.

I took my grandfather's handkerchief to Alicia's services. It belonged to my mother's father. He was a brick mason. I called him "Grampa Willie". Lots of boy children are being born. Passive aggression has become direct. Most of the time I feel like popcorn is popping between my ears. And the hummingbird is still in my chest.