between their toes seaweed mushes it comes out of nowhere squeals and screams wet, cold skin meets cold, wet skin, pods pop, bones crack, the sea rolls in
A poem can start with the sound of water falling onto my body. Allow it’s curious wet teeth to sink into my flesh, to pull out chucks of questions to fuel a conversations with myself, later.
The ability to be present was a luxury my mother never had as she worked 3 jobs with her hand down toilets and fixed smile for the men with keys and brutal laughs.
I claim the ability to be present. To allow my yearning for a past to awaken a future I will imagine, as I salver my arms and legs and belly, housing a familiar homesickness I’m not sure where from, with coconut oil.
Turning cold hard oil, soft and warm against my skin, I reconstruct fragments of history, lost in colluded archives, and turn them into bleeding scars and pickled memories of somethings rather than nothings.
When I’m ready to forgive and understand, I’ll conjure Dad back from the dead, sit him down, and ask why he never ever mentioned love, in all his administering of disciplined care.
Dressed, hair twisted and walking across green fields, and under cherry blossom, I swallow doubts to turn a phase over and over against the roof of my mouth, rewriting with each footstep. Slide stepping cliches, kicking around experimental metaphors.
Or the poem could hit me full force when I walk into the coffee shop. Glasses steamed, journal in hand, eyes on drinks board, but already knowing my order by heart, the table I’ll take – number 13, my lucky number.
Acting like the fugitive from my life, here, I steal time to soften my gaze and repurpose the image of the sea into an open window that will startle you, dear reader, into a new perspective, into a new way of holding your mind and your heart towards yourself.
My body has a yearning for the past. In this country, I am duped to believe and live as if we were nothing .
Nothing until they allowed us into existence. Nothing until they opened their arms, and allowed us to carry on being their slaves into the 21st century.
Search and recovery, my body reclaims her history. My mother transported it on her skin, buried in the stomach of the ship, boat, truck.
My father carried it in his voice, trapped in the belly of the ship, train, coffin.
I cannot rely on any colonial archives for finding me and my people. Now or in the future.
Colluded, concealed, constructed, the archives have fabricated the narrative that sees we as other.
Reduce us to a footnote, a scar, a tear.
My body is my archive. My presence is a testimony.
My imagination will do the rest.
*Quote from Toni Morrison
The Object of My Gaze, on going project by Marcia Michael. Me Remembering you – transformations, 2021
I’m not sure I’m ready for 2022. I really didn’t have any plans for the start of the year, but I can still say things haven’t gone to plan so far.
I’m just not ready yet to embrace that New Year energy. That set intentions and make resolutions kind of vibes. I’m still moving at a snail’s pace out of 2021. And I’m okay with that, I think.
There’s an irritation there a bit, as I was hoping to turn a corner into 2022, and have everything thought out and a clear path forward. But who am I kidding? You need to put in the work for that to be the case. And for the last few weeks of 2021, I was on my knees.
One good thing so far this year is the Studio Notes went out. Later than expected but still out. Detailing a family emergency. You can read it here andsign up for the future editions, usually once a month here.
Happy New Year everyone, and I mean it as life is too fucking short and difficult to not wish for happiness most of the time!
After a really busy November, I was looking forward to a quiet December. It has been a slower pace to last month, but there has still been deadlines and events that I’ve needed to prepare for and attend and reflect on.
So past mid-December already, and I just feel as if I can slow down again now. But I say this but I must have been resting in some kind of way because I went back to my art journaling practice yesterday.
My art journal practice is different to my visual journaling practice only in the fact that I use fewer words and these Black women always seem to show up in the midst of the page somehow.
Here we have another one, who showed up yesterday out of the darkness that was developing on the page. And isn’t she delightful. She’s got a twinkle in her eye and a wish in her heart.
To be in the studio yesterday, playing on the page, I even completing a handmade zine which will be on display in the BALTIC Centre for Contemporary Art, was a joy and much needed. As it signalled to me that I’m back to listening within. That I’m back to creating for me and just for the hell of it. That I’m coming home.
Thank you, Sheree. Now continue to rest. And create.
Living Wild Studios 