Drinking Fugitivity – Found PoetryFilm

Drinking Fugitivity: Found PoetryFilm

This short piece is a mash up of a certain clip from Joaquina de Angola: Memory of a Liberation by Aida Bueno Sarduy and music from Insight Timer, called You.

Seen recently in Barcelona at CCCB, Joaquina de Angola: Memory of a Liberation by Aida Bueno Sarduy is an audiovisual installation that recovers the story of Joaquina, a young woman enslaved on a plantation in Brazil, and her escape.

From the exhibition’s text details it reads:

“A work about archived, forgotten, and silenced voices in the history of slavery and colonialism.
This audiovisual installation brings to life the act of “unarchiving” an event recorded in colonial history as an escape. A 15-year-old enslaved girl fled the plantation where she lived, and her owner, after an unsuccessful search, placed an ad in the newspaper offering a reward to whoever found her. The archive reveals nothing more about this incident: it merely collects it as a piece of data.
This piece challenges the oblivion, archiving, and silencing of this character. To unarchive, in this context, becomes an artistic and political act that brings Joaquina de Angola out of the shadows of the document, removing her gag and chains so that she can tell her own story. This act not only questions the record but also raises questions and delves into its details. It is an inquiry that brings Joaquina back to life and acknowledges her as a cimarrona, calling upon ancestral memory as well as imagination, intuition, and spirituality.
Since the beginning of colonization in Brazil, alliances and exchanges of extraordinary significance have taken place between Indigenous peoples and enslaved Africans, but these have also been silenced. The presence of entities known as caboclos (Indigenous spirits) in all Afro-Brazilian religions is perhaps the most consistent and profound evidence of this. Amazonian peoples, Indigenous peoples from across Brazil, and quilombola communities—formed by Afro-descendant peoples—have shared ancestral struggles for the defense of their territories and against colonization and exploitation. The installation speculates on these possible Afro-Indigenous alliances in Joaquina de Angola’s journey toward freedom.”

This extracted masheup with music created above by myself, hence a found poetry film, is my take at a beginning of exploring fugitivity. I’ve been living, breathing, talking, practicing fugitivity for a few years now. I’ve mentioned it before, and it was Dal Kular who first introduced the term of me via her then newsletter, Field Notes. Dal said at the beginning of Jan 2023,

“Whatever the out-there-in-the-world fuckery is going on in 2023, I declare myself a CREATIVE FUGITIVE. A way of living in this world but not of it.”

Her take on creative fugitivity has stuck with me. I’ve gone on to read more around fugitivity. I’m even writing a chapter, at the moment, around black mothering and fugitivity. Fugitivity is taking over my life. And again I’m creating a project here in my portfolio to collect my wanderings and wonderings around this concept and way of being.

For me in a nutshell, fugitivity is the act of flight. It is the withdrawing of my labour and consent in the current system of white supremacy culture, capitalism, imperialism, colonialism. Fugivitiy is refusal and resistance. Divesting from the current way things are playing out as the few hoard the wealth of the world at the expense of the many.

Originally the fugitive was the runaway, the escapee. Hence why the audio-visual installation and consequent fugitive poetry film was created. I’m starting from the origins of the escaping enslaved. Running, fleeing captivity towards freedom. Freedom being the end point, the destination but in the process of escaping, there is the in-between space between what they were fleeing from and fleeing to. And here in this liminal space is where fugitivity is ripe.

There/ here is the lingering in the midst of flight, where I choose to SLOW down and be. To linger with nature. To seek my joy and pleasure in the world around me on my own terms.
Fred Moten in conversation with Saidiya Hartman, both of whom we will be exploring further, said,

“I often use – and I always think of it in relation to Fannie Lou Hamer, because it’s just me giving a theoretical spin on a formulation she made in practice: to refuse that which has been refused to you. And that’s what I’m interested in.”

That is fugitivity as a method, kin-making and place-making, as a practice that I intend to explore within this project archive.

Octavia E. Butler

I’m fixing to read all 12 novels and the one short story collection of Octavia E. Butler this year. The time has come to make intimate with this pioneer of science fiction, speculative fiction and wisdom.

Watch this space!

Life Writing

During my time of hibernation, (have I mentioned that here?) I’m resting of course but I’m also writing and dreaming and catching up on the things I want to do with my time and energy.

Another one of my abstracts was accepted for a special publication by Demeter Press around mothering and life writing. I completed an essay in 2023, around my Black Matrilineage and last year I complete an essay around Black Mothering and Creativity. This is probably going to have to be redrafted this year, but in all honesty I was just happy to submit something, as I had a major block around this essay. I think it was because I allowed my creativity and energy to be sucked into other people’s creative dreams and lost sight of my own last year. So when it came to writing the essay my well was dry.

Anyway, I’ve started the reading and writing around my third essay now which is all about Black mothering and fugitivity. I love fugitivity and it is one of the supporting words for 2025. As I mentioned before, I’ve been exploring fugitivity for the last few years and what this means as a practice. So I’m mighty pleased in having the time and space to explore it further and deeper through writing this essay.

While going over my abstract again and riffing off from it, I remember my creative non-fiction novella I created called rubedo. I think this came out in July 2016, after the 2015 shit hit the fan episode in my life. rubedo was my exploration of this time in my life and how I got through it. It was through finding myself after years of repression and not listening to my inner wisdom that I came to be who I am today.

Anyway, I revisited rubedo with this chapter/ essay in mind, realising that 2025 is 10 years since this episode in my life. It sometimes feels as if it was just yesterday. I know I felt it keenly last year when Darkling came out. Darkling is my first poetry collection since Laventille (2015) and the shitstorm episode. And to tell the truth, I’m waiting for the the shit to hit the fan again, as I’m sure there are people picking their way through Darkling as I type to try and find evidence of plagiarism again. As they say once a plagiarist always a plagiarist! It’s not a term or label I identified with then or do now. As that’s not me, that’s not who I am but that didn’t stop people then or now from looking for the evidence to prove/support it.

But I’m not here to talk about that. What struck me about rubedo is the raw honesty of it all. And how writing, writing it all out literally saved my life. I’m so grateful that Ian brae enough to pick up my pen and writing through the shit to now.

Here is what I wrote about my capacity to love no matter what:

“But something does inside die this day. And the days that follow. Something
inside of me, the capacity to have patience and make allowances for other
people’s bullshit was destroyed during this lynching. No doubt, using the term
‘lynching’ will invite criticism. I know when Andy Croft my publisher used the
term to condemn what was happening to me on social media he received a
fair amount of criticism. But I do not use this word lightly.


Ironically, in the months leading up to my death by social media, I was
researching and writing poems about lynchings in America. I was referring to
the postcard images that were collected as souvenirs by the spectators of
lynchings at the time. There were those people who got their hands dirty
during a lynching, who actually tied the knot of the noose, beat the victim,
mutilated the bodies. And there were those who came along to watch the
spectacle. Viewing the death of another human being as just another social
event, a festival, something to be enjoyed. Both killers and spectators relish
the sport.

This in my opinion is what happened to me. A public lynching and
souvenirs where taken. One person on Facebook, joined in the thread of
conversation with a comment as a means of marking it. This person was
rubbing their hands with relish, saying that they didn’t want to miss a thing as
this spectacle was just too good to let pass by.


When I died this cruel death something inside broke. I’ve recently come to
realise that is was my heart that broke that night. I’ve been visualising my
heart with a rose in the centre. This rose is closed. This I read as a symbol of

me shutting down, dying inside, shutting off the natural flow of love from my
heart for my family, friends, for the world around me. My heart was broken, so
I have been denying myself and others love. I’ve been living in fear, fear of it
being hurt again, fear of my heart being broken again, fear to love.
In a way, this had to happen to me. For one, I’ve always disliked that capacity
in me to keep forgiving others, letting them back into my life when they’d let
me down and not lived up to my expectations. I’ve taken on board the
responsibilities of others, thinking I’ve had too high standards and I’d been
unfair. That capacity has been obliterated. I can’t take anybody’s bull shit
anymore. But at the same time, this capacity to forgive is part of my large
capacity to love. And if this is who I’m really are , then I shouldn’t fight it any
longer but accept it.


My true self is my capacity to love, to love fiercely and powerfully. I accept
that now and I’m no longer blocking up my love. I can’t live in constant fear of
being hurt, of getting my heart broke again because then I would not be living
true to my capacity, true to me. I would just not be living at all.

I’m so pleased that since then I have found others, such as bell hooks and Joy James, who write about revolutionary/ radical love and validate my ways of loving, which at times hurts me but also brings me a while heap of joy also. You can’t love without the expectation or knowledge of getting hurt.

Reading into Fall

Current Squeeze!

The days are growing shorter. The nights are drawing in. And I’m very grateful for a number of things. One of them is that I spent some time this summer getting back into reading.

Maybe it was the long drives or the long light nights, but I scratched an itch and came out 10 books down by the end of August.

I rested up over the summer and I also pulled out some books and dived head first into a bunch of summer reads. Physical books, kindle books and audio books.

I’ve been on a rollercoaster of emotions as I made my way through some class act reads and I wasn’t sticking to my usual crime.

I’ve read romance, erotica, literary and comedy. And now with September here, I’ve continued. I’m also keeping track. Keeping a record of my reads.

There are times I’m knee deep in a story and I have to stop because I’m reading that fast and I want the goodness to last.

You know that feeling right?

Other times I have to stop because I’m enjoying myself so much, loving the story and have to give thanks for finally getting back into a reading streak.

I’m not sure how it happened. I think I just kept turning up. Kept turning up to the page. I think it helped that I found a good book series too. And then I found it being read by actors so well that I was hooked.

I found BookBeat and Amy Award’s Cocky Kingmans. I’ll write more about this series and what it opened up for me but if you’re interested in getting a free trial of BookBeat for 70 days just check it out here.

No catch just the chance to get into reading/ listening at a good time of year to snuggle and get cosy with a good book.

Saturday Mornings

When I was growing up, I loved Saturday mornings.

No school, even though I loved school. I had the whole weekend ahead of me with all that time to create.

It started off well, as dad would bring us breakfast in bed. It would be crackers and jam. I’ve written before about this special ritual and how I took it as a sign of love from my dad; him the strict Trinidadian who showed his roar more times that his smile.

After breakfast, we could get up and play in our bedroom, keeping the noise down as mum and dad had a lie in. I would create the magic wishing chair from Enid Blyton’s books. I would fly away to all these magical lands, where I’d meet welcoming characters and interesting animals who couldn’t wait to get to know me. With them I was the main attraction. They listened to my stories and cheered me on as I went on adventures into the forest or up a mountain. There was no place my imagination couldn’t take me.

And then I grew up. Dad died, my whole life changed and I put away my dolls and adventures as I attempted to traverse the rough terrain of middle school as the only black girl there. Only black, and fat girl there who had her period and was seen as an oddity at best!

More stories there to tell. But this morning, this Saturday morning, I wake with this same sense of expansive time ahead of me to create. To crave out my own adventures on my own terms. And this feeling brings me a whole heap of joy and excitement. As I can’t go wrong if I’m feeding my creativity; turning up to the page open.

I haven’t had crackers and jam this morning but the thought of it is making my mouth water. I’ve got the ingredients in ( cream crackers and cherry jam). I’d have to make them myself as I’ve got no one to make them for me to serve me in bed. But even that thought doesn’t dampen my spirits because I have the time and space to choose. I have the privilege and luxury to stretch out the decision around what I do or be next.

I’m obsessed with how creativity works. I’m obsessed with how my creativity works. This is what I wrote in my visual journal this morning. And it landed in my core. In my core centre. This is honesty. This makes me smile. This what I will continue to explore, for a lifetime.

The Long Journey To Claiming Books

I was brought up to treat books as sacred. They were a source of knowledge. You get your education and you’d have choices in life. You’d move on in the world. Have a better life than your parents before you.

Books were the gateway into this Paradise.

Each week, we would walk into town from our maisonette, along the busy dual carriageway. Once in town, we’d go to the market, to the one book stall and pick out a book. They were the tradition fairy tales with pictures and text.

If not them, then Enid Blyton books. For some reason, I felt the importance of books and the connection of them to my dad. He’d read us bedtime stories and I’d just love to be in his presence then. As he was softer and loving. Different from the angry man he was at all other times.

For some reason, who knows what goes through a child’s mind, I took to doodling in one of these fairy tale books. I want to say it was Snow White, but I could wrong.

A whole heap of scribbles and doodles took over the pages of this book. Why use the book when I had plenty of blank white paper? As I said who knows what goes through a child’s mind.

I just know that my father found the book and shouted at me with rage. And beat me. I’d done something wrong. I’d ruined the book. I’d ruined my chances of getting on in the world. I’d gone against the unwritten rule( or was a spoken one?) around how to respect books.

Older now, I hunt for books. I buy my own books. I read then. Some I don’t. Some I keep or give away. And some I purposefully, consciously make the decision to repurpose. Reclaim them.

I tear out pages and I cut these up. I smear paint on the pages left in the book. I stick images in them, tape, stickers. And yes I write in them. I write out my hopes and fears. My desires and dreams. My memories and traumas.

I think I was brought up right. To treat books as sacred. But it’s what you do with those books that count, I think. And a book has multiple uses/ purposes. I think. Multiple ways and means of instilling knowledge and opportunities and freedom.

It’s been a long journey for me to get to this point of choices. But I claim them all.

December Reading

I was hoping to finish for a Christmas break sooner in December than I actually did. I wanted to ease into the holidays, getting snug and cosy and reading to my heart’s content. Of course even the best laid plans go awry. But I still managed to clock up some reads, as I got ready for 2021. What is going to be my focus the new year? I think there’s some clues within my December reading list.

Here are the books I read this month:

  1. Black Bodies, White Gaze – George Yancy
  2. Keep Going – Austin Kleon
  3. Creatrix – she who makes – Lucy H. Pearce
  4. Slow: Finding Peace and Purpose in a Hectic World – Jo Peters
  5. The Year of Less – Cait Flanders
  6. The Outsiders – S. E. Hinton

October Readings

October turned out to be a great month of reading after I set myself the Sealy challenge; of reading one book of poetry a day for a month.
Here’a the books I got through:

  1. Other Poetry, no.23 – anthology of poetry
  2. Writing for my life – Nancy Levin
  3. The World Don’t End – Charles Simic
  4. Our Dead Behind Us – Audre Lorde
  5. Butcher’s Dog 12 – anthology of poetry
  6. Butcher’s Dog 13 – anthology of poetry
  7. What to look for in Autumn – Ladybird Book
  8. Facts about the moon – Dori Anne Laux
  9. Undersong – Audre Lorde
  10. Postcolonial Love Poem – Natalie Diaz
  11. What the Water Gave Me – Pascal Petit
  12. It Ends With Her – Brianna Labuskes
  13. I am an Island – Tasmin Galidas
  14. The Crossroads of Should and Must – Elle Lune
  15. Danger on Peaks – Gary Synder
  16. The Goddess Oracle – Amy Sophia and Mara Rashinsky
  17. Blue Front – Martha Collins
  18. The Autumn House – Alison May
  19. The Winter House – Alison May