Beauty in existing otherwise
poetry
It’s quitting time, quitting time @ Tara
Jot down the first thing that comes to your mind.
Sweeping violins. A Southern Belle, pretty and shallow, chatters on as young men flock around her feet, captive. *Fiddle de de.* Relishing in colour, technicolor; rich reds, blues and greens of the gallant Old South. Pan out see mansions surrounding by plantations. Bonnets and ribbons. Dances and horses. Cotton.
Extract from: The Melodrama of Gone With The Wind
Found poem:
Source: http://www.art21.org/texts/kara-walker/interview-kara-walker-the-melodrama-of-gone-with-the-wind
I first read Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell while completing an extra year at college. Gaining extra ‘A’ levels while I waited on my then boyfriend to make the grades.
I identified with Scarlett O’Hara, the bitch of a heroine, not Mammy. I definitely was no mammy. Not here to fetch and clean and be loyal. I definitely was not obese and coarse and ugly, or ‘have a shiny, glossy face of contentment as she be the most happy slave alive.’
Of course as I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned where I’m placed in society. It’s okay to fantasise being the white heroine but I’ll never really be her. Better learn my place – to be there for the pleasure and enjoyment and whim of the white folk – and smile.
But what about my own pleasures and pains? Apparently they don’t exist. Apparently I’m incapable of such things, such finer characteristics. My reality states/shows otherwise.
It’s quitting time. I’m retreating into the woods in Aberdeenshire for the next week. I’m taking this opportunity as a reset. A chance to focus on my pleasures and pains. Drink on Mother Nature and give thanks for this life I have which isn’t being subservient/ submissive/ subjection to anybody.
I refuse the Mammy as well as the Scarlett, as they are both constructions and constrictions to control the female body.
I’m much more interested in the overspill, the excess, the unruly body. The blackwoman body that I live with/in daily and how nature supports me on this journey.
As a wind of flames sweeps through Georgia; menacing reds and oranges against a bleak dark sky swirl and crackle in time with fast ascending music. Real danger and Butterfly McQueen (real name not character name that would be Missy) flits around like a blue arsed fly worrying with no sense or plan.
Extract from: The Melodrama of Gone With The Wind
Found poem:
Source: http://www.art21.org/texts/kara-walker/interview-kara-walker-the-melodrama-of-gone-with-the-wind
I’m no Missy either.
overlapping/ layering of loss
In the time it takes me to write this sentence,
my mum must have lost her capacity to breathe.
Quick and unexpected, her passing.
Here one day and then gone the next.
I’m keeping close to the bone as the wound is raw,
27 years later.
Up until now, there’s been a balance –
the years I had her with me versus the years without.
Loss constitutes a black mother’s life, but what about their daughters?
Mourning in the early morning, when the news found me,
sleepless and fearful, until this Autumn when I will have to learn
how to navigate this life beyond without.
Loss splits time into the before and after.
A rupture fires the heart, triggers
the already-always -thereness of loss,
the always-already-thereness of the ghosts
we carry with us into our many battles
and violent (work)spaces.
Coming in late
I’ve been coming later and later to my creative sketchbook practice this month.
It’s day 123. 123 days since I started this practice of play within my creative sketchbook. Daily.
This piece tonight is significant because it chimes with my word of the year/ focus of the year being AFROSURREAL.
The right now. Capturing the now.
AFROSURREAL has been bubbling below the surface all year so far. I’m thinking it’s about time to share my musings and thinkings here in a mini series of posts.
Everything is overlapping and I’m fixing to gain some clarity knowing fine well that the practice of writing it out will only throw up more questions than answers.
The Matterings of (ordinary) Black Life is the practice. The push back against the colonial, historical categorisation of black people as subhuman. As stereotype as no life beyond the construct.
Right now. Black life. Black aliveness.
I’m living a/my reality which isn’t acknowledged or if is then it’s challenged/ denied/ erased.
It’s important to storytell, mythmake, historicise and archive within these liminal spaces. Centre the margins where these matterings happen.
Through the reconstruction and recalibration, healing and reparative processes challenge the exclusions and colonial impulses to conquer, control and exploit.
Expect to read more around AFROSURREAL and the overlaps with my other obsessions as through my research and readings and writings, I attempt to come to some understanding of myself and my creativity, moving backward and forwards between the now and beyond.
Firelei Báez
My works are propositions, meant to create alternate pasts and potential futures, questioning history and culture in order to provide a space for reassessing the present. – Firelei Báez
Some days ….
you’ve just got to start again. Begin again as if day one.
Day one. And it’s all about the colours.
It’s about laying the groundwork so when there’s an upsurge in energy, it’s ready to receive.
New visual journal from altered novel.
let this be the healing
after Danez Smith
let this be the healing
the out of time and space
to flow back to the source
of love & care
let this be the honey to the wounds
the joy within the unknown
the hope to survive
in the mouth of the dragon*
let this be the refusal
the movement underground
to protect our vulnerabilities
let this be the healing
*a line from Audre Lorde’s ‘ The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action’ in Your Silence Will Not Protect You.
March into Spring
This weekend we’ve had the light. Having the light with a bit of warmth makes a difference. To the mood. To the outlook.
This March I’m seizing the light and going to work behind the scenes on a project I’ve been putting off but one which is close to my heart.
I’ve been divorcing myself from big tech, rich oligarch run social media and platforms. I’ve been going more analogue than digital. And I’ve definitely been refusing AI.
This month I’m working on my archives. The archives of this website. These blogposts. So that my legacy, this work and practice lives on beyond WordPress, beyond myself. Beyond the internet.
I’m taking ownership of my creativity and taking records. Backing things up, creating a trace of my presence here which isn’t dependant on technology.
This is gonna take some time, so I’ve taking the time away from posting here to archives there.
I’ll be back though. Soon come.
Playful Palimpsests
I go to my local probably about once a week if not more. I was brought up next to a library, in Bradford and in Newburn. They were places I could go to for some sense of freedom and adventure.
The librarians knew me and would recommend books to me and events. They wouldn’t rush me, I was welcome to stay as long as I wanted.
Today, I love to pop in to see the book sales at my local libraries. As I have a few on my doorstep now. I flit between them, collecting worn and torn books that I repurpose.
I was brought up to know it was ‘wrong’ to write in books. They were sacred in our home. Probably because we were poor and if we bought books, usually from the indoor market in town, we knew it was money we couldn’t afford to spend on books. But my parents spent it anyway, as they valued books, learning and education. It was our way out of poverty.
I wonder what they would say now, if they saw what I did to books?
10p is all I pay for big, colourful children’s books, withdrawn from library stock. I have to feel the paper first though before I buy them. Even if only 10p, too shiny the page and the paint won’t grip it as well. The paint just swirls around and doesn’t stick.
I like my pages rough and matt finished. Ready to absorb whatever I put down on it.
This sketchbook was my side hustle for the last month. Side hustle to my main creative sketchbook. Here I just lay down colour and see what happens.
I like when what’s underneath the paint bleeds through. I like when the different layers of paint and pencil and pen bleeds through to the surface too.
It’s like a palimpsest. The marks beneath is the feeling I’m after. The haunting, the trace, the evidence of time and the passage of time. The archive is present now.
Living Wild Studios 