wind
Shhhhhhhhh
Sometimes this Writer Man will take five different stories and make them into one. Sometimes the things he put down not untrue, but they never happen in that order. The first time I go to the Revival Church they was meeting in the balmyard, not in no forest. And that was the night they send me to Mother Herbert, who had been calling unto me. But there came another day when I did fall in the Spirit, and for true, I did stay fallen for days. So let me tell you what it was like: I did see ancestors, ground spirits, fallen angels, archangels. I see River Mumma sitting on her rock. I see Baby Duppy wrestling with coconuts, Injan Duppy jangling her bangles, Rolling Calf shaking him chains. I see a future of earthquakes. I see the past that is a haunting unto man. I go down to river-bottom and I see alligators, and I go up to the sky and I see a line of crows. Maybe you shake your head, but let me learn you a lesson right now: plenty knowledge is in this world. Enough knowledge that you can pick and refuse. And if you want, you can refuse to know plenty things, don’t care how true those things be. I know things you does not know, and things you will never know. And it is sake of that—sake of this knowledge—that people have looked on me and called me old fool or crazy. They treat me like I is retarded. Imagine that. I is the idiot because I know what they don’t know. Donkey say the world nuh level, and the world not level for true. Plenty knowledge is all bout you, but ongly some knowledge you will accept. So I learn to keep things in my breast. Telling it and shouting it not going to make no goddamn difference to anything or to anybody. I understand how this life go. Whatever white man believe in with all his heart—that thing name religion; whatever black woman believe in, that name superstition. What white man go to on Sunday, that thing name church; but what black woman go to name cult. What white man worship is the living God himself; but what black woman worship name Satan or Beelzebub. Whatever it is that white man accept in his heart is a thing that make all the sense in the world; but what black woman accept in her heart is stupidness and don’t worth a farthing. Sake of what black woman know in her heart, sake of her knowledge, she will get thrown into the madhouse and she will feel the pain of electric shock. So sometimes is best she keep silent. After all, don’t care how you want to sit there and deny the knowledge of River Mumma sitting on her rock—don’t care how you deny the knowledge of fallen angels who can jump into your body as they please, or the knowledge of ancestors who sit beside your bed and watch when they not harkening on to the sounds of drumming—don’t care how you deny any of it, all of it is still true. All of them things still exist, because them do not need the permission of your belief. But I talk these things careful and slow, cause I learn my lesson good. I taking time with my story. I know the value of silence. Sometimes silence can save you from being locked up. Sometimes silence is all that we have left.
Shhhhhhhhh
Mr. Writer Man is not always a patient man. I telling him my story in its own way, in its own time. But some days is like he not listening. He looking off into the distance, through the windows and unto the snow. He tapping his pencil against the table like he not concerned with anything I saying. Irritation all over his voice when his mind finally come back to the room and he tell me to stop, stop … just hold on a minute. He flip the tape around in his recorder and before he press the buttons to start again, he ask me, Adamine, please, we’ve been through all this already. You’re telling me the same things over and over. When are you going to tell me about England? Well, well. I don’t take talk like that from him. No sir. I set my voice firm as iron and tell him, we will get there when we get there. I tell him, look all around you. England
Shhhhhhhhh
Sometimes this Writer Man will take five different stories and make them into one. Sometimes the things he put down not untrue, but they never happen in that order. The first time I go to the Revival Church they was meeting in the balmyard, not in no forest. And that was the night they send me to Mother Herbert, who had been calling unto me. But there came another day when I did fall in the Spirit, and for true, I did stay fallen for days. So let me tell you what it was like: I did see ancestors, ground spirits, fallen angels, archangels. I see River Mumma sitting on her rock. I see Baby Duppy wrestling with coconuts, Injan Duppy jangling her bangles, Rolling Calf shaking him chains. I see a future of earthquakes. I see the past that is a haunting unto man. I go down to river-bottom and I see alligators, and I go up to the sky and I see a line of crows. Maybe you shake your head, but let me learn you a lesson right now: plenty knowledge is in this world. Enough knowledge that you can pick and refuse. And if you want, you can refuse to know plenty things, don’t care how true those things be. I know things you does not know, and things you will never know. And it is sake of that—sake of this knowledge—that people have looked on me and called me old fool or crazy. They treat me like I is retarded. Imagine that. I is the idiot because I know what they don’t know. Donkey say the world nuh level, and the world not level for true. Plenty knowledge is all bout you, but ongly some knowledge you will accept. So I learn to keep things in my breast. Telling it and shouting it not going to make no goddamn difference to anything or to anybody. I understand how this life go. Whatever white man believe in with all his heart—that thing name religion; whatever black woman believe in, that name superstition. What white man go to on Sunday, that thing name church; but what black woman go to name cult. What white man worship is the living God himself; but what black woman worship name Satan or Beelzebub. Whatever it is that white man accept in his heart is a thing that make all the sense in the world; but what black woman accept in her heart is stupidness and don’t worth a farthing. Sake of what black woman know in her heart, sake of her knowledge, she will get thrown into the madhouse and she will feel the pain of electric shock. So sometimes is best she keep silent. After all, don’t care how you want to sit there and deny the knowledge of River Mumma sitting on her rock—don’t care how you deny the knowledge of fallen angels who can jump into your body as they please, or the knowledge of ancestors who sit beside your bed and watch when they not harkening on to the sounds of drumming—don’t care how you deny any of it, all of it is still true. All of them things still exist, because them do not need the permission of your belief. But I talk these things careful and slow, cause I learn my lesson good. I taking time with my story. I know the value of silence. Sometimes silence can save you from being locked up. Sometimes silence is all that we have left.
Shhhhhhhhh
Mr. Writer Man is not always a patient man. I telling him my story in its own way, in its own time. But some days is like he not listening. He looking off into the distance, through the windows and unto the snow. He tapping his pencil against the table like he not concerned with anything I saying. Irritation all over his voice when his mind finally come back to the room and he tell me to stop, stop … just hold on a minute. He flip the tape around in his recorder and before he press the buttons to start again, he ask me, Adamine, please, we’ve been through all this already. You’re telling me the same things over and over. When are you going to tell me about England? Well, well. I don’t take talk like that from him. No sir. I set my voice firm as iron and tell him, we will get there when we get there. I tell him, look all around you. England
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