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from the tradition: highjohn the conqueror and brer rabbit come calling

hello world
(stone sticking it w/RFTW, kneedeep in the zone)

two story excerpts from Rest for the Weary
(main char, tucept jubilation highjohn, is a storyteller)

first is riff on highjohn the conqueror (as is tucept)
my version of  jackie torrences version of a piece zora neale
did in the 40s mythologizing highjohnny conqueroo

the photos are me doing my witchdoctor thing at the
medgar evers juneteenth ritual at coneyisland
for the ancestors who didnt make the middle passage

the second is tucept jubilation telling stories to neighborhood kids
during juneteenth celebration in memphis' riverside park, a riff
on stories told by the great afroam storyteller, baba george
also known as uncle remus

Highjohn de Conqueror The Way Zora (and Jackie) Tell It.

For a longtime Highjohn de Conqueror was just the name of a plant that grew wild in the marshland. It was dug and dried and carried in the hand or worn about the neck to ward off haints, disease and nightmares. Its the power root. Break any obstacle. Cause any problem to fall. After awhile that plant became so powerful it began to walk like a natural man.

Now Highjohn the human kept out of the sight of folk. Live like Legba child in the swamp somewhere. But whenever you in trouble you whisper his name and you can feel the Conqueror as he pass you in the breeze, listen good and hear him whispering in the trees.

Zora claim the Conqueror must walk on the wind, cause he move so fast. Say maybe he in Mississippi when the lash fall on a slave in the Sudan, but before the blood dry on the back the Conqueror is there. Beating the unbeatable and superior to the whole mess a sorrow

Claim this our day. Claim to know the way.

Zora say its the Conquerors voice come through clearest on Sunday morning. Say its the Conquerors worksong sustain you in the field. Say whereever the work the hardest the Conqueror is there. Lifting the hoe higher than anybody else and still have time to wipe the sweat from your brow. To give you a cool drink of water.

Zora say he the sweetness in an apple pie and the quick cunning of breh rabbit. The cool breeze on a hot summer night and the wetness of a sweet summer rain. He the hopebringer. The burden bearer. The battlefighter. The jackpot winner. A mighty force. An ultimate power.

When you whisper his name, bees dont sting. Sqeeters dont bite. Snake dont strike.

Zora claim the conqueror helped the slaves get free by tricking old massa. Say after the slaves were free, the soul of the conqueror went into the Highjohn de Conquer root. Waiting to return whenever there is a need. Say you call him and he be there before you finish saying his name.

Highjohn de Conqueror

Thats what Zora Neale said. Ask her yourself if you dont believe me.

Me and the Rabbit

How many of you know, Highjohn ask a gaggle of spellbound kids from the neighborhood, that Brer Rabbit and his crew live in the Park here.

Anklebells jangling, Highjohn walks to the edge of the stage and sits down amongst them. He drops his voice like it is a secret between them. That’s why I live here he told them because they tell me things I couldnt get nowhere else.

Now the Rabbit and them, they wary of humanfolk but sometimes late at night I settle back and close my eyes and act like Im sleeping see and soon enough old Brer Rabbit he come peeping in the door and when he see me sleeping like that he call the rest of them in and they commence to partying.

Brer Rabbit he pull out he bluesharp and Bear he play the bones, Brer Alligator he dance on he tail and Sister Coon she play she guitar bigger than she and Brer and Sister Fox commence to kicking up their heels and sometimes I get in the spirit and I forget myself and I open my eyes and the music stop and they all hide away till I remember to close my eyes again.

john henrys hammers

been listening to a remix of alan lomaxs library of congress recordings
in particular john henrys blues, a remix of ed lewis taped 1959
got me to thinking about old john henry
one of the folkloric characters in RFTW

now most folk know the john henry story
a big steel driving man who got into a race with a steam drill

bruh henry was working on a tunnel being driven through the big bend mountain
when they told him he was being replaced by a steam drill
john henry laughed bigman loud and said before i let a steam drill beat me down
i will die with this hammer in my hand lord, i will die with this hammer in my hand

so john henry he picked up a hammer in each hand and he commence
to driving steel with those hammers swinging so sweet folk that was there
say he had rainbows over his shoulders, ring like silver shine like gold

and then that steam drill commence to driving steel like a natural man
and you never seen nothing like it, they moved through that mountain
like a boll weevil through cotton

and when folk felt the earth a shaking john henry told them not to worry
thats just the sound of my hammer sucking wind lord, just the sound
of my hammer sucking wind

and before i let this power driver beat me down i will die with this hammer in my hand
lord i will die with this hammer in my hand

now as most folk know, thats exactly what happen, john henry beat that steam drill
but he died with his hammer in his hand lord, yes he died with his hammer in his hand

what folk generally dont know is that john henry had a wife name was pollyanne
just a little bit of a thing but pollyanne drove steel like a man lord, pollyanne
drove steel like a man

so when she seen her man falter and she seen the lefthand hammer fall from his hand
she scooped that hammer up before it hit the ground and didnt miss a lick, 
and both hammers swinging, they drove that tunnel right through big bend mountain
and they beat that steam drill too lord, they beat that steam drill down

of course john henry was a dead man walking by then, but that righthand hammer didnt get
the news, it kept on following pollyanne, right thru big bend mountain

and to this day when folk going through the big bend tunnel they commence to listening
cause when they so deep under that mountain that the sun dont shine
you can feel that vibration up in there

some folk say thats what a train sound like when its buried under a mountain of stone
but folk that know these things say thats the sound of those hammers sucking wind lord lord, thats the sound of those hammers sucking wind

those same folk say if you listen real good you can hear two hammers, hitting like a heart beat
and right in the middle of that heartbeat you can hear john henry and pollyanne singing

aint nothing we cant do lord, aint nothing we cant do, with a hammer in each and every hand
lord lord, with a hammer in each and every hand

word

by rickydoc flowers

tankaras tale as told by rickydoc flowers

back in the day there was a wandering djeli from segu. he is tankara of the bamana, young and strong and incapable of taking life too seriously for he is yet undefeated. he has come to timbuktu to seek his fortune and perhaps an appointment to a great and noble family.

since he left segu he has traveled among the fulani and the malinke, the fula and the taureg, and here in timbuktu he has known nupe and wolof and dinka, arabs and the songhai who were the city.  this very last moon he met an albino colored man who claimed to come from a faraway tribe called the portugee.  tankara had never heard of such a tribe but then neither had he seen such a man.  since leaving segu he has seen much that would astound the bamana but nothing like timbuktu.  surely this is the crossroads of the world.

he had not been in the city long but that he made himself at home.  he spent his days wandering through the marketplace and listening to the scholars at the university of sankore, often in languages he did not as yet know but whose wordsong he nevertheless enjoyed. for he is a djeli of segu and trained in the bardic schools of wagadougou and the music of words are his lifeblood.

he spent his days playing for money, food and lodging, and when he plays his ngoni all who hear listen, for his fingers knew the magic of the strings and he himself the tales of many peoples and instinctively knew which tale the moment required

of the morning in question he had spent most of it at the university until hungry for food and binni he headed for the marketplace.  making his way through the crowded streets of timbuktu, he thinking binni. she whose voice was sweeter than that of his ngoni, whose laugh was like no other.  she would be in the marketplace now, selling dates with her mother

and where binni was, there would be tankara of segu.  she is the best of what he has found in timbuktu.

while making his way through the crowded little streets, a melon rolls up to his sandled foot.  jostled by crowds and a mounted taureg he snatched it up before it could be damaged and found himself the amusement of an elder squatted against a sandstone wall.

the watcher is draped in the whiterobes of the desert people, and what little skin exposed is as deeply wrinkled as the forests of wagadougou.  the elder beckons

here grandfather, your melon did not get far.

thank you young djeli, here, i will share it with you.

no thank you grandfather replied tankara, i have, he thought, a far more succulent fruit in mind.

nevertheless you will share this one with me.

neither attitude nor tone invite argument and tankara noticed then the wide diviners tray.  the kola nuts inside.  of course thought tankara of segu, just my luck.  the old man is a fikela.  a master of the mystical sciences.

tankara has in his shortlife found it uncomfortable to be of interest to the fikela.  yet he warily resigns himself to a few moments of mystery and squats

that is a beautiful instrument, says the elder. he is far too amused and tankara even more wary.  nothing good can come of this. but of his ngoni he is inordinately proud.  he caresses his strings ever so lightly and a faint melodic grace lingers in the stolid air of timbuktu.  it is an old and ancient instrument and adorned with the 101 talismans that whisper with his every movement

my mothers brother is himself a fikela says tankara, he gave me this ngoni when i became myself a djeli, as was my father before me and his father before him.  my father is the djeli of da monzon of segu.

and you young djeli, the fikela broke open the melon, why do you not wait to sit in your fathers place.

tankara laughs falsely and dusts at sand on his sandals, my ngoni has been cursed o fikela, it speaks only truth. 

his voice cracks between the calls of pride and regret.  some would say it has been blessed.  he accepts a bit of melon, bites into it and wipes succulent red juices from his chin.

and so i am in timbuktu, where i go to perform in the marketplace. perhaps i will earn enough to eat well this evening. perhaps not.  but i do not know what my ngoni will say when i play and i prefer to work for those whose offense is less fatal.

tankara rises to his feet and dusts himself off, and now i must go honored one.

thank you for returning my melon young djeli. may i do you a favor in return?

and what is that grandfather

a new song perhaps

the gifts of a fikela are always suspect.  yet a song is a song.  a mystical one even more so.  once again tankara of segu squats beside the old fikela, and of what will this song be, grandfather?

you tell me young djeli, what is it that you are looking for in timbuktu.

tankara does not have to think long upon the answer.  i have come to timbuktu seeking moments of great import.  i must sing songs so great the truth will not hurt me.

moments of great import are rarely found sitting in the marketsquare playing for melons.

but this is timbuktu grandfather, its market is like no other.

yet timbuktu is not the world, of what will you sing, you who know so little.

tankara is offended.  i am tankara of segu and it is meant that i be a great djeli. it is then only fitting that i sing of greatness.  and that greatness i will find in timbuktu.  if you have a song give it to me, if not i will leave.

then im afraid you must go young djeli. perhaps i was mistaken and this song is not for you.

tankara rose and dusted himself off.   thank you for the melon grandfather.  his words are polite but his heart is not.  vastly irritated, he turned away and promptly walked into the hairy side of a passing camel.

watch yourself young bambara, laughed a big wolof in desertrobes and crossed bandoleers.  dont spook my camels, boy.

the wolof is at the head of a caravan preparing to launch itself into the desert.  it is a large caravan of many camels.

tankara backed off and muttered an apology. the wolof stopped and looked him over while the rest of the caravan ambled by.  tell me young bambara, asked the wolof, can you play that ngoni, are you any good, do you know any of the great journey songs

i am tankara of segu and my ngoni speaks only truth.

the wolof laughed at that. truth is of little use to a merchant tankara of segu. however the truth might occasionally offer some entertainment for we have a long way to go.  we will make it worth your while to travel with us.

and where do you go asked tankara of segu. the wolof laughed again, so satisfied a sound that heads were raised throughout the market and his camel danced with nervous excitement.  we are going, young bambara, to the edge of the world.

it is through travel that a djeli learns the ways of things. it is through travel that a djeli grows into power. behind him tankara can feel the eyes of the fikela.

it was then that highjohn saw her in the crowd of beale streeters. their eyes meet and she laughs  nervously, warily, at what she sees and he can only stare as the sun tangles itself in her soul and his words stumble and leave while beale street fades and all he can see is she. he barely notes the man beside her for she has spun his world and this story no longer works. he has told this story many times. tankara of segu follows a caravan to the edge of the world. it is there that he learns his ngoni's truth is not always his own.

but then tankara of segu must leave a woman whose laughter is also a sound like no other.  how then will he end this tale.  beale streeters shift uneasily as tucept jubilation highjohn stands lost in thought. 

perhaps tankara would not leave.  perhaps he would stay in timbuktu and they would build a booth in the marketplace.  perhaps she too would like to see the edge of the world.  perhaps both.  or neither.  would she say yes, would she say no.  would they be happy or full of regret.  perhaps she is but a summer best treasured in memory.  perhaps he would in this tale sing the sad and solitary song that is tankara of timbuktu

or would their love be legend

synopsis: rest for the weary

recently had to write a synopsis for current novel in progress - rest for the weary - decided to post it; 6 months from now probably be oldnews; be's like that sometime

synopsis: rest for the weary:  novel based on afroam myth of highjohn the conqueror - an exploration of prophecy; of art, magic & the conjuration of reality; of human destiny and the sanctification of holyground

tucept jubilation highjohn is a hoodoo conjuror that lives in a house on delta stilts in a riverside park in memphis.  in the realworld he is a storyteller (text explores stories and the act of story) he is a hermit of a hoodoo sorceror who aspires to be a prophet of the hoodoo way - he is a good sorceror but a failed prophet, mostly because he is too timid

he has always treated women casually, surprised to fall in fevered allconsuming love w/a married woman somewhat boldly named Angel - she is fascinated with dreams and stories he begins to spin about her - and with his claim that he will immortalize her

calls himself hoodooing her and gets hoodooed

the park is a hole in the wall, a crossroads where reality and the spiritworld meet, many historical, mythical and literary scenes play out there - the little riverside community consists of characters from afroam folklore - folk like john henry, frankie & johnnie, staggerlee, brer rabbit and them

she is an archaeologist studying civilwar contraband camps based in memphis.  in her research she finds a vague reference to some husharbor sanctuary newly freed slaves found in the park during the civilwar/1866 riots.  unable to find any official information about this sanctuary she starts asking people in the community and gets all these different myths and stories about what really happened there

this segues into slavenarrative stories of a couple during the civilwar who experience the massacre at fort pillow, the memphis riots of 1866 and other incidents of that historical moment when blackfolk were transformed from slaves to freefolk - that moment fascinates me

this segment becomes the core of the novel - apparently during the riots of 1866 some memphis blackfolk flee the killing, gather in an old husharbor outside of  memphis and listen to the sermon of a slaverytime preacher who preaches to them of a holy mission and gives them a geas - a responsibility  for the destiny of humanity - that shapes the lives of their descendants

they have though over the years and generations lost the true knowledge and only remember all these different halfbaked myths and stories of what really happened.  her inquires unearth the true story and change the lives of the folkloric members of the community (in this process i hope to update their myths and modernize afroam folklore as an instrument of cultural guidance)

trying to impress her causes him to publicly declare himself a prophet, his attempts to manifest as a wouldbe prophet perplex the community and his limited fanbase and he is rejected as i assume any true prophet must be - his stories are transformed from stories of individual heroes to stories of eternal love and community as he is himself transformed in his attempts to be what she needs in a man

turns out lord legba, the fon trickster god, in a delta manifestation as highjohn the conqueror, is using him in a gods game to influence black and human destiny, however it now appears that oshun, the yoruba goddess of love, has claimed him - it is a war of the gods

growing tension in their relationship because she feels guilty about committing adultery and starts drawing back - this starts a seesaw of breakups and getting back together - she has from the beginning been uncomfortable being objectified as his muse

feeling her drifting away in real life he begins to live more & more in his conjured dreamworld and stories of their eternal love - as he finds himself evermore manifesting as a would be prophet, his stories become more & more prophetic stories of the future

by now he is so far out there that nobody is paying attention to him, cant get no gigs, professionally he is a failure

one of his prophetic stories is transformed into the text, a lit/sci account of an academic couple on a university planet far into the future, studying the ancient old earth myth of the angel and the conjureman, studying the evolution of that myth and various interpretations of it over the years of humanity's spread into the stars.

meanwhile, family issues have come down on him and she leaves him for what seems to be the final time - he withdraws into the park,  an apparent failure and a broken man, to start work on his greatest prophetic spell - the book Rest for the Weary