12/01/21 2:34 am (pg24 of 104)
balance by akila
hello world
mr ima go bold has lost his nerve
about a quarter way in Im concerned
i have finally revised it into terminality
i stopped, stepped away and now
im reading over what ive done to
see if it reads okay
hell i dont even read poetry, is this just going to
make it a more difficult read than it already is
i miss ellens guidance
she has not been as
accessible, i fear she
has finally given up
on me
i cant blame her if she
has, im kinda lost
got to decide today
do i do this or dont i
whatever decision you make. rick
once made its made, enuf 2nd
guessing unto infinity, just do it
if it dont work i still got the old draft
i got to try i think, just do it
20 years i have been trying to sell it as
is, another basic revision of same thing
is a waste of time, go bold or give up,
those are your options, rick
go bold or give up
keep reminding yourself as
you butcher your novel
go bold or give up
i got to go, so many
pages, so little time
PS: 4:19 AM
so i been reading over it and it reads well i think
(clearly im not a good judge of how my work reads)
but also its doing what i hoped it would do
force the reader into a new relationship w/the
text, a new rhythm of reading and
comprehending
the flow
for me that dislocation means Im giving
new attention to every beat and this is
just the 1st raw reformatting, couple
good revisions of the poetrywork and
trying to achieve the griotic flavor, i
just might have that great novel
been in me to write afterall
this faith that has fallen so hard
i feel renewed - tentatively
go forth, rick, go bold
or give up
those are your options
11/30/21 8:42 am (pg24 of 104)
breaking lines so top number rising
cutting will even that out but i have
this majjor fear that i am finally killing
my novel, i fear im making it quirky
and pedestrian, fake narrative . . .
i have made the decision and must
see how it plays out, ignore your fears
rick, trust your creative instinct, just
do it
11/30/21 8:42 am (ive lost the page count)
i rise, artist unknown
well world, look what i have
done, scared as i can be
so im going thru text and i am thinking
big poem, im thinking griotic text, iim
cutting out all the ambianic stuff, im
ruthlessly cutting - but this morning i
started breaking lines, tentative,
a passage about pg 3, it looked
good, i did another, now ive done
the 1st 10 pages or so and i like
the way it reads and looks, ima
go for it, my work is dense
the reason i write in broken lines
as i do here is to help folk digest it
but doing it for a whole novel
thats a challenge and just might
break the damn thing but nobody
is feeling my text, i gotta try
something different
this is just a little taste
i figure first put it in new format
then more ruthless cutting
then give it a groitic flavor:
---------------------
1ST Movement: I am Rickydoc
I am Flowers of the Delta Clan Flowers and the line of O. Killens.
I am hoodoo, I am griot, I am a man of power. I am mythmaker.
Once again I have come to tell my story, to gather folk around the
sacred fire and provide the visions without which the people will
perish, once again I come bearing gifts, this baby myth.
The Long March of the Firstborn.
I have tried to tell this story many times, many ways, all to no
avail, I have failed to give it the power it needs, too many times
folk have shifted about, glanced at the moon, drifted away from
the sacred fire, too many times Ive lost them, and now my own
sun sets, the fires that have driven me faint embers now, my voice
no longer the powerful instrument to which I am accustomed,
I speak in short breathless burst now, where once I sang I now
must shout, but it will have to do, this one last time, I will shift
the tone, the way I sit, I will try something new, I cannot imagine
what, but this one thing I know, this one thing keeps me going.
I still believe I have something important to say, just got to
say it so folk see it. I still believe that, I still believe in me
I will continue to conduct myself as I aspire to be, a master griot
trained in Craft by de Babajohn, de great griot master of brooklyn
There is a recurrent dream I have had, me macking with all my
heart, mack mack macking with all my power and with every
word a new world comes into focus and solidity but sometimes
I stumble and I falter and the world around me thins into
insubstantiality, fantasy and illusion, while I flounder about
desperately looking for the right words and when I find them,
hidden in the mire, I get to macking again, mack mack macking
until you see what I see. A star faring folk leaping at the sun.
The Long March of the Firstborn.
Folk think prophecy about foretelling the future. Au contrary. Prophecy
about correlating current behavior with destinic consequence.
Continue to conduct yourselves in this manner and your
generations will suffer. Listen to me and they will thrive.
God told me this.
Attend me, Lord Legba. It is I, Rickydoc Sunstrider, the High
Hoodoo of Memphis, would tell the tale of a people, a prophet,
a way. In the name of the Conqueror, let this work be done.
Let this work be a Healing:
I am known by many names. In the Delta I am known by the
horses I choose and it is altogether fitting that in Memphis a
conjuror awaits on the bank of Oshuns oldest water. I regret
what must be done. It is not easy to be a Horse of the Conqueror.
First you must be broken:
Old boy dont break easy. Bearded dread and built to take
punishment, a redeye bluegum twohead man what live in
a frugal manner in a little house perched on stilts in a
riverside park by the Mississippi. oldschool, more woods
than park, still primal, deep, dark and dense, I man often
seen walking through the underbrush and the cramped
little streets of the colored community that sprawl along
the river there. Riverside its called and inordinately proud
of its local conjureman.
Live out there in the woods like a wildman, Queen Mother
Memphis tell visitors from neighborhoods with fewer blessings, she
classic neighborhood busybody what live at the mouth of the park
in a little gingerbread house next to the Riverside Branch Library and
across from the Hole in the Wall jook. This corner is a locus of power.
Reality is thin here . . .
Comments