Happy Hollow Daze

Flew into Philadelphia International last night to visit family for the hollow daze. The reason for the synonymous spelling is to focus attention on the hyper-commercialization of big business, backed by slave/colonial fortunes and invested in marketing and advertising in order to slip thier subliminal hand deep in our pockets to satisy the artificial needs/wants of loved ones, of our selves. And we open wide, allowing them to suck after hypnotizing us into zombie like participation by consuming whatever it is they have in stock, on the warehouse shelves....I saw it first hand tonight, visiting my nephew Will's family in Bethlehem, PA. The artificial Christmas tree was lit--dressed with bulbs, garland and tinsel. An agel rested on the treetop, beneath which lay a mountain of presents that had been opened earlier that afternoon. His little girl, Coral, was coloring in front of the tree, but soon decided that she wanted to play with several cans of playdough. Her mama suggested that she wait until tomorrow because it was getting late and playdough can be quiite messy. Coral became angry, told her mama "no" and commenced to pout and then to cry. Then to my surprise, started kicking the rest of the presents and throwing them about until her mama threatened to "get the hot sauce," which seemed to calm her down.

Things have gotten out of hand. No matter what we get, whether we deserve it or not, we want more and more...and more. Gone are the daze of apples and oranges and home made cookies in stockings hanging from a makeshift brick carboard chimney; brand new socks and drawers, coloring books and crayons. Tonight I looked out of the backdoor of our farmhouse remembering how the snow fell across fallow fields. There is a full moon tonight and as I looked up at the mountain draped in the last rays of twilight, I remember the nights of laughter and love in this house; remember mamma coming home from work from the stocking factory or her day job cleaning and cooking Christmas dinner; remember the effort my sisters Pat, Carole and Peg put into making butterscotch and peppermint candy wreaths to hang from the doors; remember days of walking the stream and hunting crows feet to make the wreaths look authentic; remember digging sassafrass roots in the woods to make tonic that we'd need to cleanse our bodies come spring. When we couldn't afford a tree, daddy would come home after work at the brick yard, go to the woods down by the old house and chop down a cedar. And although the branches were oftentimes sparse, we'd make up for it by popping corn and stringing it as garland or making colored paper chains, or handmade ornaments from salted cookie dough. In Stations Audre Lord warns about this never ending hunger, warns about our fear that can never be satisfied. More than likely there are complex reasons for Coral's temper tantrum, but I believe it's a metaphor for a larger conundrum we face in American society. We need to be still on this Chilly Christmas evening, take time and reflect upon the true meaning of this time whatever our beliefs might be. It's time for family. Time for love. Time for small acts of kindness that accumulate, balance, and harmonize what has become the hollow daze of our increasingly complicated lives.

Her Hands in My Hair...

Florence W. Williams crossed over to the ancestral zone on Wednesday, December 12, 2007. Born November 8, 1911 in the Elmwood section of Philadelphia, PA. she was 96 years old. My dear lovely auntie, who used to straighten the thick of my hair on Saturday mornings in my mama's kitchen. I will miss her hands in my hair, miss her stern look when I was actin' a fool, her beautiful smile, the twinkle in her eye when she shared secrets with me that shaped me into the woman I am today. Later, I'd grow locks and she never quite adjusted to the style to say the least.

She promised me one night while I was sleeping, to sneak into my room with scissors sharpened and cut off one by one my twisted locks. Her guilded instrument, seal and deliver the Cyclops. My crown lopped and falling beneath shoulders, bare ropes tangled. My strength cascaded round my head as one eye opens--splay the wounded mane, a trophy in the darknes. Steal the lambs lost, dare the dead. What did she know of summer shadows draped on bedroom walls? Of cracks that sing soprano under floorboards. Splintered rough and calloused claws of sparrows, small breasted summoner of twilight vigils beneath towers crumbling covenants with God? Still I loved her irons that curled the blackness. The sizzle of blue unguents and green pomades that tamed wild roots. Ordered them lie down, preserved in smoky parlors, shoot by shoot on steamy Saturdays. "Be still" and enter Shirley's temple, refined with offerings of singed rags and burnt sacrifice of earlobes elegant on protracted afternoons of beauty. A list of stylized possibilities that were never mine.

Come out, come out wherever you are...

I returned to teaching this fall. Didn't realize how much time it takes, especially away from the research. I feel like I've enlisted in the "darkness visible." The hypergraph in me is excited for the semester to end. Love teaching, just like I imagine LDB loved spreading the word, healing the spirit. Got multiple writing projects--irons smoking in the ink & fire and it's time to come out and play. . One thing that I was able to accomplish during the semester was launching Blacksong, the digital archive of my matrilineal family history. I worked with Otim Oloya--one of the best as far as graphic designers go; an all around creative genius doing dirty deeds on the Left coast. We worked together on weekends and in mid-November launched Blacksong which can be accessed at www.djamsay.net. It's a work in progress, like the genealogical study of the Blackson Clan. During the hollow daze the plan is to complete the first phase of the archive. Big Ups Oteezy. I couldn't have done it without you baby.