here,
I found a new rhythm,
a new flow, glow of gold,
orange in form, like the sun beyond the dome,
soul dancing to the divine, movement of grace,
stories, I tell of prayer, depth of Spirit and rave.
the air is humid, heavy with melancholy of a life that wants to remembered and a few words, all feeling like electricity before words of poetry. I am moving, to where ? I ask. everything is moving, life, dreams, love and short afternoons. its all a maze.
I am losing grip with each morning, losing bits of myself in the moving. work, work has become a burden more than a solution, don't get me wrong, I love the writing, photography and interviews, they are stilling, I find a calm rhythm in them, problem is the office, it is stealing my dreams, siphoning my energy, never satisfied.
train rides in the morning and evening are soul warming, I get to see numerous plays, the market women in lesos, office men in khakis, the interesting ones are the strangers, not strangers to the city, but the ones who have woken up from the moving. some days I am jealous of the strangers, others I am intrigued.
this small desk in the corner of my bed sized bedroom takes my nights, here, I sharpen my pen, 1000 words like 1000 swings of a sword the master says. with these word I travel in my mind and find treasures.
generally, I feel stuck in a loop that seems to never end, and I am losing the will to jump out of it with each morning. 1931, angola. the state is fitting its web around the country. wars in the shadows, cold war, they call it, they try to squeeze themselves into every pipe that runs the country for the next 71 years. all this is noise, politics and its wars don't concern me, unless there's a story to write for the state's newspaper. the only thing that concerns me is my small desk.
***
today's train is colorful, the market women are talking about a slow economy, the office men are talking about headlines in the news, for a newspaper writer I really I'm out of loop with news, the strangers are lost in wonderings, they seem to be on missions, the ravers, they are hearing musings of benga from kenya and rhumba from congo, they are speaking swahili, poetic swahili, a beutiful language I might say, I know it from my travels in mombasa, they are playing music from a radio and dancing, their smiles carry this peace of letting go.
through my window, evening is setting in with patience. the city hasn't filled the horizon yet, I see trees and hills, it is a port city, atlantic the new maps say. the state owners came through here to invade the country, they came with stick's that spit fire, they landed here with ships. seasons have passed since their arrival, this was always a city, different aesthetics after the state owners came.
the train has stopped, the train station and the railway were here before the state, they modified the trains and tried to write a different narrative. the station is neglected, crows are crying in corners with no lights, pick-pockets ready to snatch anything lose, floors with dirty water, I did a story once here about a lost dog. the night is peaceful outside, the sky is hopeful for new story.
this path to my house is where I always get inspiration, the trees, the breeze and the birds. ah, three crows on tree, never seen one on this path. before the city, I was in the village, in the forest, not deep in the forest though, I got education when the state came, according to my linage, I am a storyteller, the tribe entrusts me with stories to keep and teach. I was given the stories, but then the great war happened, they fought with mud because we were mad men, we ate and drunk from nature, I was a little boy then.
there's a story about three crows on a tree, the ancient ones say the shaman will appear with words foe the knowmad.
***
a few steps from the tree with the crows, a violet light filled my space, it blinked seven times and vanished. looking up, I see three moons, one to the east, one to the west, one at the center of the sky. walking on, the path leads me to a shrine, it had architecture from my tribe, with ancient markings, it is alive if you can imagine that. the entrance is curved and open but I cant see inside.
"ukombe weya, welcome" a voice says.
stepping inside the room, a yellow warm light touches my skin like the morning sun, a man with a beautifully feathered cloth sits across me, the space is circular, the light is coming from an orb. the man is wearing a mask, he's sitting on a stool with a cup in his hand.
"drink this young one, you will go where you remember a different past, you will remember how to crow." he says giving me the cup
I took a sip.
"don't be afraid to tell your stories" the man says.
As high as the sun. Catch a frequency.