Monday, August 19, 2013

Defy the Day

We see between the place to be
Confiding in the lines on either side
Believing we are what we dream
And sighing when we find the lie.
They pray that strayers remain
Not knowing they hoard there lows
In safe sad space where their ways
go away like an unarmed foe

We defy the day and go. 

Monday, August 5, 2013

The Hen. . . a Zine

I've had a hard time getting the attention and admiration I long for regularly through this zine i created last week. I have thus decided to share it with the interwebs.

The Hen

She wants a boyfriend.
Who shall she choose? 

She found someone! 

They made babies! 

The End!

Sunday, August 4, 2013

The hour of the beach is sacred.

Every Sunday morning, I would wake up the boys around 7:30 or 8.  "L'heure de la plage est sacrée," I would say to them.  Yawning, stretching, we put on our clothes and migrated towards the front door. Jacob would feed the poultry, while Adrien would push the motorcycle out the front door of the living room. 

Moto, Jacob, Adrien


The haze of the swamp fell over our house and the city, keeping it cooler than usual.  In my daze, I straddled the motorcycle, waiting for the boys to keep up with me. I would sit forward, almost on the gas tank, leaving room for them to join me on the motorcycle.  The suspension coils pushed to their limits, I let off the clutch, gave the bike some gas, and and the three of us rode off to the beach. 
Moto soaks in the view while we frolic. 

We sped by statues representing old Vudon stories, and what seemed like the entire city of Ouidah on their Sunday run.  “Yovo,” the would yell at me, or “Teacher!” as we beat them to the beach.  

January brings cold mornings. Adrien, Jacob
We would park on an old foundation, probably a former buvette or boutique. The boys would dismount as I dropped to the lowest gear and plowed through the sand, mounting the cement slab.  Leaving our sandals behind with the bike, we jumped off the platform and into the sandy wonderland.

We would walk if we had energy, chasing sand crabs, racing, rough housing, and dancing in the waves. If we were tired, we would just sit in the sand, admiring the spectacle of fishermen pushing their boats out to sea.  A careful game with the waves, they stood there at the shore, watching the water, finding the perfect time to push forward.  Anxiously climbing over the waves to get out to calm waters. 

The beach wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense – you had to watch for broken glass, piles of trash, and the occasional piece of drifted styrofoam or wood.   The arch of the Gate of No-Return, the monument to slaves gone away, prominently marked the beach. It was surrounded by a collection of derelict buildings - a hotel once glamorous with windows punched out and soot stained floors.  


Sometimes tradition wins over beauty, or tradition becomes beautiful. The beach was our church - our Sunday morning place for quiet time, reflection, conversation, with whatever spirits might surround us.