Monday, March 07, 2011

aRCHival re-downLoAd...I feel excited...

Something burst inside'a me. I don't know why...
But today I decided to start re-integrating some of my older blog posts that had formerly been archived on my locked site. I started here in 2006 blogging obsessively in a vain attempt to save my life...still not sure if what I have would qualify as one...maybe a...half...life.
hmmm...
There are over 2,000 posts t/here...submerged...hidden from view. I remember what a hoot it was when I decided to dive deep in 2009. I got some serious email and facebook messages from people I'd never met who it turns out had been scotching on stools all over my livingroom reading my shite. Many of them academics who had never even bothered to say so much as a hullo...
I was like...hold up!
Who tha fuck are these people and what exactly are they planning on doing with what they've read here? Or more like...how much money will they make off the shit they've encountered here that they will then attempt to turn into green for themselves but not for me and my children?
heh :)
Needless to say I turned down most of the facefriend requests I got from people who were perfect strangers to me who did not understand me as stranger at all.
sigh...
At this point in my blogging life I don't fucking care. They're so dry. Dry as biscuits. They're welcome to whatever they can fucking pick off my flesh, blood, bones and words.
I haven't unlocked everything, though. Just some of the ones that give me devilish pleasure. Here's one from Monday, February 27, 2006...
"enjoy"


So, we're almost to the end of African Liberation Month. Of course I will be able to post anytime, but the posts I do during this month are an incursion into contested space.

As Audre Lorde wrote: "We were never meant to survive".

I was never meant to survive and thrive sufficiently to have the ballz to resist another day.

This is a bent birthing sent out with hope, grounded in a past commonality, eyes on a future filled with energized and conscientized multiplicity...published sometime in 2001 or '02 (I'm bad at dates) in On Our Backs. ;)


The Sending
by T.J. Bryan aka Tenacious, copyright 2000

This Red Gyal appears straight outta the humid city night right in front'a me. No joke, not even a few seconds ago there was no one even close to where she's standing now.

And I can't say for sure what I'm feeling more, her electric blue 'fro or the black lace fan she's waving lazily back and forth, back and forth in an attempt to cool herself.

Brown eyes flecked with yellow fix on me and I stop dead in my tracks. Her words: "You called?" The smile reveals bright white teeth. Arms open and I step to her like this sort'a thang happens everyday. Under a street light surrounded by uninterested others I nuzzle her throat. I'm more than a little relieved. Not at all surprised.

See, not even a few days back I filled a glass with cool water, lit a pink candle, laid down a feather, scattered my cowries and put in a call to any Power that cared. Dared ask to hold a body like mine again. To inhale the crazy-makin' scent of a sista or any She. To hear the way a woman sounds when she really hungers for me.

Been too long and I wanted to be back. For months now I'd been walkin' on the boy-lovin' side'a thangs. For a bit, I was all caught up in it. This intimacy-fearin', game playin', male female battling, sista to sista competing frame'a mind left me pissed and hurt in places both alien and familiar. Changed in ways I wanna deny but need to remember.

Now, in the shadows of a nearby alley I come home.

We don't even bizness with the stinkin' garbage bags or the big-ass racoon in the dumpster, busily searching for its evening meal. Cuz this ain't gonna be a cushy bedroom, soft lights and D'angelo singin' falsetto in-tha-background affair. This is about here and now.

We are frenetic, kinetic. Limbs tangled and connected. Tongues dueling and delving. I grab her hair, sending her down to where my naked snatch hides under a piece of kente too brief to be called a skirt. I spread legs covered in black school girl thigh highs and begin to ride. But even as I feel my nature rise, I get wise to the fact that this ain't gonna come easy.

Somethin's messin' wit' me. Almost like we got company lurking in the shadows. Suckin' their teeth and talkin' shit...only hoes and gutter gyals spread for people they just met...but wait, what sort of lifestyle this is here? Gyal pickney, ain't you got no brought-upsy? No fear?

I bend my knees slightly and grind my cunt into her upturned face. All else fades as she reaches up and takes my womb in her hand. I take in air as best I can and try to not cry out.

If my brothas and sistas, those dark children that look like me but don't know how to juk like me, could see us now, I'd grin and say: This is who I am. This is why I need to do more than quietly smile and pass and lime, then slowly die among you.

I put this thought to one side, knowin' they'll nevah truly get it. And can I really blame 'em? Red Gyal's teeth on my pussy, expert tongue sliding as she smears my juice 'cross her face is damn near indescribable in our master tongue. But that don't stop me from hissin' encouragements and endearments using every single cuss word I know.

Eyes shut tight, I fumble toward the rainbow side of darkness. An expectant knot tightening in my belly. Lust coiled waiting. Pooni throbbing. Nerves send warning. Her fingers thrusting, teasing. Then I'm exploding, insane.

As I come down, fighting for breath and control, Red Gyal raises herself up and moves into my arms. I expect soft lips and instead receive teeth tearing into my mouth. A precious and courageous gift. I taste my own funk mingled with copper-tinged blood but don't pull away.

I get up behind her, shove her against the graffiti-covered brick and run my hands over clothes that are just getting in my way. With some help I drag blue jeans and black cotton panties past her knees and bury my face in the cleft between cheeks. Her musk is well-spiced and I feast greedily, biting and suckin' as she moans arching her back.

She turns to face me and demands that I fuck her ass. I slick a hand with spit and work her with as many fingers as she can take. The word Yes repeated to infinity is a prayer whimpered in my ear. Her tears and cries are a queer patois I interpret with ease. Her legs clamped tight 'round me are all the permission I need.

And all the while, there's this look on her face that's messing wit' my mind. Making me bump and grind as if my life depends on it. Making me wish I knew her better. Don't even know her name. Damn! Sure as hell can't hope to ever see her again. But right now I love her. Love her for coming when I called. Love her for being a vision manifested in tha flesh.

Primal pussy to pussy friction sets the space around us on fyah. I hold tight, burying my hand deeper in her and pray for magic enuff to protect us both.

Growls in a bass tone I don't even recognize are punching their way outta me. I'm riding Red Gyal's thigh, legs spread wide, my head thrown back. What likkle bit'a clothes we've still got on are fast coming off. Breaths synchronize and I realize that this vibe has done more than rock us here tonight.

The shades of blood ancestors -- tough muthas who survived middle passage horrors, broken ones who passed over before the ships ever landed, young girls and crones with folds shut tight who fought and died with NO on their lips, sistren who gave it up and lived to kill another day -- have been drawn into the love we've made.

These souls been on ice but ain't quite passed ovah. Their fate was desire controlled by others. Juicy sweet heat deferred for survival's sake. Their insistent murmurings, black doves circling, crying: "Sankofa!" Silken whisperings 'bout a plan: "Go back to cum forward. The time is right."

To us they offer true emancipation. At last an end to the lies and the abomination. They open our mouths and our minds to one strange and forbidden fruit we can safely cherish, savouring it to tha max.

"Sankofa!"

Their spirits mount us and ride our riddim. Sublime conjuring. Unearthly possession. Touch triggers pleasure centers. Each loving word is a treasure shared among us in dialects both living and dead.

This raging continental tide of drumming, rhythmic cunt beats is a freedom train, one helluva ride. They fuck us invisibly. Filling us, full feeling us. Manipulate our clits. Suckle and bite our nipples. Unseen hands smack and tug and pinch and stroke.

Their hunger is massive, their thirst unquenchable. From within and without they push our over-heated bodies past tolerance, past caring. The staccato slap of flesh against flesh quickens our pace. We scream and struggle but do not stop.

Even though passers-by are no longer simply passing by. Though our hearts are pounding uncontrollably in our chests. Though we can't seem to take in enough air. Though deep purple night is giving way to magenta morning sky. Though the ground under our feet trembles and shakes and whole universes of custom threaten to collapse, we cyan't stop.

A growing crowd of onlookers is gathering not even a few feet away. But that's about as far as they can get. Some surge forward. Can't say whether they wanna penetrate or interrupt our flow. But in any case they're forced to stand back.

Some shout out their rage. Others tantrum and self-destruct. Others still simply explain in moderate tones that they're okay with what we people do as long as they don't have to see it. But for once the powers-that-be are fully on our side. And all they can do is watch what we do.

Red Gyal and I are grooving, simultaneously moving toward one hell of a peak. But we are eclipsed by the cries and shrieks of a billion dark divinities about to get off.

And when they cum we are deafened by their jubilation. When they cum we are almost crushed in their contractions. When our foremothers finally claim the right to cum all present are washed clean, baptised in the salty sea water of their astral ejaculations.

Then, released, their essence leaves this place for good.

Emptied, spasming and once more alone in our own skins, Red Gyal and I laugh and cry and embrace. What began in the past has ended in this our freedom time. We are their daughtas fi true – two revolutionary sluts who lust fearlessly and speak in ecstatic tongues.

I open my mouth to ask her name, but the light touch of her fingers on my lips interrupts me. Instead I kiss her sticky palm and promise to remember all. Vow to remember their story, our story and the place where we all came together.

Untouched by shame, filled with wisdom and the relentless will to fuck, I dress and gather my things. The dispersing crowd parts and I leave Red Gyal in the alley behind me. I don't look back. Chances are, she's already gone.

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