Coordination and Production:
Sara Serpa & Jen Shyu
Development Editor for M³ Fall Equinox 2023 Cohort 6:
Naomi Extra
Proofreading:
Megan Torti & Amy Zhang
Cover Art:
Naomi McCarroll-Butler, “path of totality april 8 2024 3:19pm and air -26°C edmonton stripmall parking lot (the afterbirthdeath of this eon of cowards, the blood of the hidden world flushes subcutaneous still as the heart of solidarity beats on)”
Acknowledgments: Special thanks to the Mellon Foundation, Jerome Foundation, Nancy & Joe Walker, mediaThe foundation, New Music USA, CRS (Center for Remembering and Sharing), Christopher Pelham, Arlene and Larry Dunn, Emily Bookwalter, and all of our individual donors and supporters.
Contributors: M³ Fall Equinox 2023 Cohort 6
Sibongile Buda
Andrea Demarcus
Melanie Dyer
Natalie Greffel
Maia aka Sonjia Hubert Harper
Naomi McCarroll-Butler
Shoko Nagai
Francesca Naibo
Martha Redbone
Nath Rodrigues
Marta Sanchez
Sharon Udoh/Counterfeit Madison
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Foreword by Sara Serpa
1 Soundly, The King Must Die by Natalie Greffel
2 The Moon Knocked On Her Door by Shoko Nagai
3 What We Say by Melanie Dyer
4 Reflections Of A Little Colored Girl by Martha Redbone
5 Ode To Lele by Sibongile Buda
6 Chronicles Of Everyday Kindness: Essential Exercises For Musicians by Francesca Naibo
7 It’s Too Late by Marta Sanchez
8 A Letter To My Artist Self (Take One) by Maia
9 Dança Da Chuva by Nath Rodrigues
10 The Something, or, Perpetual Fire / Holy Well by Naomi McCarrol-Butler
11 Goddess Of Embodiment by Andrea Demarcus
12 A Carefully Planned Last Month Of Meals by Sharon Udoh
Foreword by Sara Serpa
As the world continues its perpetual dance around the sun, so too do we carry on with our work. Jen and I have woven M³ into the rhythm of our lives—guiding and participating in our cohort’s activities, producing our festival, honoring achievements through our M³ Luminary Award (formerly the Lifetime Achievement Award), and, of course, dedicating time to this very anthology that you now hold in your hands.
In 2025, M³ celebrates five years of existence. What impact has our work had on the world? That’s a difficult question to answer. Much of our energy has been focused on the journey—building relationships, fostering a community rooted in fairness and mutual respect, listening and learning from one another, all while reimagining how we curate and select artists. But if we must point to numbers, we are immensely proud to share that we’ve supported and commissioned 84 musicians so far from 34 countries and 13 US states, who have co-created 42 timeless compositions and films and lifelong bonds in their creative process as well as commissioned 84 literary pieces, 12 of which you will read in this Volume 6.
How do we quantify the impact of these words and stories? Stories that musicians, often marginalized by their gender identities, have carried with them—stories that lay bare the realities of a creative life in a world dominated by capital, finance, and productivity.
In these pages, you will find reflections on migration, loss, motherhood, and racism, alongside wisdom, humor, and profound advice. From imaginative glimpses of the future to poignant meditations on the past, this anthology is a rich tapestry of creativity and candor.
It is our sincere hope that you enjoy reading this volume as much as we have cherished bringing it to life.
1. Soundly, The King Must Die by Natalie Greffel
Once upon a future, a small peaceful secluded village existed, in a kingdom ruled by a wicked king. The king lived in his big castle manned by thousands of servants who obeyed his every command. He was so evil, that he demanded no one look upon him lest they want to greet death in the most gruesome ways. Out of fear of his wrath, people in the kingdom blindfolded themselves at all times, and even some blinded themselves. So, for many years not a single soul laid eyes on the king. That is, except for the small secluded village. It was indeed so secluded that it was the only village where the king’s demands and control could not reach because it would mean crossing dangerous terrains that would lead to certain death. Indeed, all of the king’s henchmen who had ventured to try and reach the village had never returned. So since no one in the small village attacked the king, the village posed no threat to him, and so the king focused on violently ruling the rest of the kingdom’s villages until he had completely forgotten about the existence of the small village. Yes, nothing extraordinary would be said about this village, since it was indeed very secluded and peaceful.
That is until one day, in the small village, during the season when the sun was burning the hottest, scorching the earth, and all the villagers took refuge in the shade of the trees at the village square. A stranger walked into the village. A woman, looking like nothing the villagers have ever seen before. As she walked slowly towards the village square, thin braids of gold, silver, diamond, and pearls dangled like hair from her head whilst her body was wrapped in a large robe made of interwoven patterns of the finest green and brown silk and cashmere. Or at least that is what it looked like at first sight. But, what truly hung from her hair were pebbles, mushrooms, flowers, and amber that glistened like gold, silver, diamonds, and pearls in the sun. Her robe was made of bark, flowers, and moss from trees unbeknownst to the land of the village. Even though it was terribly hot, the woman’s perfect brown skin remained cool in the beating sun. She walked as if she was floating through the village, until she stopped to sit down on a log in the middle of the square. Initially, the villagers were curious about her presence but would not approach her out of courtesy, because this village prided itself on not intruding on strangers unless approached directly by them. Instead, the villagers fed their curiosity through whispers and light-minded assumptions amongst themselves, until the sun set, the earth cooled, the day passed, and the villagers went home.
The next day when the villagers returned to the square, the woman had not moved. Instead, she sat still at the square under the burning sun. The curiosity of the villagers grew stronger but still, none would think to approach her. That is, until the third day, when they all returned to see that the woman still had not moved, the curiosity of a small child was greater than the harsh warnings of the mother. So while the mother carefully examined some mangoes, the child sneaked off and approached the woman. The child asked the woman who she was and what she was doing. The woman turned to the child with no change in demeanor and briefly responded, “I am waiting for it.”
Instantly, after the woman spoke, the child was sternly called back by the child’s mother. Yet word quickly spread amongst the villagers what the child heard. In the following days, more people tried to get additional answers out of the woman. Even the village elders who had initially preached about good manners and the bad etiquette of nosiness caved in and approached the woman as time went on. Yet, every time anyone approached the woman, regardless of how insistent they were, they were met with the same unchanged demeanor and the short answer, “I am waiting for it.” After some time, the villager’s curiosity wore out and they let the woman be. They returned to their mundane activities and treated her presence as if she had always sat in the village square on the log. And so the days went on. The woman sitting at the market square, cool, beautiful and brown, waiting under the scorching sun.
One day, out of nowhere, the woman pulled out a clarinet from underneath her robe. A beautiful clarinet black as the darkest night with keys glistening like stars. In fact, the clarinet was so magnificent that it looked like it was carved from the starry sky itself. As soon as the woman moved all the villagers stopped what they were doing, and the village square became utterly quiet in anticipation of what would happen next. And so the woman brought the clarinet to her mouth. Took a deep breath. And started playing.
To the villagers’ disappointment, they could not hear a single note coming from her clarinet, although it was clear she was playing the instrument. She played with so much strength and movement that her whole body swayed and undulated in rapid movements almost as if she were grabbing the air with each note and pointing it in one direction far beyond the village. As long as she sat and waited, she did not stop to rest for one moment. And so the days went on. The woman consistently played music that no one could hear in the small village under the scorching sun that burned fiercely and grew hotter.
One night, back in the king’s castle, the scorching sun had burned so much that the night did not have a chance to offer its cooling relief. Suddenly, the king woke from his slumber in a sweat, which was odd indeed since the king had never sweat in his entire life. It is not exactly clear what woke him for no one could bear witness to this disturbance, you see. But it will be said that he grumbled loudly from his chamber, awakening the whole castle. “Stop it!” he yelled. The following day in the throne hall, the king sat and sweat through his clothes. As he gave commands to his advisors, he randomly interrupted himself mid-sentence as if under compulsion and yelled, “Stop it!” Since no one was able to see what was causing him distress, it remained unclear what the king meant. But by the end of the day, it was known by all that he threatened to expel the person from the castle who kept on causing this disturbance. Yet, less than an hour had passed after the king had gone to bed before he awoke again, sweating and yelling, “Stop it, stop disturbing me!” In the days that followed, the king’s fury deepened, growing more extreme with each passing day, as he paced up and down the halls, yelling, sweating, and covering his ears. By day’s end, he would expel an increasing number of people from the castle, only to erupt into a louder wave of shouting the moment the last one had been cast out. First, the youngsters were banished, then the maids, then the cooks, then the marshals, and knights and so the days continued until the king only yelled and paced around the castle without sleeping or eating for there were no cooks or servants left in the castle. In fact, by the time a month passed, a measly lone advisor was left. No sooner did the king see the advisor, before he spat in the advisor’s face and screamed, “Stop it you insolent underling, I can hear you even from afar. Stop making that noise!” Then he chased the advisor all the way to the gates of the castle. From then on the king was all alone in his empty castle. Yelling, sweating, pacing as if driven to madness, as the sun burned hotter and hotter.
One day, long after everyone had been shunned from the castle, it was said that the king suddenly stormed out from the castle only wearing ragged clothes as if he were chasing someone. No one in the kingdom knew where he ran off to, since they did not know what he looked like. But what was known was that the king never returned. Perhaps it is no coincidence that many months after the king’s disappearance, in the small village where the woman was still playing, a brittle emaciated man came running towards the woman. If anyone ever had the chance to look at the king one could perhaps assume this strange man looked a lot like a faded version of the king, but that cannot be determined. But what is known is, as he got closer to the woman, he seamlessly transitioned from running to dancing, while dripping in sweat. The woman, who remained cool and beautiful, paid no mind to his presence and kept on playing her music. Only now, she played faster and louder even though no one in the village could hear the music. Yet the feeble stranger danced and danced, pushing beyond the boundaries of what his brittle body could take. The longer he danced, the more mad he looked… Each movement increasingly getting faster as if in a frenzy, while his limbs teetered on the brink of collapse and shattering… His eyes, disconnected from reality, rolled around his head. His mouth was foaming and drooling. His ears were bleeding. His body still drowned in sweat. And his skin. Yes, his skin. Blistering, bleeding, and cracking; scorched under the burning sun. Yes, the sun. Scorching and scorching. Oh, how it kept burning ever so hotter and hotter.
Dedicated to the child in me, who stopped writing, when I started to believe I had nothing to say.
2. The Moon Knocked On Her Door by Shoko Nagai
Her papa was an ordinary office worker.
Played Country Western and Hawaiian music
with his pedal steel guitar. Her mama,
an ordinary housewife, loved to sing all day long.
Music was everywhere in their humble home.
With a simple wish for melody shared,
the parents provided their daughter with music education.
Singing and piano lessons, dancing and ear training.
Enchanting the muses with her skillful touch, the daughter thrived.
Eventually becoming a music teacher and performer,
she was gifted with many students, concert opportunities
and a shiny new blue convertible.
Then, the moon knocked on her door.
You play every style of music, yet
You don’t know anything about any of it,
said the moon.
A whisper of longing began to grow.
I yearn to learn more! the daughter cried,
And with that, she crossed the ocean to follow her own curiosity.
She was 26.
The smell of the street, the taste of the wind, the sound of the night.
Everything seemed foreign, exciting, unfamiliar,
and not quite comfortable in this new land.
But she was determined to survive and triumph.
In the city of the best and the brightest stars
with many chances to shine and be noticed,
she played each note with ferocity,
penned each note with love,
and she thrived.
Living in a basement room with a tiny window.
Returning home in the wee hours of the night after a gig.
It was all for the sake of…?
Then, the moon knocked on her door.
Some days, blue, she couldn’t wake up.
Other days, gray, the world soaked up her tears.
At first, she did not know what had hit her.
It crept in slowly and quietly.
The daughter had never known the darkness of her heart before.
“Where is my dream?”
“Who am I?”
Soon, the whisper of doubt turned into a scream, then into despair.
For a long while, the daughter sat in the darkness.
Lost in her pain.
Then, the moon knocked on her door.
She saw a faintest light in the form of a Buddhist prayer.
Took a deep
breath, then another, and another,
slowly… with each breath, seeking
the connection to the universe.
The daughter listened,
felt a sense of relief and comfort,
and remembered
Her humble home.
Realizing that the path of spirit brings peace amidst the chaos,
she regained her strength through meditation.
Then, the daughter understood
that her path is a journey of self-discovery
graced by the universe’s embrace.
The moon knocked on her door.
3. What We Say by Melanie Dyer
Pull a warm hen’s egg from its nest,
Poke a hole in each end.
Blow it into your lover’s mouth
beneath the next full moon.
They say you forget labor.
When it’s over, nothing but new joy.
Newborn’s sweet womb smell.
Complexion seeps in.
Put five drops of oil of anise
in a little brandy,
Take it once a day for five days,
once a month, no more than three months.
I went from 118 to 176.
My man dreamt a full-breasted woman,
laughed out loud,
while he peed shrimp and blood.
Ain’t been here a day, already lifting that head.
Don’t let the cat near the baby.
It’ll suck the breath of life out of ‘em.
That’s what we say.
My breasts swelled to excruciation.
Inside a week, they made a year’s supply.
Take warm showers.
Wrap ‘em up in cabbage leaves.
That’s what we say.
Three weeks in it hit me. What If…
Can you come in and identify
With two and a half times more likely
to be arrested
every 43 seconds
from 14 to 25?
Take the bones out.
Reduce the fevers.
Boil the pacifier.
Is the baby still breathing?
Read Cat in the Hat, read cat in the hat
read cat in the hat read…
Fight the school.
Match the socks.
C’mere, let me see you.
Stand up straight,
Pick up your feet.
Chew with your mouth closed.
You better pee in Chicago cuz we ain’t stopping in Indiana.
What’d I tell you?
Exits put the heart on cold.
Love won’t dry up
another insomniac decade.
Peel back the curtains,
Sit up in bed. Listen. Listen.
Hey baby. Glad you made it home.
That’s what we say.
4. Reflections of a Little Colored Girl by Martha Redbone
i.
Sometimes I sit still and listen to the peacefulness of an early morning cup of tea and the sunlight streaming through the bedroom curtain. When I pull it back to see the sky, I give thanks for the reminder to love myself, and then after awhile I can feel the rage slowly moving over me like a cloud threatening to ruin the day with rain, thinking about that time a man attending my concert once asked what was the highest level of education I had attained because I was surprisingly articulate (for a black girl). Another time, a man said he found it hard to believe that my family were coal miners because in the West Virginia county where he was from, there were no Black people anywhere, (his county was segregated.) His face turned beet red. Yeah, I didn’t think about that, he said.
ii.
LIGHT. The first time I remember seeing the Light I was about 5 or 6 years old. I saw it in the sky at night from the 6th floor window of an upstairs neighbor’s apartment. A Guyanese family was babysitting me until my mom came home from work. It was December and close to Christmas time, freezing cold outside and snow was on the ground. Their family friend who was visiting led a Bible study and told us all about Jesus Christ. They showed us a picture of Jesus and I thought he was beautiful. They said Mary was his mother and God is his father. They showed us a picture of Mary and she had a blue shawl over her head and big blue eyes. I asked to see a picture of Jesus’ father and I was told that there are no pictures of God, that he looks like all of us, he is the Light, the Power and the Glory. And that one day he would send his son in a chariot through the sky to come for us and take us with him to meet his father. But first, I had to learn to see the Light to find God. After Bible study, I sat at their window, looking out at the night sky, trying to see if I could find the brightest star that might be the golden chariot with Jesus flying in it. Could Jesus be Santa in disguise? They said he was a spirit. They said if I looked more carefully, I could see the Light, the Power and the Glory. I searched for the brightest light, past the streetlamp, higher into the night. It was difficult because the reflection from the living room kept interfering with the sky. Then I cupped my hands against the cold window and peeked through them, wiping the condensation from my breath off the glass and I saw the Light. I saw it. I saw the brightest star which moved in the shape of an arc across the sky. When I stepped back, I saw the reflection of the living room lamp shine right in the middle of my chest and I knew this was the Light within. I remember that warm feeling in my chest from seeing that Light. I would often go back to that memory of finding the Light within. When I was sad, when I felt lost or confused or lonely…Yes, I remember searching for the Light within.
Photo from Redbone Family Collection
iii.
That time after my concert performance I was approached by two Native American women elders, they were sisters from the Southwest who advised me when I come to the Southwest not to wear my hair like THAT [Senegalese twists) and not to mention being Blaaaack (said in a whispered tone with a pause before saying it) because, what matters out here in Indian Country is being Indian much more than being…Blaaaack (whispered).
Not that it really matters but…uh… well, you’re Indian too, ya know… you just don’t want to go around saying you’re…
Black
Not that there’s anything wrong with being…
Black
iv.
DARK. stay out of the sun so i don’t get too dark and especially since i have that nigger nose and that time being told that acknowledging my mother and her side of the family is a form of self-hatred. I have to choose, I can’t be both and that I have good hair, that I have bad hair, 4a, 4b, 4c defghijklmnop, and it’s good hair, but it just won’t lay down, and baby hair, and kitchen hair, and we been taught to hate ourselves so much, and why do so many people want me to feel bad about blackness when it is so rich and powerful and beautiful and resilient, and I love being black. I love our stories, our strength and I love my daddy. And I love being indigenous, our struggles, our connections, our survival, we weren’t meant to survive, they thought we would die out or go back to where we came from but we are still here and they called us all kinds of names. Ugly names, too ugly to even say, but nigger was a big one, red nigger, prairie nigger, mountain nigger, redbone nigger, nigger-nigger, niggerniggerniggernigger. It’s exhausting having to explain and justify yourself to those who don’t know and fear, and those don’t want to know and the othering–yes, the othering is exhausting–and here it comes again, oozing out of a puncture wound, except the blood is rising in my own head.
And here it is. Rage.
I am angry. Again. And I take a beat. I close my eyes and breathe and remember my mother who told me it would be difficult the older I got but to keep telling our story, and to know who I am and where I come from. “Don’t erase us,” she said. I won’t, Mama. But Mama, it is hard to be strong all the time, it is difficult to speak out on important things and to stay silent during those ignorant moments when you just want to scream. I am now at the age where, when I hear the ignorance, I stop and stare. And I breathe and remember the light that nobody can touch. I remember the light within.
v.
RELIGION. Bible study. My first day of bible study we were sat at a small table and given a small book about the size of a deck of cards with no words, only pages of color yellow-white-blue-red-green-purple-orange-light blue-gold-silver. Miss Shirley read the Ten Commandments from her bible and each example was given a color in our wordless books. The first commandment was, “Thou shalt have no other gods before me for I the Lord thy God am a jealous god.” She showed us the white card and said God was the Light; then she read the others. When she got to, “Thou shalt not covet for jealousy is a sin,” she asked us to turn to the green card in the wordless book. I was confused. Miss Shirley said jealousy is a sin and sinning is bad. I raised my hand while holding the little green card in my other hand. I asked Miss Shirley, “if jealousy is a sin and YOU SAID we should not sin then why is God allowed to sin and be jeal…” Before I could finish my words, Miss Shirley leaned toward me screaming with her high-pitched Jamaican accent, “DO NOT EVER QUESTION THE WORD OF GAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWDDDDDD!!!!”
I flinched and blinked as she spat with anger yelling at me. “DO NOT EVER QUESTION THE WORD OF GAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWDDDDDD!!!!” I could feel little sprinkles of her spit hitting my face as she yelled so loud and so close to my 6 year old face. I felt my face sting like it had been dragged through nettles, but I’m sure it was only because my face was flushed with shame at being completely humiliated in front of the other kids. All I could see was the inside of Miss Shirley’s mouth and a lot of gold dental work. She wore black reading glasses and they got crooked and almost came off her face when she yelled at me. After that, I said nothing, couldn’t even look at her. I just looked down at my arms folded at the table, but mostly, I stared at the dime-sized blob of saliva on the table right in front of my arm where she spluttered…
I spent the rest of bible study staring at that blob of saliva until it evaporated, wishing that I could have evaporated too.
5. Ode to Lele by Sibongile Buda
To Lele, my late mother
IsiNdebele is a language spoken in South Africa, and is predominantly used by the Ndebele people, particularly those hailing from KwaNdebele in the Mpumalanga province. This language is not only a means of communication but a vessel of cultural heritage. The Ndebele are renowned for their distinctive artistic traditions, including vibrant beadwork and striking geometric murals that adorn their homes. These artistic forms are deeply symbolic, reflecting the community’s values and social identity. The elaborate paintings and bead designs of the Ndebele people from KwaNdebele stand as a testament to their rich cultural legacy and artistic prowess.
I call out her clan names in celebration
Buda KaNjakazane kaMawela
Ngebathi kungakawelwa bathi kuwelwe Ngabayama ngeempambotjhi zomlambo Bathi silinde
ulufu bonke balubalekela NgebakwaMwelase, NgebakwaMsimanga
Phuma langa Sikothe
(My Sunshine) Reminiscing…
Ngikhumbula Indlovukazi yehlizwami….
I am remembering the queen of my heart
In the hush of dawn, as light unfurls its grace,
Lele arises, a gentle light.
Wrapped in her blanket, as the day’s first kiss,
Her presence radiates, a mother’s bliss.
Una Buda, Mma Mnisi,
Iphasi lami lilahlekelwe nguMma wesitjhaba,
Oh Ms Buda, Mrs Mnisi,
My world has lost the mother of the nation
Her smile, a beacon guiding the way,
As she greets the sun at the start of day.
A tall, graceful figure, with beauty so rare,
Her light shines bright, beyond comparison.
Iphasi lami lajama tsi!
Kwehla inyembezi kwanga lizulu liyana.
Maye! Na Buda, Mma Mnisi wami ungitjhiyeleni?
My world came to a stand still
Tears falling down as though it was raining
Oh Ms Buda, My Mrs Mnisi why did you leave?
With broom in hand,
Communicating with her land.
A sight to behold, a tale of love,
Forever told.
Ndlovukazi Yehlizwami,
UMma ogade anejamo, Umma wesitjhaba
UMma ogade ane hlizwehle
Queen of my heart
A women with presence
A statue that exude elegance and beautiful, the mother of the nation
A mother with a beautiful heart
With each sweep, she shares her care,
For her home, her family, in the morning air.
Each stroke a whisper, love profound.
Her melodies dance on the morning breeze,
A symphony of care, a tender tease.
Watched by birds
As she tends to her kingdom,
Her smile, a goddess in disguise,
Bringing solace to weary eyes.
Not only I have felt the void but the world felt her silence.
Maye! Na Buda, Mma Mnisi
Ngikhumbula mhla ubuya emberegweni,
Sikulinde ngabovu,
sihleli ngaphandle nogogo ilanga liziphose kunina,
Silindele ukufika kwakho impatiently
Sithi lapho ungena ngeyege sithome sivume
Sithi “Nangu Lele, nangu Lele “
Sithabele ukufika kwakho. Maye! Na Buda, Mma Mnisi
Oh Ms Buda, Mrs Mnisi
I remember the day you came back from work, we waited impatiently
Sitting outside with grandmother before the sun could throw itself to its mother
Waiting for your arrival impatiently
When you came through the gate
We started singing Nangu Lele,nangu Lele” happy for your arrival
Oh Ms Buda, Mrs Mnisi
Recovering…
Endleleni yokupholisa amanceba
Kunzima khulu
On my journey to healing my wounds, for though it’s hard
One moment I recall the beautiful most spent time together,
Relieved you finally healed from all the pain you felt.
Suddenly… a wave of emotions hits all over again
The road to healing feels like a fallacy in the dark deep space filled with emptiness Maye!
Iphasi lami lilahlekelwe intombi yesitjhaba,usitjhiye simangele.
My world has lost the a women of the nation, you left us surprised.
Though she’s gone, her love still lights the way
Yes, she’s gone but not forgotten,
you see, Lele lives on, in memory.
6. Chronicles of Everyday Kindness: Essential Exercises for Musicians by Francesca Naibo
“Kindness is not magic nor the attitude of the saints, it doesn’t make every aggressive pulse disappear. Instead it opens us to others. In the past kindness had to be legitimized in God or in the deities, identified in women and children […] because it comes from that part of our nature that disturbs us the most. When we resist it, we are afraid of it. Being gentle is being supportive of human needs and it has a paradoxical sense of impotence and power.”
– from “On Kindness” by Adam Phillips and Barbara Taylor
Our words, actions, silences, and gazes have the power to leave an imprint on the world around us. A kind footprint – that is what I always hope to leave; one that positively characterizes my actions and my intentions towards others.
I learned about the concept of kindness from a variety of sources throughout my life. I grew up in Vittorio Veneto, a small town in northern Italy among green hills and at the base of the Prealps. Like many other girls, I was raised to be considerate and polite towards people around me. Between the ages of eight and twenty, as a girl’s scout, I was taught that gentleness and care towards others and the environment were noble aspirations. It was during this period that I began learning to play the classical guitar. I chose a gentle instrument, not only because its soft sound invites the listener to come close to the source of vibration but also because it’s an accompanying instrument that could serve other voices. Over time, my guitar has brought me close to others; in singing together we connect souls.
My guitar teachers taught me as much about music as about character. I was lucky; they supported me in finding my voice and place in the musical world, avoiding imposing an incongruent perspective onto me. They showed me respect and openness, and naturally, I learned this caring attitude from them.
As I entered adulthood, I realized that not everyone was as fortunate as me. I heard stories of students experiencing oppressive relationships with their teachers and realized the music community was often filled with criticism, prejudice, and envy.
The world of classical guitar can be very closed minded, often elevating the figure of the soloist. For decades, female guitarists have struggled to receive the respect they deserve. The value of a woman playing the guitar can be obscured by gossip and rumors with insinuations about her relationships with important men. I have heard male guitarists say: “She looks better than she plays the guitar”.
I try to pursue kindness in my relationships with others and with myself, practicing small daily gestures with constancy and humility. Using a welcoming tone of voice and choosing my words carefully creates space for the opinions and needs of others as a listener. Often, in social interactions, I practice putting myself in the other person’s shoes asking: “What does this person need to feel happier?” Most of the time the answer is: “kindness”.
Often kindness is misunderstood as weakness and passivity. Think, for instance, of “cool” protagonists in mainstream movies or popular television shows—strong, independent and self-centered. Their goal is their own personal success – even if it’s at another person’s expense. I aspire to a different type of achievement. As a person, artist, and teacher, I hope to model kindness to those around me. It is my wish that listeners can sense how kindness informs my work and inspire them to connect with their communities in that spirit.
What is kindness?
In my perspective, being kind is a mature attitude; it doesn’t imply staying on the surface of a relationship or always acquiescing to other people’s requests. Instead, kindness has a strong connection with reality, a practical and honest consideration of other people’s needs as well as one’s own.
Mutuality
Music-making involves sharing, exchanging, and opening to others. Over the years I have witnessed the artistic community (especially the Italian one) become increasingly individualistic and unscrupulous. I noticed artists fighting for status and power, maintaining transactional relationships with venues, meaning that musicians show their interest only as long as they need a gig. It’s my belief that if artists switched their focus from themselves to their communities, they would have the potential to bring a radical change to our professional landscape.
Bringing humanity to the musical community also means mutual help. It includes simple acts like sharing contacts, attending concerts, replying to emails when peers ask for suggestions, informing friends and colleagues about opportunities, and even supporting musicians and festivals on social media through comments and shares. There is so much that can be done, in order to pursue a new type of success–one that elevates a community, not just the individuals.
Mutual Mentorship for Musicians is a great example of how we can build a kind community, while respecting and elevating musicians of diverse gender identities, age, cultural and artistic backgrounds. The co-creative process I did with South-African bassist, Sibongile Buda, taught me to trust my abilities and to fully commit to the success of our work. Sibongile showed me how much she trusted me and after realizing that my duo partner had a mindset different from mine, I embraced this difference and trusted her perspective and attitude. Blending our approaches facilitated our music-making exchange.
Kindness and care in teaching
When teaching, we are interacting with another person. Teaching to me means spurring, listening, challenging, encouraging and understanding. I try to put myself in the student’s place concretely. Because I am a lefty guitarist, I often flip my instrument so I can remember how it feels to be a beginner. Trying to be mindful of student needs means allowing flexibility with unplanned activities when a student is not on the right track. I encourage patience and emotional awareness by asking students open-ended questions to facilitate critical thinking. I have found that applying a non-judgmental approach helps students believe that they can improve and achieve their goals.
Kindness when playing music
Playing music in a kind way should not be confused with calm music. Rather, kindness in music-making describes an honest and direct process. It makes me open myself to others and it reminds me that I don’t have to prove that I’m the best. Listening (to myself or my bandmates) is essential: without it, the music I’m playing is shallow, self-absorbed. When playing solo, I focus on the connection between my body, mind, and instrument. They have to be linked and awake, ready for energy. This, to me, means complete respect for sound. In a group, I concentrate on the connection with the other musicians and their sound. I ask myself if I can hear every instrument in the band, striving for balance between the sounds.
Kindness in practice and study
Our practice is a fundamental moment for practicing courtesy, because it’s an activity we repeat every day and can turn a new idea into a habit. Practicing helps us gain self-awareness about our unique habits and needs. I’ve personally changed my practice immensely over the last 10 years. I started listening first to my body and consequently to my instrument.
I try to give myself time to warm up, both muscularly and mentally and I give myself time between exercises to empty my mind and digest what I have experienced. This can mean setting a timer for practicing, and then spending a little time resting. I let my body breathe, attentive to tension inside of myself, and let my memory crystallize what I’ve just learnt. I sometimes take notes of what I notice and I highlight positive improvements. When I can’t achieve a goal, I try not to blame myself, and strive to constructively investigate what is still not working. I learnt that I don’t have to study 8 hours a day to feel that I’m improving. Sometimes breaks are necessary.
Exercising Kindness
I can’t recall when I realized I wanted to focus on being kind. I have practiced different exercises in a spontaneous way without any rules, and recently wrote some of them down. They come from my artistic practice, everyday life, from the influence of outstanding teachers I met in my school years (Florindo Baldissera, Elena Casoli, Alfred Zimmerlin, Fred Frith and Diana Lola Posani), and from musicians whose work had a strong impact on my mindset.
Feel free to use the space you have on these pages to write your thoughts and draw your feelings. Use a personal notebook if you feel that you need more space. I encourage you to work through the exercises first alone, and then with friends to gain the most meaningful experience and sense of reciprocity.
1. What is kindness?
2. Write down the word kindness in your mother tongue. Read it out loud many times and listen to its sound. What does it communicate to you?
3. As an artist, have you ever found yourself being too acquiescent? Think of a specific situation. What happened and how did you feel? What led you towards acquiescence instead of kindness?
4. Think of your daily life. Do you practice kindness everyday or is it an infrequent attitude? Now think of the people around you (your family, friends, colleagues, neighbors, etc…). How much do you feel surrounded by kindness in your life?
5. What does care mean to you? Think of a time you felt cared for: what image and feeling comes to your mind?
6. Think of a concert you’ve given recently or when you were getting ready for a performance. Name the desires and needs you have and those that your music has. Are they the same?
7. Take inventory of all of the work that you did today (this can include domestic work, emotional labor, and other forms of non traditional work). Make a list of each task that you completed. Then, write down each time you took a break. What did you do during your breaks and did it feel restful? Is there a balance between the time that you spent working and the time that you spent resting? If not, what can you change to create more balance?
8.What kind of thoughts, behaviors and attitudes have been productive for you and what have not? What’s one unproductive thought that you have had recently or in the past? How can you reframe this thought with kindness to self in mind? Write down both the unproductive thought and the positive reframing.
9. What does your kindness come in conflict with the most? Is this conflict influencing your everyday life? What do you think are the risks or dangers of being kind?
10. Have you ever felt moved or transformed by kindness?
11.Think about the musical community you’re part of and analyze how different generations, genders and cultural backgrounds integrate. What can be done to increase the sense of belonging within the community? Write down one thought or idea.
12. Finish this sentence: There is no kindness without..
Additional Daily Exercises and Tips: Be kind to your body: Let it rest, get plenty of sleep and give it the time it needs to recharge. When you talk to someone, think about how to express the thought you have. The words you choose are important and may sound more welcoming and benevolent to your listener if you choose them carefully. Don’t judge those you don’t know. Your first impression may be the complete opposite of reality. Give yourself time. Take it one step at a time; perseverance is what gets you far. Listen.
7. It’s Too Late by Marta Sanchez
It’s late
It’s too late for Carla
to be in the darkest corner of a bar
savoring some tequila just cause it tastes like home
Every day, as dawn breaks,
Carla’s pen takes flight,
pages bloom with tales
Tonight Carla lingers, reluctant to retire
Inventing anecdotes for none
she questions her entirety
Does a sound echo if no ear’s near?
Carla ponders quietly, scribbling on a napkin thin
A tall man at the end of the bar approaches
eyes smiling like a sunbeam breaking through clouds
Touches her soft spot
The smiling man gazes upon the napkin
Playfully, he makes his way to read it
eyes wide open
looks at Carla
a silent nod
The man confesses he is an editor
Synchronicities
The editor man saves the napkin in his pocket
Carla allows it, enjoys the validation.
Lateness fades into oblivion
They share a love for Bolaños
a shared taste for raw fish, and old movies
They stare into each other eyes
The man alleviates Carla’s fear of failing
Carla alleviates the refined man’s
fear of loneliness…
In a sudden breath, could it be so?
The waitress at the end of the bar announces the last call.
Carla uncrosses her arms, her eyes crinkling,
soft smiles,
and starts painting a tomorrow:
dawn’s embrace with the dashing man,
her books gracing the storefront shelves,
long nights mingling with visionary authors,
herself as the best host in the most beautiful house.
And as if he picked up on Carla’s wandering mind
the perceptive man talks about future vacations
literary projects
family projections
The perfect man
stops talking
and leans slowly towards Carla…
Carla enjoys the sandalwood scent
as he draws nearer
almost tastes the smell of whisky on the man’s breath
Right before the man can reach Carla’s lips
the lights of the bar turn on
As if woken up from a dream,
Carla and the man jump apart
We are closing!
The room is bright
Carla admires the beautiful silver hair of the man
The man traces the fine
lines of time upon Carla’s face
notices hints of maturity in her hands,
glimpses the subtle shift in her strands…
The man’s eyes stop smiling
He stands up and asks for the bill
reaches into his pocket
and unloads it on top of the bar
Coins scattered across the
napkin thin…
It’s late
says the man while packing up to go home
He doesn’t seem to care anymore
about Carla’s words
about Carla’s eyes
about Carla’s future
He just thinks it’s late for her
It’s just too late for Carla
Carla finishes her tequila
Gazing down
catches a glimpse of her reflection
on the shiny floor
wondering for a brief second
when was the exact moment
when it started to be late
8. A Letter To My Artist Self (Take One) by Maia
Written by Maia to Maia, May 30, 2024
Hey Bright Eyes,
Walking in your shoes has been a kind of chicken coming home to roost kind of thing, when the chicken only had time to cluck. To say the least, it’s been special, fun, sometimes simple, sometimes complex, and worth it. Be grateful for the sunshine and the rain, the good times and the pain. How dare the Most High give one person so many talents without a table of contents or instructions for how to make it funky…(cue music: James Brown’s 1971 “Make It Funky” …) Duh-duhda duh duh duh du-u-uh. Yes. You figured it out.
“Your gifts will make room for you...” Proverbs 18:16
This verse will resonate louder and clearer as you push forward. It’s the kind of knowing that will give you profound ass-titude.*
*ass-titude – a Maiaism meaning the confidence that is displayed in the attitude of a woman when she knows exactly what she’s working with e.g. it’s in her walk.
The year 1971 was pivotal. You graduated high school. You broke free from the clutches of your abusive and oppressive father by accepting a full scholarship to University of Pennsylvania instead of staying put in your hometown. Choosing Clark or Spelman Colleges in Atlanta were the expected choices and family tradition, but it was not the best choice for an 18-year-old radical you. You were brave, taking your first flight on an airplane, by yourself, to start the Fall Semester at U of P, September 5, 1971. Intentionally choosing this school because it was in a city where not one relative lived, was brilliant. Exciting, understated–this truly fresh beginning was a moment to define yourself.
Black. Bold. Beautiful. Southern Woman. A woman with no clue how to make it funky or how to make the transition from red clay to urban concrete. Yet, you found African culture where funk was embroidered into the fabric (fade to silence, cue James Brown music here). You ventured away from campus to connect with the people in west Philadelphia (cue music: Olatunji – Drums Of Passion, 1972). Fairmount Park, under a huge tree in the spring of 1972, where black folks gathered playing saxophones and African drums, you birthed an awareness of yourself. You defined more lines between dots that sketched with more clarity, who you were becoming (cue music: “Passion Dance” by McCoy Tyner). McCoy Tyner, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Ornette Coleman, Sun Ra, Doug and Jean Carn made for a tasty brew. Your whole attraction to Black Culture enriched your city of brotherly love experience. You carried your flute everywhere as you ventured deeper into the city. That Gemeinhardt flute, a gift to you, by your beloved friend Carl. Playing the flute threaded patches of fabric together and made it all fit into this new tapestry. That unrecognizably new you. University life faded into the sunset.
“Your gifts will make room for you…” –Proverbs 18:16
The full scholarship in architecture that you were granted at the University of Pennsylvania had nowhere to land within your independent re-birthing process. Sweetheart, the possibility of becoming the first female African American Architect was never a consequence that was offered to you, nor did you even imagine it for yourself. One step led to twelve steps–and a kick, ball, change. Exposure to and teaching African dance, embracing vegetarianism and natural law, establishing food co-ops, Afro-Consciousness, community building, homebirth, and natural living stripped away all conventional reasoning. Took the new you home to Atlanta. Ha ha! Bohemian attire. Forbidden knotty dreadlocks. Dreadlocks was a revolutionary hair choice during those times yet it personified the tree-woman-self that was beginning to emerge inside of you (cue music: Bob Marley & The Wailers 1973 “I Shot The Sheriff”). “Twelve Flights Up” were twelve poems that you wrote reflecting the biblical tenets that were taught to you by your Grandmama Katie. Defiant poetry with expectations to be heard.
Your Grandmama was the rock and foundation of your spiritual direction. Katie Boyd drummed the 23rd, the 100th, and the 121st Psalms into the fiber of your being. The Lord’s Prayer was your habit. You knew all the text verbatim. Yet, the Biblical language was not meshing with the cool slang lingo of the 70s that rolled off your tongue easier. Had to reword to relate in a new way. These were the first stages of reimagining you.
So, you questioned, why not rewrite the Bible while this brewing transition spilled over the brim of your cup? Why not block out normalities and shift the paradigm to create new normals? Recreate the wheel? Why not a different kind of poetry? You collaborated with other poets–The People’s Revolutionary Art Ensemble (P.R.A.E.- a seven-member performance poetry collective located in West End Atlanta, GA, 1975) pinned your wings for a moment, giving voice to thoughts unhinged. You were always loved for your bright eyes, yet feared for your new outspoken truth. You rejected being called a “women’s libber” during that period, but it kept others’ ears burning. Defining yourself against male-dominant definitions was all you had to roll with. It was like jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire. Choices…getting away from your father to…coupling choices…radical political choices. All risky without a blueprint (cut Marley music).
You kept it moving though. Moving to a different beat, in different cities, in search of yourself. Dallas, Los Angeles, New Orleans. Searching. A rootless tree with new branches and glistening leaves. “Your gifts will make room for you….” Pat yourself on the back, my dear. You were born before your time but made it work here. Blended like smooth sweet cream on the outside and brittle cookie shards on the inside. Sweet yet unsettled. Mis-fitted. Blissfully naive. Caught in the middle of a love triangle while spiritual winds were pushing me to dig deeper into a self-created urge to remove myself. Just go. Somehow, traveling to Chicago to assist your baby sister after delivering her first born made more sense than continuing to dance the blues in the Crescent City with the Laini Kuumba African Dance Troupe.
Freestyle dance. Musician. Singer. Freedom. Chicago. You started making a name for yourself in The Chi, Maia. “Who is she?” folks whispered. “She’s exotic. Rastafarian. Different. Weird.” Infamously known as “one of Phil Cohran’s wives” by 1977, out of nowhere (cue any music written, recorded or remembered by AACM founder, Phil Cohran). Cut the dreadlocks. Breathe child. Breathe. Years crept on by while repeated whispering continued. Whispers with a teaspoon full of disdain, jealousy, curiosity and pity. Silence. Whispers inside the silence. Breathe…. A formidable stage presence. Mother. Sister-wife. Birthworker. Women’s health advocate. Titles. Definitions. Joy and pain. Sunshine and rain.
23rd Psalms verse 1-3: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want….He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul…”
Continuous “local celebrity” fell short of dessert. The meal was filling but not satisfying. Conventional versus unconventional braided a pretty plait at the nape of your huge afro. Years and 1000 pages of your stories accumulated by 1986. Your legacy was tailored to empower Black women and the Black community artistically, politically, ideologically, sociologically, physically, mentally, spiritually and unapologetically. Then late one night, while evaluating your wins and losses in life, you decided to go back to school to pursue a Bachelor’s Degree in visual art. Taking that route, instead of in music, seemed the only way to separate yourself from Phil’s world. You needed to completely disconnect to create a totally different path, so that you could develop a true sense of self.
The School of the Art Institute of Chicago (SAIC) was on the other side of an open doorway to opportunities unimagined. You took a chance and walked through the doorway. Everything fell into place in your freshman year, fall 1987. Yet, The School of the Art Institute of Chicago was an alternate universe. Uncharted territory. How exciting! Life as you knew it turned the corner and was reborn again. Abstract Expressionism appealed to you as it was rebellious, idiosyncratic and artistically…YOU. It seemed so familiar and a fitting framework, parallel to the Black Arts Movement of the 1960s in a way, and all of YOU fit inside of all of it. The need to define yourself for yourself was soul-stirring. The word “expressionism” exploded in your thinking. It was a lightbulb moment to fully relate to a concept that gave definition to your being. You yearned at 36 years old for permission to reinvent yourself. You earned that.
I am proud of you for daring to title yourself, Bright Eyes. The multi-instrumental, visual, creative woman had configured a lane for herself and embraced herself completely. All that was left for you to do at that moment was to give yourself permission to step into your own footprints right in front of you. It was a bold move. The word expressionism had lots of bite to it. Utilizing that word as a title evoked criticism from people in your circle, as well as curiosity, which you enjoyed because it jarred their thinking. You truly took ownership of your uniqueness. Hence, you deemed Multi-Dimensional Expressionist, Maia, as your new definition, engraved into time one day in a SAIC Art History class, 1989.
Graduation from SAIC and severing ties with Phil Cohran happened simultaneously in the spring of 1991. You were a fixture in the Avant-Garde Arts Movement of Chicago, having performed in several of Phil Cohran’s various ensembles for fifteen years, from 1976 to 1991. Sistah, you were already at the helm of groundbreaking moves on stage, by playing several different instruments and interpreting the music with creative movement. But with the split from Cohran, you needed a new battery. A band of women to impact the musical climate in a significant way. This was important to you–the avant-garde jazz movement needed to give the feminine musical perspective the credibility it deserved.. You were ready to open up some doors. Even though you had been affiliated with the Association for the Advancement Of Creative Musicians (AACM) since 1976 because of your musical relationship with Bro. Phil, you figured that becoming a member would secure your position in music history as an individual. And you were correct. It also led to great exposure for your newly formed all-female band, Samana. So, you did your due diligence by completing all of the requirements to join, and you were officially accepted into the organization in 1992. One of those requirements for new membership of the AACM was to present your own compositions in concert with the band that you organized, within the first year.
During the 1990s, men’s identity and role in society were being challenged on all levels. The emergence of Samana, founded by Nicole M. Mitchell (flutist), Shanta Nurullah (sitarist, bassist, storyteller) and yourself (multi-instrumentalist/vocalist), was the perfect presence to fill in the gender gaps musically. Samana transformed the landscape of music in Chicago. It was already a functioning band playing its original music, and featuring various female multi-instrumentalists, vocalists and dancers. Yet, you were the only Samana member in 1992 that was also a member of the AACM.
Three AACM members were required for a band to carry the official AACM brand. Your initial new member concert, “Seven Sisters,” handled two birds with one stone. Two veteran AACM members, Ann E. Ward (vocalist) and Rita Warford (vocalist) were invited to join the ensemble. Chicago performers Chavunduka Sevanhu (vocalist), B’nah Ankh B’nah (vocalist) and Amirah Davis (percussionist) were added along with Shanta (bassist), and you as vibraphonist and bandleader. Samana carved her way into history as the first all woman instrumental-vocal ensemble of the AACM on Mother’s Day, May 10, 1992. It set a new precedent in a mostly male dominant jazz music organization. It was time (cue music: TimeTa Boogie South Africa by Samana).
Samana was later compared to the Art Ensemble of Chicago as trailblazers in the free-jazz music world by Malachi Favors Magoustut, the avant-garde bassist of the Art Ensemble of Chicago. From that point on, you encouraged the women of Samana to apply for membership to the AACM. Intentionally being the “first,” or the shoulders upon which others would stand and adopt the same posture for ones following behind them, resonated with your ongoing theme of elevating the female presence in this music. Eventually more women, with powerful prowess, joined the organization and took leadership positions. Nicole M. Mitchell, a founding member of Samana, became the organization’s first female Chair in the early 2000s. The Chair at this time (2020 – next election) is held by Coco Elysses, also a Samana alum. Mission accomplished. (fade Samana music out here).
Maia
Great Mother
Mama
Ima (pronounced eeMah)
womb of civilization
lap of nature
heart and soul
human
passionate
gravity
a walk with grace and heavy duties while wading in the water
umbilical
reborn
love to love
love
listening eyes
seeing ears
dancer of the Holy dance
Infinitely
“Your gifts will make room for you…” Proverbs 18:16
Maia, your journey kept right on going, through decades, resulting in moving to Los Angeles, CA in 1999. It was courageous of you to take a chance on love and marriage again. Divorce could have broken you, but it didn’t. You found and adopted The Pan African Peoples Arkestra like kinfolk because they were like kinfolk in 2006. The Pan African Peoples Arkestra, Carlos Niño, André 3000, Shine Muwasi, Dwight Trible and The World Stage, Village Records and your Los Angeles cultural community have all welcomed you.
“The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return”— line from the song “Nature Boy” written by Eden Ahbez.
I am so proud of you, Maia. Continue to intentionally enhance your spaces with spiritually charged magnetism. Plug in and witness your reflection in the mirror in front of you. Surrender fully and fearlessly. The artists’ responsibility starts with respect. It takes a kind of reverence to express the hearts of the masses on public platforms. It is our gift from infinity, to generate a response through our art. Move with this awareness.
Beware of toxic positivity. It has become more commonplace for everything to be isolated in negative or positive containers. The norm dictates that negativity is taboo and to be avoided at all cost. It also dictates that positivity be amplified with everything you have. Yet, in reality negativity is a major component to the lessons to be learned on the journey. One would do well to embrace the whole walk. Balance and commitment are keys to every outcome. Remember, positivity and negativity function together electrically. Circumstance defines their appropriate portion. Timing is important. It enables your focus on what is useful in realizing goals inside of your purpose. Walk the walk. Talk the talk.
Dig deeper. One would do well to closely examine the process of birthing a baby. Difficulty, through the lens of giving birth, without medications, is what you have actually experienced personally. The entire process is specific. Your personal birthing experiences house a guideline for managing difficulties. Use that. If all women ran from the possibility of pain or difficulties of birth, there would be no one to be born. I promise you. Ha ha! There is a lesson in unpacking the reality called pain. So, walk boldly through the fire, my dear. Wisdom is obtained when one is able to make testimony after it.
Listen, woman. Have patience with yourself. Do you hear me? Some things may take time to wrap your rational mind around. When that happens, it may do you well to turn everything over to something bigger than yourself. Make sure to view your life and love through a golden lens of abundance, leaving behind the notion of lack. This lens of abundance will become your default, your constant, your staple. Continue creating, continue redefining. Keep shining.
Rise fully aware with wisdom, organization, productivity, adventure, joy, beauty, zeal, vitality, enthusiasm, a strong sense of humor, sensuality, fluid creativity, confidence, great health, laughter, strong family interactions, financial wealth, prosperity, resilience, style, class, strong and lasting friendships, strong and lasting business relationships, time to rest and time to rejuvenate. Allow your cup to overflow with all the things.
Favor from Thee Almighty God Creator is resonant in your forward motion. Embody love as love restores your life force. Love with your whole heart, Maia. Know that love is everything for love is supreme (cue music: Black Jazz recording of Doug and Jean Carn’s 1971 “A Love Supreme”). Hear it. Do it. Be it. Always Be You. I love you, Maia.
Your Best Friend,
Sonjia Denise Hubert Harper
aka Maia (mononym)
Los Angeles, California, USA 2024
9. Dança Da Chuva by Nath Rodrigues
A chuva é solitária
Gosta de ficar sozinha
Ou será que essa percepção é minha
Que lado a lado da porta do ralo
Escrevo poemas de fazer canção
Justo quando lá fora cai um pé d’água
Dessas de deixar na estrada
Qualquer sede de sair
The rain is solitary
It likes to be alone
Or is that just my perception
Here by the drain’s edge
Writing poems to turn into songs
Just as a downpour falls outside
The kind that leaves behind, on the road,
Any thirst to go out
Certo dia
Nem tão longe o dia assim
Enfrentei uma praga
Feito a minha arruda já teve
Parecia até mandamento
É andando que se vê
One day—
Not so long ago—
I faced a curse,
Like the one my rue plant once bore.
It almost seemed like a commandment.
It’s by walking that one may see
Coisa de gente mandada
Que nunca andou na minha estrada
Pensa que é toda asfaltada
Só que nem sempre o asfalto é que é bom
A gente esqueceu
E não é sobre petróleo
É o símbolo das coisas
Peças de enfrentar feitiço
É andando que se vê
Sent by those who’ve never
Walked my road,
They think it’s all paved,
But not all asphalt is good.
We’ve forgotten.
And it’s not about oil—
It’s about the symbol of things,
The tools to face enchantments.
It’s by walking that one may see
Seguindo a lógica do símbolo
os códigos das coisas,
as que a gente não nomeia,
mas sente,
tenho visto cada vez mais nitidamente o presente
a comunhão dos tempos no momento
do agora
passado
e futuro
fusionados no momento em que respiramos
É andando que se vê
Following the logic of the symbol,
The codes of things,
Those we don’t name,
But feel,
I’ve been seeing the present more clearly—
The communion of times in the moment,
Of now,
Past,
And future,
Fused in the moment we breathe.
It’s by walking that one may see
Vida e morte ressurgidas
em infinita espiral
tão simples e profundamente complexo
respirar, abrir o plexo
deixar a luz entrar
a dor
também
a confiar na intuição
há muito no não dito
na sutileza do invisível
nem tudo é previsível
às vezes a gente leva rasteira
é preciso treinar o cair
se machucar menos
Life and death reborn
In an infinite spiral,
So simple and profoundly complex—
To breathe, open the plexus,
Let the light in,
The pain,
Too.
To trust intuition—
There’s so much in the unsaid,
In the subtlety of the invisible.
Not everything is predictable;
Sometimes we get tripped up.
It’s necessary to train for the fall,
To hurt less.
levar na brincadeira
mandinga
capoeira
a vida é um jogo de jogar cantando
É andando que se vê
To take it lightly—
Spell,
Capoeira,
Life is a game to be played singing.
It’s by walking that one may see
10. The Something, or, Perpetual Fire / Holy Well by Naomi McCarroll-Butler
The Something #1
Immensity Material #1
The Stakes / Why / Belly of the Empire
Perpetual Fire / Holy Well / The Something #2
The Numbers / The Something #3 / Immensity Material #2
11. Goddess Of Embodiment by Andrea DeMarcus
I like the stillness in me
Nourishing the peace, a ripe peach
Claiming each lingering pleasure
Transforming the power I emit from pose
My languid voice, laden with lilting
Quiet steadiness of my own hard won calm
Spreading thick my warmth, my balm
Graceful arms spellbound, divine
Held glistening mirrors before me
Revealed futures, rosy and shadowed
Discovered a limberness, green and raw
Wove a glowing ring of perfect bodies
Whose Sister tongues named me, spent
Goddess of embodiment
How will I know her
My mother, the moon
A mango against impeccable onyx
Mesmerizing in her fullness
A shadow, an empty crater
Looms upon her open eye
You’re mine forever I cry
Laughter that rattled the bones
Sneaking through square white teeth
Skin smooth and rich as cocoa
Pinched sour fruits drip
From restless able hands
Garlic hangs forever, mid air
Impossibly round cheeks, kinky hair
La brega we dance through
Steam rises, I lean in
Secrets you can feel, tall grasses all around
Lips ask, an arrow parts the waves
Targets leap and bound
What’s the price of paradise?
A falling fragrant grain of rice
Whose nipples are temples
Prayers and worship swells
Rising, Seeking, Meeting
Nourishing the future deities
Awakening true spirit
Forever forward, sustaining
Peaked magnets, blossoming
I’ve dreamt of voluptuous gourds
Dry now, seeds snaking up like smoke
Roots below fresh loams, sand or clay
They know what’s below
So above we can play
As the winds kiss our pelts
Incite a cringe, intuit the melt
How many women did it take
To make us
How many lips parted
To sing, to praise
How many fingers danced
On the skin of a babe
How many hips gave
12. A Carefully Planned Last Month Of Meals by Sharon Udoh
One thing about me is that I love a schedule. One would say I’m type A. I’m not sure if it’s nature or nurture, but I can count on less than one hand the number of times my dad didn’t wake up, go to work, come home, continue some computer programming a bit, eat dinner, and watch Law & Order on a weekday. And my mom? She woke me up at 5:30am every single day to sing hymns and pray until I was in my mid-twenties when I finally moved out. So, who’s to say if this is how I am or whether I just learned it from how I lived for most of my youth?
I’m in my 40s now, and I recently became a full-time freelance musician and composer, and any person who works as any kind of freelancer has to plan to some extent whether they like it or not. Fortunately for me, I love to plan. My whole entire life has been this delicate dance with time. Perhaps that’s inaccurate—sometimes it has felt more like a soft wrestle with it. I love my work (I tend towards workaholism, like my dad), and I try to squeeze a lot out of every minute, hour, day, and week, so I can produce and perform in a way that keeps me fulfilled and moves me toward the musical legacy I want to build. I like to think that I can control time, so that I can enjoy life the way I want to!
This, of course, is utter foolishness as time moves, regardless of what we humans do or do not do. I am fascinated by my attempt to plan everything in my life, and perhaps one moderately annoying detail about life is that I can’t plan my death. Wouldn’t it be something, a wild concept, to be able to plan for one’s death, to know, a decade, a year, a month out, when you’d croak?
Here’s an exercise that I sometimes do with myself: I imagine not only that I know when my death will occur, but also what I would eat as my last meals. If I knew I had only one month left to live, I’d want to ensure that a portion of that time was spent eating some of my favorite foods on the earth. I’m very fortunate that with very few exceptions, most of those foods are found in the city where I live, Chicago, Illinois. I once had a turkey sandwich in Los Angeles that made me hallucinate from the umami, and in Sydney, Australia, I showed up to a restaurant where my friends were hanging out and they handed me a bowl of some stew that was so good I wept the instant I swallowed it. Oh, also, I wish I could remember the name of the bar, but also in Sydney where I went to meet some friends after one of our shows, (my friends have good taste in food, I’m starting to realize), and I had a grilled cheese sandwich, called a “toastie”, and though I’m not the largest fan of cheese and am quite picky with dairy, —that humbly garnished piece of bread was truly everything I needed at that moment in time. In Cape Town, South Africa, I ate some Cameroonian fish and cabbage slaw around a table with 11 other people, à la The Last Supper, and I think I said, “wow” a total of about a million times.
Even though I live no less than 15 hours away by plane from that “toastie” and that stew and that fish, I find myself in my favorite restaurants quite often, mere miles away from my home on the south side of the city. Recently, I caught up with the TV show The Bear, and Ayo Edibiri’s character, Sydney, goes on a solo food tour as research for the restaurant venture that she’s helping spearhead. I teared up watching it, knowing that all of those restaurants are some of my current favorites and are accessible to me by a simple thirty minute drive and a reservation.
One such place isn’t really even called a “restaurant” per se. It’s a cocktail bar called Chef’s Special, a somewhat dimly lit establishment with an item that would be on my last meals list: dry-fried green beans. I know, I know, reader, you’re probably thinking: green beans?! Reader, friend, dearest, please listen: the glaze? The crispy garlic? It’s unreal.
Perhaps these meals themselves are markers of time, a desire to suspend a moment in celebration or permission to feel deeply in a given moment. It’s why I immediately think of how I would eat right before I die, given that I’ve put so much thought and intention into how I spend time eating while I’m alive. It’s a little silly how much time I devote to planning the consumption of my favorite foods. I’ll reserve weeks ahead if I can for fancier places. I get upset if a friend is in town and I can’t book a certain restaurant of choice. I’ll organize a whole day of work around getting a sandwich at a specific spot. I have built routines around catching menu specials. For example, on Mondays at Chef’s Special, there is a “Snax and Dax” menu, which features an alcoholic drink and a one-of-a-time food item that’s always absolutely spectacular.On a recent particular Monday, the “Snax and Dax” menu featured an incredible fried chicken sandwich. This day still felt unseasonably warm, so I expected a busy evening. I was right—it was packed and loud. I grabbed a seat at the bar around the back. A reggae remix of “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” was on, interrupted arrhythmically by someone announcing, “corner”. I decided I wasn’t drinking that night, being not that much of a drinker in general. It was a beautiful and rare day off from working tech on a show with a new collaborator. Reader, friend, dearest, let me ask you: have you ever had a deep and unquestionable feeling that you’re in the right place and the right time with the right people? That’s what I was celebrating that day, that feeling and the project I was working on at the time really underlined that sentiment.My server brought over some spring rolls. I said, “I didn’t order those.” The server said, “We know. They’re on the house.” I smiled real big, and the bartender winked at me. I love the staff here. And soon enough, my green beans arrived, and I pulled out my chopsticks and got ready.
Regarding the inability to plan my own death—should I mention that I’m afraid to die? I’ve asked a lot of my friends if they’re afraid to die, and a lot of them aren’t, which is surprising to me. I’m scared shitless, maybe from all the hell talk when I was young, maybe because I’m afraid of how I’ll handle aging. Or maybe I’m afraid I’ll lose myself? I feel like, at 42, I finally just found myself for the first time in my life. I just figured out my work-life balance, and I am better at time management than I’ve ever been. I have a fulfilling career, and since I freelance I have control over how I spend my time, which is important to me. I could ostensibly be at the halfway point too, if I’m healthy enough. I’d really like to live in this found version of myself for a while.
So, I remain frightened of dying, but I would sure love it if I had a plate of those green beans in my last month of living—if I could control the scheduling of that last month, of course! Ha! That, along with a piece of chocolate cake from Loaf Lounge (also featured on The Bear). And the sausage egg and cheese sandwich from there, too. And my friend Cat’s pho, my dad’s okra stew, a kimchi-jjigae or a dwaeji bulgogi, an oat milk ube chai from Mano, the fish dish from Thattu, fish and grits from Virtue (I love fish) and (don’t laugh) the Salmon Miso salad (I said that I love fish!) from Trader Joe’s (please don’t laugh).
I’m sure the older I get, the longer and longer this insane death meals list of mine will get too. But for now, I’ll take this moment at Chef’s Special: a Topo Chico, a chorus of happy hour voices, more reggae, the green beans, and my own company.