LUNAR EKPHRASIS
Negarra A. Kudumu
29 June 2018
I woke up with the smell of wild boar on my tongue
Therefore I gathered my tools, and entered the bush at sunrise.
By midday, all the normal sounds of life made their appearance.
A rustling in a narrow clearing in front of me let me know my meal was nearby.
I approached stealthily, following the sound of snorts and squeals; some deep, some shrill.
Then came the first four arrows. They felt like mosquito bites, so I paid little attention.
(When you have a closed body, even the stuff that gets through does not do much damage.)
The fifth and the sixth felt like bee stings, but since I am not allergic and the wounds were not deep, I carried on.
Arrows seven, eight, and nine landed just above my heart, and gave me immediate pause. I looked down and blood had already begun to cake around the entry points.
I did a 360-degree scan of my surroundings. I saw no one, but heard a very loud snort that was simultaneously in front of me and behind me.
I walked backward so I could continue looking ahead. Still seeing nothing, I resumed my hunt.
I had heard a few different snorts by now and thought, “The boar must be near”
I continued walking backward and that is when arrow number ten hit. Dead, in my heart.
My body collapsed limp to the floor. My blood pooling, I exited immediately through what was previously my mouth, flew up into a tree, perched, and continued to watch the scene.
It was almost sundown and still no sign of my attacker nor the boar I intended to hunt.
Just as the sun was setting, the snorts and shrills suddenly reappeared. Eager to see the boars , I waited until they were in full view.
Instead, it was a young hipster kid carrying a squealing baby boar. The kid was squealing back at it in slightly deeper tones interspersed with snorts.
Hipster kid tied the pig to a tree and propped my body up against the same. He took the last arrow out of his backpack, and proceeded to screw the arrow through my brain until it came out the other side.
More blood pooled, some drained onto the baby pig, but the kid looked satisfied.
He stepped back to get a better view of his handiwork, gathered his baby boar and his bookbag, and left.
-when the flavor of your desire is pork, there will be no Irene to the rescue.
Therefore I gathered my tools, and entered the bush at sunrise.
By midday, all the normal sounds of life made their appearance.
A rustling in a narrow clearing in front of me let me know my meal was nearby.
I approached stealthily, following the sound of snorts and squeals; some deep, some shrill.
Then came the first four arrows. They felt like mosquito bites, so I paid little attention.
(When you have a closed body, even the stuff that gets through does not do much damage.)
The fifth and the sixth felt like bee stings, but since I am not allergic and the wounds were not deep, I carried on.
Arrows seven, eight, and nine landed just above my heart, and gave me immediate pause. I looked down and blood had already begun to cake around the entry points.
I did a 360-degree scan of my surroundings. I saw no one, but heard a very loud snort that was simultaneously in front of me and behind me.
I walked backward so I could continue looking ahead. Still seeing nothing, I resumed my hunt.
I had heard a few different snorts by now and thought, “The boar must be near”
I continued walking backward and that is when arrow number ten hit. Dead, in my heart.
My body collapsed limp to the floor. My blood pooling, I exited immediately through what was previously my mouth, flew up into a tree, perched, and continued to watch the scene.
It was almost sundown and still no sign of my attacker nor the boar I intended to hunt.
Just as the sun was setting, the snorts and shrills suddenly reappeared. Eager to see the boars , I waited until they were in full view.
Instead, it was a young hipster kid carrying a squealing baby boar. The kid was squealing back at it in slightly deeper tones interspersed with snorts.
Hipster kid tied the pig to a tree and propped my body up against the same. He took the last arrow out of his backpack, and proceeded to screw the arrow through my brain until it came out the other side.
More blood pooled, some drained onto the baby pig, but the kid looked satisfied.
He stepped back to get a better view of his handiwork, gathered his baby boar and his bookbag, and left.
-when the flavor of your desire is pork, there will be no Irene to the rescue.
I lay down every 3 days for max about 15 hours.
My brain’s feeble attempt at reprieve from the things I hear.
When I am vertical, I watch YouTube all day - maybe occasionally play a video game.
Occasionally, I think, “I’ll leave the house today.”
And then, after several moments of standing in the doorway, I decide against it.
-repose is better than letting the world break your heart
My brain’s feeble attempt at reprieve from the things I hear.
When I am vertical, I watch YouTube all day - maybe occasionally play a video game.
Occasionally, I think, “I’ll leave the house today.”
And then, after several moments of standing in the doorway, I decide against it.
-repose is better than letting the world break your heart
Mine is a near imperceptible sob
Mastered to keep anyone from
Feeling uncomfortable because of me.
For the past five years at 1 pm every day
I lose my shit completely.
And spend the rest of the day faux smiling
So that you idiots will leave me alone.
Somehow the swollen face and puffy eyes
Don’t urge you to show some human consideration
But maybe you don’t see a human, only a shadow
-I’d ask for help if I thought you’d actually give it to me
Mastered to keep anyone from
Feeling uncomfortable because of me.
For the past five years at 1 pm every day
I lose my shit completely.
And spend the rest of the day faux smiling
So that you idiots will leave me alone.
Somehow the swollen face and puffy eyes
Don’t urge you to show some human consideration
But maybe you don’t see a human, only a shadow
-I’d ask for help if I thought you’d actually give it to me
Seven days ago on the seventh anniversary of my arrival to the seventh dimension, I saw a tiara sitting on my head, while I sat in front of the mirror and meditated. It was encrusted with Amethyst, Purple Charoite, and the Delhi Purple Sapphire
The next day, also while meditating, I took a bus ride down to Nordstrom in my purple kimono and black Wayfarers. While waiting at the bus stop, there was a cat in a La Crosse jacket and a 1977 NASCAR racing mechanic’s one piece. He kept tapping my toe so I looked down, and he asked me to ask him what his name was. He said slowly in a pied noir French accent, “Le Roi La Croix.”
I refused to meditate for 48 hours after that.
For two days straight, I had the same vision during meditation: I was at O’Hare airport headed to Davos, not for the conference, just for the parties, and the airline woman refused to check one of my bags so I carried it on. Apparently, I had left a machete and an oddly shaped sex toy sewn inside the lining. Security thought it belonged to the man behind me and so they took his bag apart completely. In his bag, they found the exact same combo, but he was arrested. I caught my flight and was upgraded to first class.
Last night’s meditation really wore me out. I got a visit from a man I used to know on New Year’s Day 1959. I was living in a barely inhabitable swamp on the Gulf. He showed up to my home and thought I did not recognize him. I did not let on that I did. I invited him into the solarium for scotch and marcona almonds. He began to talk incessantly, as he always did. I asked him what he wanted. He refused to answer and continued talking. I asked him again, what he wanted and he got indignant. About 5 hours, later, he was nowhere to be found, and 6 hours after that I was on the train northbound towards glorious self-exile in northern climes. Shortly after my departure, there was a massive flood on my property. Once it ended, the state troopers found a lone toe bone in the lake that had spilled out into the Gulf adjacent my property. No other bones, skin or cartilage though.
That’s what I like to call the skillful use of a sword and a fire.
-the full moon gave me 7 opportunities to be sane, and I declined every time
The next day, also while meditating, I took a bus ride down to Nordstrom in my purple kimono and black Wayfarers. While waiting at the bus stop, there was a cat in a La Crosse jacket and a 1977 NASCAR racing mechanic’s one piece. He kept tapping my toe so I looked down, and he asked me to ask him what his name was. He said slowly in a pied noir French accent, “Le Roi La Croix.”
I refused to meditate for 48 hours after that.
For two days straight, I had the same vision during meditation: I was at O’Hare airport headed to Davos, not for the conference, just for the parties, and the airline woman refused to check one of my bags so I carried it on. Apparently, I had left a machete and an oddly shaped sex toy sewn inside the lining. Security thought it belonged to the man behind me and so they took his bag apart completely. In his bag, they found the exact same combo, but he was arrested. I caught my flight and was upgraded to first class.
Last night’s meditation really wore me out. I got a visit from a man I used to know on New Year’s Day 1959. I was living in a barely inhabitable swamp on the Gulf. He showed up to my home and thought I did not recognize him. I did not let on that I did. I invited him into the solarium for scotch and marcona almonds. He began to talk incessantly, as he always did. I asked him what he wanted. He refused to answer and continued talking. I asked him again, what he wanted and he got indignant. About 5 hours, later, he was nowhere to be found, and 6 hours after that I was on the train northbound towards glorious self-exile in northern climes. Shortly after my departure, there was a massive flood on my property. Once it ended, the state troopers found a lone toe bone in the lake that had spilled out into the Gulf adjacent my property. No other bones, skin or cartilage though.
That’s what I like to call the skillful use of a sword and a fire.
-the full moon gave me 7 opportunities to be sane, and I declined every time
It starts as a kind of a stirring that I feel in my tailbone.
So potent that I am unable to sit for more than one hour at a time.
Next, my hands feel like I am holding flaming charcoal.
Incurable acid reflux plagues my throat.
Later my knees tremble so much that my walking is significantly slowed,
And, eventually, impaired.
Bit by bit this new thing makes it presence known
In every waking moment, in every body part
In every crevice of my brain.
It leaves burning, gaping holes in my skin.
(the last time it appeared I had small pox for 6 months)
Until I submit,
I am incurable,
Insufferable,
Alone.
-the path to healing tears and breaks until the fire is released.
So potent that I am unable to sit for more than one hour at a time.
Next, my hands feel like I am holding flaming charcoal.
Incurable acid reflux plagues my throat.
Later my knees tremble so much that my walking is significantly slowed,
And, eventually, impaired.
Bit by bit this new thing makes it presence known
In every waking moment, in every body part
In every crevice of my brain.
It leaves burning, gaping holes in my skin.
(the last time it appeared I had small pox for 6 months)
Until I submit,
I am incurable,
Insufferable,
Alone.
-the path to healing tears and breaks until the fire is released.
This writing is the final piece of a three-part series produced during Negarra A. Kudumu's curatorial residency at Bridge Productions in which she discusses the key issues in her practice such as the education and curation as spectrum not a binary, curatoriality, and condition versus methodology particularly where African and African Diasporic cultural politics are concerned. To highlight and bring to bear these thought experiments, Negarra has curated From Fool to World, featuring new and existing works by the prolific multidisciplinary artist Mike Wagner.