Sunday, December 11, 2011

so the king died

so the king died & was brought to kala & they buried him there
they washed the chariot at a pool in kala
(where the prostitutes bathed) and the dogs licked up his blood

king
yellow burnt life : silence
no beginning of days
no mother : no father
no end of days
red :: ash

echo
i must lie down where
all the stairs begin
and then the truth has its play
lamb and lion pursue my thoughts
intellect judges the deep selfishness of my body's drug
while waking the echos of my imagination

dogs
the wounds divided into the night
the bloody floor : table : bed: a bitter end
king is dead : an unstatisfied throat of pride
dogs recognized the musical scent of blood
death takes what man keeps

prostitutes
an empty stain beside the pool
where lamb and woman climb into paper forgotten oaths
whispers from soldiers : feathers : brothers / forgotten
the pool : the moon : the birds
no banners for her / no bribe

a.
she bent her body to shape dust and dirt
and her air of immortality
blossomed into a kingdom
a copy of clay and power
the prostitutes made their demands
spade the dirty hand
some confused others took the lead

b.
the king's ghost / lightening laughed
she sang of lust and rage
unbegotten to the new dead age

c.
their souls constituted
a freedom of dried frangrances
a language beaten into their shiva moons
sing me a song : break stones / battle one

(Please play audio + write your hopes on a scroll. Place the scroll into an envelope : go to the sea : barefoot : walk to the mouth : placing your scroll into her wave : smell her scent / remembering what it's like to cry tears) x:w


Notes:
Shiva : in Judaism, Shiva is a ritual meaning
seven days of mourning for the dead.
On day seven, Shiva ends in the morning::

Inspired:
Biblical scroll: First Kings / a murder

Sound:
Camille Yarbrough
Little Sally The Super Sex Star
Iron Pot Cooker

Visual:
Found image

Friday, December 2, 2011

a vessel of oil is sitting on the shelf, and that is all the woman had to give. she had talked about it with him late into the night.

road of mystery
harvest non:chalant papyrus
tender moments of water trickling down
the slopes of the atlas

my heart has room for you
i know that you are coming soon
toronto morning must be near
the candle is burning on the path of uncomprising : bitter/now
follow me there, young but getting too old for this/now
there :: tomorrow you may stand

furrowing into that distant land

for you and i only had that which is past
and like life, you must always make
4. some
3. part of
2. that
remnant
1. last

Saturday, November 12, 2011

Happy Birthday to my love Ayan!






abundance : life : beauty : love : sister
happy birthday
x : w


Wednesday, November 9, 2011

journey of light


Thank God for another year.
11 : 10 : 1975 = 36 years young.
And while I don't focus my thoughts on things that are seen, the eternal love and light of gratitude causes an abundance of love and blessings. For my birhtday, if you would like to send gifts of love and light, please send them to Maria and her family.

We are troubled and oppressed in every way :: but we are able to find a way out. Maria and her family (baby boy 6 months + 11 yr old daughter) living in a phone booth in Bastille, Paris. I gave her one of my coats, took her grocery shopping ( diapers + baby food ect.), then we went to get her prescription filled. She just had a miscarriage. Did all this for 100€ (then gave her 100€). She was so humble, she didn't even want to accept the gifts.

Next :: I want to get her an apartment and put her daughter back in school. But first, I would like to place her in a shelter during this transition. Lord bless them :: no one should be living in poverty. Selah. Thank you family. Jah Bless

Saturday, October 29, 2011

Fable : Money is good, and a girl might be better


a young man in the dark am i
things hid in their marrow-bones
from time long passed, their bodies lay.
daybreak and a candle-end

all men live in suffering
you make me real
i know as few can
fluid
dense
whether they take the upper road
or stay content with the low
you say everything in advance
you spoil the end

fall in love with your children

our abuse, you disclose our fall

you were wrong not to hold your tongue

betrayed

intentions

you spit your nothing into the shadows
you proclaim color,
you can not hide the strings,
the high tower of fear, climbed by noise and clamor
or whisper that man is a fool.

a man had six mortal wounds
violent and famous, walked among the dead
she looked through the tree branches,
she thread the needle and made an ancient rule.
she was driven from home, and left to die in fear
they sang, but did not have human tones
though all was done in common as before
they had changed their ancestors and had the throats of birds.

he thought ::
all i ever wanted was a touch of everything
i sought for it in vain
i sought for it for seven days and seven hours
he loved her in secret
enslaved, they layed under the color :: casual flesh

she stopped him, round, covered and fought the
wisdom of memory and found herself never looking very far.

written at home
inspired by the music of icebird (i'm green :: 2011 abandoned lullaby)
and poetry of William B. Yeats (1936-39)

Thursday, October 20, 2011

1 by 1


These outcasts killing missions consequences evil forests
Freeborn caste hanged judgement rule
Sitteth on the matter between him and God

Muammar Gaddafi life June 7, 1942 death October 20, 2011

Thursday, October 13, 2011

sacred companions

i stayed behind to be with you




Tuesday, October 11, 2011

two

are my ways unjust

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Rites

she jumped and put her goatskin satchel on her shoulder. she was on her way to visit her friend sky. she exchanged glances with the moon and began her journey.
she carried the news to seven villages, with the children's psalms in her mouth.
the market was full. the rains came. and she saw sky.
they slept through the night, saw the silent sun.
her message was bound in earth, a land once called home. (words by: weléla)


Thursday, September 22, 2011

take the good news (and carry it away)

Dear Troy (the meaning of your name: foot soldier) - now you are free. for all we know...love was your choice. yesterday is gone. forgotten. forgiven. I believe the sickest thing about yesterday, and i will never speak of it again - how can people observe the lethal injection? Perverse. However, today i am here in life - and you are no longer limited by this earthly body. i can only hope you are one of my angels. selah.
Troy Anthony Davis: October 9, 1968 (life) September 21, 2011 (death)

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Forgetting this moment is like swimming in melted crayon color gold

November 10, 1975

In March 1975 my mother and father made love. They most likely were in the Grad school apartments at UC Irvine. I'm sure the radio was on. The sun was shining, and there was an old familiar steadiness that only 1975 could bring.

Star dust, clay, honey, and milk - me.

Weléla Mar is a name from the Ethiopian people - and it means "pure honey."

History was combined /DNA / immune systems / memory.

My mother was born / raised /wed in Oakland, California.
A dancer /violinist / mathametician.
She finally fell in love with a man
that seemed to love himself enough
to love her.

My father was born in Gary, Indiana.
A bio physicist / self taught photographer /
a sick disco roller skater / and clean - he had style.

He must of have loved her that day in March, in that moment peacefully.

Hoping for a saviour.

They probably wept.

On November 10, sometime before midnite we all chose to meet in California - Artesia to be exact. We all met at Pioneer Hospital. My mother, after leaving the library studying, went to the bathroom, and her water broke.

My body decided to come face up, looking for no one's rules or approval.
Doctors scurried, to find metal objects cold and fixed to somehow turn
my body side ways for a healthier birth pathway.

I laugh at the thouroughness of human intellect. My soul has never followed rules.

The pathway that I chose that day to meet my mother and father
is and has always been the path less travelled.

I remember dancing with my father at four years old, no diaper, only a shirt. Laughing and spinning - feeling the wind against my cheek and my father's warm hand on my back. Forgetting this moment is like swimming in melted crayon color gold.

My first dance.

My mother and father moved somewhere in southern California, had a great dane named Shushambo and a red volkswagon bus named Suzy Q. That van took us all over, the mountains, Los Angleles, and the park. It had a small kitchen with a sink, a small fridge, and a hot plate. The back seat was long, and if you needed a nap there was a bed right behind it. Curtains covered the windows which kept the strange lights out when we slept in Suzy over nights. She always smelled of worn leather, but we kept her clean inside and out

They placed me in trusted space with Shushambo, my favorite dog to call and respond to. Gray and too big for both of us to get through a hallway, I would playfully hit him with newspaper while mispronouncing his name time and time again. Until my tongue could adjust to his African name years later.

Later we learned deep sorrow, what trauma feels like in the body when Shushambo was killed by a car when my father took him for his daily jog. One minute he's there, the next he's a ghost.

Growing strawberries / writing my name / laughing in the back parts of my throat / were forgotten that day. Flying kites seemed trite.

My mother, my father, and me - wept together on our used couch like children.








Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Letter to self


1975 November 10
Love letter to a married soul
(w)eléla there are so many things to say.
i'm sorry for hurting you / ignoring you / i thought
i was loving you
forgive me

Love letter to a married soul
it's been too long since i've had this time to scream out loud.
many female artists have found a voice in their art / fought wars / fought men.
i want this space to be a ritual/mantra of poem/sound replacing the old memory.

Love letter to a married soul
today (6 - 28 - 11) i am celebrating a re-birth / union / yoga
in sanskrit yoga means to unify the mind / body / soul
i promise to use this blog as a space to be real. real for those
who do not have the courage to do so. words that will fall away
from my mouth convictions / sins / confessions / equations will be shared to free me from the darkness that sits in my skin. i want this space to be used to free myself and other women. feel the light shine and settle in.

i realize this may seem selfish because there's a revolution going on. but as sacred text say, prayer starts with repenting of one's sins / only then can you go out into the world to forgive + love others.

i ~ intergrate love / tears / (r) evolution / pain / patience / courage / beauty
the memory that serves this equation was pre-destined / and yet it's the love for self that is the evidence of the smile and laughter throughout this sojourn.

photos:
(1) jamal kindred on pony / (w)eléla on skates / jamal in stroller / eddie kindred on skates. birthday party at home in anaheim, ca for jamal. (w)eléla in the background.

(2) (w)eléla kindred 16 years old. 1992-1993 porch of home during 1988-1993. taken before 1st period at savanna high school, anaheim, ca.

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Monday, March 28, 2011

Works in Progress


New themes we surrender to you.

Cleaned and Burned themes: Memory, vertical connections, horizontal movement, love, passion, violence, broken bodies, death, healing, cleansing, giving, cultural memory, trauma, resurrection, and rebuilding.We thought it would be interesting to use rock and roll, a piece by classical composer Vilvadi, have periods of silence, children's poemes, having the contradictions of raw sounds, and softer movements of music. This piece will also be an experimental danse film shot in Port au Prince, Haiti - 2012.

Blues Basin themes: Love, power, violence, religion, spirituality, duality, bodies sliding, raw emotion, broken bodies, death, and contradictions. Our piece will have photos of the disaster of Japan projected onto 20 dancers. Our current idea is to have raw noise, unfiltered sound, periods of silence. Stay tuned for the unveiling...

Somehow I'm trying to contain my excitement, but failing miserably.
xo
Weléla

Tuesday, March 1, 2011



Haiku 1 / 3

windowless broken sky unanswered ? sweet confinement
weeping
sound
love
child
experiment
trouble man rouge lips vanilla scent myth

Saturday, January 8, 2011

A piece of saffron


haiku 8/1
bau bau sweet need free sweet need
bau bau our saffron oil tambourines free
bau bau horses hills gypsy