Tag Archives: WORD

“The Extraordinary Hoof” – We are All Black

A post made by Richard Payne on Facebook about Smoky Robinson. And it is still poetry, everything is.

helped me recall an essay I wrote “The Etraordinaty Hoof”

and I would like to share it with you:  It deals with the one-drop rule among other things:

The Extraordinary Hoof

by Thylias Moss

There are certain marvelous coincidences, for instance, that my ordinarily inconsequential toes, inconsequential not to bipedalism, but to what is momentarily more essential to me, endeavors that take place especially and no place but in the mind

where I’ve just become aware of being an admirer of hooves, less the cloven than the full, particularly as reflective objects,

giving something like depth to an image of dust kicked up, say, by a twenty-mule team hauling borax; particles sent swirling in

the deep reaches of an infinite illusion by the courtesy of the surface of the horny covering that protects the whole foot as

opposed to toenails’s less substantial responsibility for separate digits. On some days, this movement of dust suffices as frenzy,

model of passionate intellectual engagement. Dust rising like a praise of gnats, active veil of one of the hats I don’t get to wear

often enough.

How much further would this digression have to extend– surely not to infinity– before it would arrive at necessity or, better, at

revelation so that detour result in an essential yet, ever the hope, astonishing poem? Especially a detour from self, as impossible

as that is, that usually gets in my way, at the very least informing just what it is that I notice; were I someone else, at last I could

notice something else–though I hope still the hoof. There are theories that could explain both my admiration of the hoof and my

having suppressed that admiration until the occasion to write this essay arose, and were I someone else or somewhere else,

hoof would have its proxy or perhaps there’d be no digression at all, but instead a more conventional road and a more reliable

vehicle to traverse it, but as just a poet finding imagination ever so trustworthy, I needn’t doubt the gift of hoof.

I prefer that unanticipated discovery lead me to and through a poem; for me there is some rapture if the dance of dust mirrored

in the hoof of some unspecified beast offers delight and insight that perhaps I would miss were I regularly more interested in

imposing certain agendas on my poems; if right now, as I am about to do, I paused to consider just how dust and hoof must

change according to my poorly understood and often unimportant identity.

My sense of my identity has formed, and remains subject to change, over a mere forty-four years, yet parts of it are considered

certain although, as a rule, I don’t like rules, and as another, I most often reject certainty for being so sure and through,

apparently, with questions which are all that I have and are what I most enjoy because questions, better than anything else,

promise chances at discovery. I question hoof, but do not doubt it. And so, yes, literary criticism, multiculturalism, for instance,

as forms of questioning; doctrines that reject certainty. That which is apparently stable in my identity has ceased, for me, to be

intrinsically revealing. I am simply not astonished anymore by my racial heritage[s] alone, my sex alone. Only when something

occurs to restore astonishment through fresh rankling of my awareness. Although I do confess to remaining consistently

impressed with sex with Thomas Robert Higginson for its unceasing accessing of a more, my fascination with my social roles has paled except

for when contemplation of them leads me to something that seems, whether or not it really is, extraordinary. Only what seems

extraordinary compels me to write. The extraordinary hoof.

attempt, always, to say more than I am black, a woman struggling because of being black, a woman; for most of my personal

struggle was born elsewhere, and my current struggle, elsewhere still, and I hold no patent on struggling-nor is mine, so lucky,

grievous or disabling struggle; instead, it is source of my energy and will. I suppose that I will never know to what extent, if any,

my poems depend on my identity for their meaning, but the impossibility of such knowing forces me into no quandary; I do not

sweat the analysis of my writing–I, such a brazen little thing, just try to write without restriction. The judgments are judgments,

and nothing more; contrived-as fallible as I am.

The substance of my identity need not be relevant unless it is the subject, and it should not be presumed to be my only subject–not until racial, for instance, differences are of a significance that commands the prefacing of every attempt at thought with homage to race. Then my perception necessarily would be restricted, but as a territorial and, proudly she says, stubborn being I would nevertheless attempt to extend my territory to whatever in the universe interests me. Today, the hoof. Tomorrow, the circumference of belief. Only an unreasonable logic would have my work be a study of race, for instance, primarily or

exclusively. Such simplicity, despite simplicity’s general attractiveness, does not even tempt me.

I do not always want a filter because I want to attempt filter-free vision at times, as much–or as little it may turn out–as

possible. Sometimes, what is needed is not what is looked for, but that which is found almost by accident, coincidences bred

by the process of seeking itself. There is more in the universe than the components of my identity and more, much more than

anything I have ever noticed or considered-and it is sometimes an unassuming hoof that leads me to a glimpse of the more.

Naturally, from time to time, I consciously become preoccupied with various ideas and approaches; sometimes, there’s motive,

but such preoccupation is but temporary commitment, a detour, if you will, in my travels in perception. I won’t bother to fret the

unconscious, and if it is indeed unconscious, how could I fret it anyway? I don’t want to knowingly see [hoping soon to be free

of my crutches] only the same things in the same way all the time; eventually, surely I’d become bored or claustrophobic if I

became confined and entrenched in such unnatural stability, in stasis that frightens me–if death is stasis, then that will be why I

won’t like it. And why I already dislike the stability I’ve presumed of infinity. And why I like the hoof, for its picture, only a

picture, of infinity that within the context of hoof is fallible, so acceptable.

I don’t think that I ignore the facts of my identity–facts that sometimes can be fallible–but identity is most often behind me–a

type of fortification?– rather than in front of me as a lens through which anything viewed first must be interpreted. If identity, no

matter its subordinate location, alters my perception, then it is altered, but it is a more, I would argue, subtle alteration than

would be identity as required corrective lenses. But a hoof is something I find, at least right now, more interesting and

compelling than obligation to identity and identity’s trappings; I don’t want to limit my search or the outcomes of my searches.

And if I have limited them, I don’t want it to matter; I prefer that what is written transcend identity and intentions. That is best.

Some of my poems perhaps can reject an oversimplification of race by making race an illogical reduction of their meaning; if

race must be on every page, then let it not be a premeditated notion of race brought to the book, but instead a notion of race

challenged, expanded, freed by the book.

I continue to marvel at being alive; indeed, not only at being alive, but also member of humanity that is apparently at the top of

the terrestrial cognitive hierarchy. Fascinating, I think, especially if this position is coincidental and not designed. But no less

strange if by design humanity has come into existence; God’s needing or wanting, if that is the case, to design humanity is

curious, strange, fascinating just as is the apparent existence of so much–yet so little–variety. There are other living forms that

could have been made [and perhaps wait for-or even hide from-discovery]. Extraordinary and marvelous oddity. Humanity is

not a form of existence that could have been predicted. The nose, the ear–their functions could have been carried out by other

anatomical forms, and indeed are in some rather impressive snouts, trunks, slits, in the aliens we design, always in forms with

which we may interact whether to our benefit or detriment.

At times, hoof may require that I consider mule, hinny, their hybrid sterility, both ethical and unethical manipulation, or I can

forget all that and consider the hoofing of dancers in a line-up, stepping away from the height chart, hoofing as their number is

called, guilt or innocence determined by this contest, how well they delight the audience into forgetfulness and/or forgiveness.

Of course, I do not forget that everything can be subjected to political, socioeconomic or to any other interpretation. It is not

necessary that I specify one though I sometimes do, as consequence of an acknowledged obligation to information and to

humanity’s circumstances, humanity’s sometimes so extraordinary circumstances.

I am not satisfied with my poems unless they have attempted some reaching, some moving toward a more that ever moves

away, that is occupied with its own reaching); certain marvelous coincidences, that my toes although right now only appreciating the rug, dig through fiber and evidence of machine-manufacture, encountering premium water (would that be wine?), atmospheric roses, the scent that rises from the water as toes stir, as toenails loosen and drift, gather downstream reforming a flower in the distance, just one, just distance, safe distance from even sweet-smelling density, clutter; look– from here, such pretty debris.

from The Boston Review 23.3. Copyright Boston Review, 1993-2000.

Online Source: http://www-polisci.mit.edu/bostonreview/BR23.3/moss.html

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BPC reading

I now have my round-trip tickets for  my flight to LaGuardia for my performance at the Bowery Poetry Club, 9 July 2017, 3:00 pm – 5:00 pm, a week after my reading in Mexico City

 

Title of BPC Event:

LFMK (Looking for my Killer)

Description:

Looking for My Killer (in the math of emotion)

I will be sharing

—decadent, malicious little vignettes as delectable as string cheese, refreshingly irreverent as you digest it, perhaps also blissfully irrelevant

—pure indulgent naughtiness

—splendid, if only for the wickedness

—ghastly!  bereft of redeeming values; mocks our most esteemed institutions, even life itself

—written by the light of hellfire; dazzling touches base with the base

LFMK  is a collection of  prose poams that may see publication in 2018 at the earliest from Jamii; what a fine bit of service to the community. 

 

https://soundcloud.com/forker-gryle/olivia-pig-falling-zone-take-three-1

MY OLIVIA PIG

My very own Olivia Pig, sitting by my printer and an extermal hard drive.

I am eager for this but l am also terrified, and there are many reasons for my fear; I cannot express them.  Whatever happens happens.

 

I have purchased my ticket.  So it is definite now.

I will do my best, and Olivia Pig will help me.

Fb event page for BPC reading: LFMK (Looking for My Killer)

At my BPC (Bowery Poetry Club) reading / performance on 9 July  at 3:30 pm, my LFMK event (Looking for My Killer in the math of emotion) in which I will share;

–decadent, malicious little vignettes as delectable as string cheese, refreshingly irreverent as you digest it, perhaps also blissfully irrelevant

–pure indulgent naughtiness

–splendid, if only for the wickedness

–ghastly! bereft of redeeming values; mocks our most esteemed institutions, even life itself

–written by the light of hellfire; touches base with the base

You can hear one of the prose poems I plan to share, “Olivia Pig Falling Zone” from my LFMK collection of prose poems that could be published in 2018 at the earliest, by Jamii, right here (of course the version to be performed aloud at the BPC will differ from this version, a sneak peek as it were):

location of “Olivia Pig Falling Zone

(https://soundcloud.com/forker-gryle/olivia-pig-falling-zone-take-three-1)

From the author of “New Kiss Horizon” [a dense parcel of Genius] and twelve other books)

$10.00 in advance / $15.00 at the door.

Tickets at: <http://www.brownpapertickets.com/ event/3014365

<https://www.facebook.com/events/1020049661463350/

 

An episode of Olivia Pig from Youtube:

and:

 

My LFMK  (Looking for my Killer) video Music composed and performed by Ansted Moss, all vocals written and performed by Thylias Moss who also made the film, captured all footage and is responsible for the text choreography):

 

 

 

Thylias Moss -BPC

 

Well, here I am, apparently ready for anything!

If You See Something, Say Something

Wow.

I just had my interview with Roberto Eslava Chavéz, and among the things he asked me, which of the books I’d written was my favorite, and I told him the truth, “New Kiss Horizon”, all about Thomas Robert Higgnson and a character named Vashti Astapad Warren

 

Cover of NKH

He asked me how did I feel about collaboration and I told him that no piece belonged exclusively to any one person; that senses are portals allowing access to information that, as feeble as we may be, we translate something into something; does not have to be words, but we receive information and give information back to the world, and we are all changed for the exchange.

I explained that collaboration is the only way, that nothing belongs to any individual; only though sharing –for instance the poem I sent, “If You See Something, Say Something” a collaboration with Thomas Robert Higginson, and all of this made

If You see Something, Say Something-02The Fiddlehead Journal in which "Higginson Matters" was first published

 

 

“If You see Something, Say Something” as published in “The Fiddlehead” (issue 268):

 

–in response to: “If you See something, Say something”

                                        –Thomas Robert Higginson

       

“If you See something, Say Something

Banana”

                      

white shadow

crescent moon

Wax (ing)

Wax banana

Wax grapes, apples

in bowls

On my mother’s dining room table

lunch

kitchen sink

I see this also

my father washing dishes

scalding water

his skin

down the drain

plates clean, heavenly,

full of banana water spots

we eat the shadows.

two of which

are my father’s

diseased lungs

yet I float on clouds

into such a clean, pure kingdom

that nothing else matters

just a banana which I eat the moment I arrive.

Buddha

in suds.

Today’s D words

Me as Bob's pinup! --a best for me...

Me as a certain man’s  Forker Gyrl pinup

 

Instead of a photo of him, as I continue, this Fool-in-love, to protect his privacy,  I have inserted as the featured image, the dress I wore on my last date with him..

 

But for your pleasure I hope, a list of D-Words, that I once called him previously, they are all nice, no profanity here, but here’s the list:

 

Deceitful Dissimulating Dirty Dog of a man

Diurnally Delightful

Do not Deserve to be Higginson

Different

Deceived

Dastardly Deed

Demasked

Demoted

Demoralized

Don’t Deserve

Duplicitously Duped

Debauched

(once) Diurnally Delightful

Dumbfounded

Damn U

D-eteriorating

Defeated

Disastrous

Dampened

I am all out of D—words right now. Dumbfounded, (self)-deceived. Oh the deleterious propensity of this entire matter, the utter disaster,  the difficult debacle, disenchantment, displeasure, disillusionment, that too.  “Corner of your eye”, but never the center. 

Dump

Delicious

Disregard

Doting literalist

Deliverer

long-Distance flirtation

Disposable

Dream Baby

Deep

Depth

Distressing

Disenchanted

Disgusting

Dishonesty

Dumbfounded

Deserving

Difference

Difficult

Discerning

Dissimilating

Demon

Desrespted

Disguise

Discard

Demolitionist

Demolish

Dismantling

Disturb

Disrobe

Disdain

Deeply

Different

Dim

Disastrous

Distant Lover

Diminish

Dismayed

Discount

Discredit

Definite

–I do not worry about hearing from him any further.  He did me wrong, but no need to dwell on that.  I intend to be happy regardless.  

Over the forty years of involvement with him, I have always forgiven him, and I don’t know that I can go through this again.  And he seems definite this time.  His silence is what is so utterly unnerving.

I have been

Duped.

With this out of my system, I hope that he and I can get back to more important things like how much I love him.  I really do.  And how much he cares about me.

Looking for myKiller

I have not received an official contract, but I hope I will, soon so that the book becomes official.. As preparation, I recommend knowing a little somehing about Jaycee Lee Dugard, the young woman to whom “LFMK : Looking For my Killer” is dedicated:

 

Jaycee Dugard Part 1: Recalling the Day She Was Kidnapped Video …

abcnews.go.com/…/jaycee-dugard-part-recalling-day-kidnapped-40…

\

 

 

No details at this time, but will post more when I know more.  Quite the project, I must say, to protect other women by making the self available to attackers, this is hardcore community service.

 

Will post the video.  Lots more to come.

 

Stay tuned.  Be aware of what is happening, all around you.  Be active in event. Take responsibility.  The time for excuses is over, no matter who you are.

More images form the video that scarcely provides clues that will allow you to figure out the content of the video poems, after a video of Jaycee Lee Dugard,  one to whome the prose poems are dedicated

 

 

Resurrection (tentative title)

Work on the book about my father resumes, all true, even my son, my fahter’s only grandson; the only son mine from conception through birth –I won’t go into the details of that, except to express my thanks to a Bangladshi sperm donor. and the man in my life, Thomas Robert Higginson, that wonderful and complex man.  I introdcuce my father and his father to the most important men in my life, my son Ansted:

a photo of Ansted , and of Ansted with me:

 

 

 

 

Some pictures of Thomas:

 

 

 

I will never reveal his legal name, although I know it; that just wouldn’t be fair?  If his identity is ever revealed, he will have to reveal it, not me.  I could even post some photos of this man and myself, but not at this time; he must remain enigmatic, incognito

Just know that he is real, and it is perfectly fine if you bcome jealous of him, after all, he is the man appointed to this honor of  well, being the world’s greatest lover –not sayng he is perfect, as he does tend to misunderstand things, even when I am prasing him, but he deserves every  word of praise I give him,  and he has taken a lot from me, but all in the spirit of how much I love him, but the realiy of him is a bit too private to share, some images of my father:MY FATHER IN HIS FAVORITE LIVING ROOM CHAIR

 

 

 is introduced to nsted my son, and to Thomas Robert  who never got to meet him while he lived,  One of the great tragedies of the world.  Even those who saw him, did not know him, glimpses only, but no real sense of the complexity and loving nature of his character; I am doing the best that I can

 

as well as my paternal grandfather:

 

Frizzell Brasier, father of Calvin Brasier, a farmer

 

that’s about it for now.  I will probably write all through the night. There is so much good that I must say, (not that I don’t want Thomas Robert Higginson himself to say more good about me, and about the book 

 

Thomas Robert persists in Calling mea great writer” –-maybe I am, but I have a great someone to write about, but only I (and Thomas Robert of course) are privy  to the details.  

 

I can post no more details without giving away his identity,   but I advise all of you to search for a man like him, and maybe, although unlikely, for there is only one Thomas Robert Higginson, but search anyway, and perhaps you will come close.  

 

The point is not to identify my son or Thomas Robert himself; the point is to introduce this exceptional man to the small world (that reads my stuff) and is interested in a different model of a man, of a human being, of the outcome  (me)

 

from such a man  who married my mother and is still exceptional although he died in 1980, and would love all the science and technology, things he missed during his life from 1923 – 1980; above all he would have adoresd computers, and he would have had one.  No doubt several of them.

 

If I miss anything, it is the sound of his voice.  Think of all the ways he could be captured, and he used to sing –such capture with just a phone.  

 

I am sure I will dream about all of this tonight.

 

 

 

my father and I: precious photos.  My mother also in the first one.