Time is like the weather system. It has patterns, storm seasons with electric charges. Memory. The arctic wind brushes a molten sun making of it a golden drop of frozen gold. Breath beats the window in fists of furious fog. Come on summer time I say to myself. My eyes freeze as the world turns kaleidoscopic or into an Aferwerk Tekle painting.
I’m just a man mumbling on a street corner, “there’s a storm coming. A storm. Dust spits from the cliff tops into my river eyes forcing tears over the banks to flood me. I will not drown in them I will not drown.”. I am the guy drawing sunlight on the sidewalk each morning.
How do you do it said night
How do you wake and shine
I keep it simple said light
One day at a time
I am black. I am black like the wind. I am black like the heatwave. I am black like sunlight. I am black like still waters running deep and like shallow shadows at dawn. Black and warm like the touch of velvet. I am black like a fist unclenched. I am black like the onyx clasped in a gold ring with the lion of Judah at its heart.
(Indigenous people do not, as a rule, define themselves by colour. Indigenous Ethiopians in Ethiopia know themselves as Ethiopian and Indigenous English in England know themselves as English not as a colour. Therefore I am not black )
Time, to my mind, is the weather system of the heart with its own chronometry unrelated to watches, clocks and digital timestamps. In my thinking time is in the unknown source of Hemodynamics, the rising nucleotides of generations.
I was born at night. The night of May 21st is my birthnight and I’ll travel to Manchester on my birthday and spend the late evening at Godlee Observatory and from there I’ll watch the stars. By the time their light reaches my eyes the actual stars have long gone. Its only light on the journey to my eyes which remains. That is a scientific fact. So I will look into the past for once and see it shining brightly and know above all things it is not there.