The Electric Palace

Scars of a whipped slave (April 2, 1863, Baton...

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Here I sit in the house I was conceived in. If I am mistaken, I go about it quietly. Fastidious as I am in matters of delicacy. My great grand-mother Alice (the one with the long tail) never tired of telling me that sin is for the mind with pinhole capacity.

“How are you my darling petal?” I say giving Alice an impromptu kiss. A line coruscates her forehead. She waits. She frowns. She tumbles into the other world. (How impolite!)

A whirl of dervish motion re-appears as a tail of shimmering blur. And a halo. Her ghost hallucinates a four-inch wide balance beam and wields a striking pose in this dark recess of our Elizabethan household empowering the landed occupants to set sail to the New World. With her easy grin she mocks her hosts… their skins a landscape of polished claws. For redemption. For forebearance. For blessing the tides to ease their rugged ways: my Light forebears are an elite gang with a charcoal-coloured ship. Each morning brings examination of our black prisoners. The mortality rate of our inferior cargo is rising…

My grief is not measureable not like equations. Room temperature. Wind speed. Daylight. Dusk. Dawn again? Oh darned self-desultory dawn. Self-illusory dawn. Self-flagellation dawn. No! No! I cannot bare another dishonest dawn. Ignoble. Divested of sweet honesty. Who am I? A distant ancestor, whip in hand, shouting orders to his second mate. Wither embarrassment. Wither shame. She thinks I bare a charcoal grin, I’ll show her destiny does not appear in vain.

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