March 31, 2008

an artist inspires another artist

Poet turah cadillac was so moved by a performance she saw, she wrote and emailed this poem for us to feel, hear and experience for ourselves. ENJOY.

by turah cadillac

last night i saw one of'um them spirits gave the big load to carry
bill t jones
his art
his art his art his art...
weighed and measured in movements given to those who have joined his troupe of
ambidextrous interpreters of the show nuff
color coated garblers shakin up saltthey bend their bodies till time stands still
rewinds to the place where art took the crash route
a father who kills his daughter for her breath to carry her own words
a psychotic rampager doin another kind of family intervention
rust colored headline news given the healing oils by this shamanic circle

medicine torsos twistin the deformed puzzlers riddle
doin whatever it takes to get at the holy tip
liftin dark magic gone awry see some shine
through the art of dance they spoke about the killin' spirit
not in glorifying misspent energy but to recognize it as a source of
power and might
a place where the soul travels to know the worth of life has value
is necessary as art
as art as art
as song as story as movementas song
as story as movement

After they tamed the roar after the audience had been filled with the rise up
bill t jones gave even more
he opened up the floor to the audience
i have finally found my hoodoo beggin' room
i know if he don't hear me full ways at least i did my very best
yes! i do have a question the scribe gives nothing until ink flows to the paper- i must write
it first cause if i don't out pops the gibberish heart thumpin babbler
dancin' the winged doll tourettes tongue jumpin up makin soup splash through the roof
the audience would laugh as i hunt for the strange vocabulary that
just flew out my mouth which will make all of me work up a sweat sure
to be some news story about a river over flowin in a town called yak
"mr. jones-where do u think the energy that your work exudes would go
if you
were not placing it- containing it in the dance the movements and the
"thats a great question- i don't know I think i would go mad..."

his voice his truth echos past this showcase

pleasure is an odd bird-to find the place where the hereafter speaks the sky torn in two can soothe the wildest woodworkers -to have discovered the art of the arts -to know and see and hear'um speak thebig winds- say to me "chile u think we really came here and picked cotton for hundreds and hundreds of years and not know who runs nature-umph umph umph...tell our stories daughta tell our stories"

between the cacaphony of dance and exploding music i kept rubbing my beaded bracelet saying to them hoodoo ridin' me urging me to hurry and get the loot to do their stories-i say: well yall there it is insteadof takin yaselves cross this cotton and flower field nation...out body
fire startin
plane crashin where i can
see ya! there it is! mr. bill t jones done figured out how to make it
work so gowan bother him! ok fine hollywood wanna keep ya in the unknown slave catagory but here this fellow carryin' hoodoo good-obviously his juice is the true shine-gowan now follow him!

of course as usual when i get my hoodoo chant goin strong all they say is:

its the only way daughta its our song its our story its our place to let freedom ring - we came here cause we wanted to we came knowin ain't nobody told our stories daughta aint nobody told our stories cause we gave'um to u to tell'um until then we ride the winds we body jump we make art daughta we make art...

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