Mary’s Burning Heart. I Zipporah Jephthah’s Daughter yield her confessions and present to you Memoirs of a Cubist Odalisque.
Cupid’s Broken Arrow Mandala of the Wishful Flâneuse
Filled with millions of flaws, faults and Failures. Mismatched flavors like sardines and sugar. A Goddess in Training. A Fierce Sirocco Haboob Harmattan Simoon of Swirling Tornadoes. Mother Earth has lost her Skeins. She is no longer threaded together with care. For her Arboreal stakes, ropes and roots have been ripped from Earths bosom.
Harmattan courses through my weather beaten soul. From a burning bush fire in the Harmattan ~~ Changlings are birthed.
Cleansing. Purifying. Grace.
I wrapped my cloak even more closely tighter around my head hopelessly shielding face against powerful tint razor sand sharp dust particles which still manage to find a way through any slight opening of fabric. I must decided whether to keep moving or take shelter for the night. For the protection and safety of my menagerie of camels, goats, mules and donkeys laden with merchandise fit for Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe & Apothecary, I carry the hopes, dreams and visions of cities past present and future. I Be the cure and prevention of untimely death.
I battled my way forth towards the dimly lit designated rest stop for weary travelers. There I stash my merchandise aside me in the post stamp tent whilst my animals are boarded, sheltered and given rations to sleep shelter through the roaring night skies. I too arrange my bedding with the carpets, quilts, tapestries, rugs and blankets before extinguishing lanterns and candles Good Night. Dreaming of Ghosts sailing the sand.
I Zipporah Jephthah daughter bid you sweet nightly visions of an imperfect past and unknown future.
Each night sky twinkling stars become a beacon to millions of distant galaxies each demanding that my secret wishes be spoken. Where will I find my Justice or shall I return to the red rich clay from whence I came?
Still in the dawn of a new day in a misty foggy night She remains an Ogre. A misshapen princess wrapped in precious silks, damasks,laces, crinolines, royal robes sewn with golden stitches, glittering silvery threads, bedecked in precious gems and jewels. Clothing that titillated the mind and soul. The Fitting Glory of Majesty on an unfitting freakish frame. Luxury frocks, tunics and garments.
Pomp. Ceremony. No Core nor Substance. Clothing that conveys complete superficiality. Fitting for Kangaroo Courts For who is real as opposed to Who is Mere Invention?
It was a long way from the brothel and the Town and the Villagers who betrayed me..
My Name is Zipporah Sophia. I am from the once favored Kingdom Clan of Jephthah whose bad choices and decisions cursed my clan throughout the region. Curses which rained down on and were absorbed by me while I was being formed within my mother’s womb rendering me a dismember Odalisque.
I came to this Bordello from a rural backwater village that held onto the 19th Century in custom, culture and values long after its demise, after a disastrous arranged marriage. From my birth I was considered “Damaged goods”. My twin Niaema predicted to be a great beauty became my inadvertent protector and guardian.
Upon first seeing me after I was born my father was ready to throw me to hyenas and rabid dogs that fed on discarded garbage in the town dump. My mother, grandmother and aunts stayed his hand. So ashamed of me was him I called father that he kept me within the compound as much as possible and I was only allowed outside on infrequent shopping excursions with my female relatives for food, house supplies and to buy enough fabric to make clothing which would covered the misshaped hump that dominated my form. Niaema quickly became his pride and joy. Many was the time that Niaema intervened to prevent yet another rage fueled beating that became my lot in life. However a few weeks before Niaema’s 12th birthday Niaema turned to mother one late evening pitch black night said I Go to Sleep now Mama and promptly passed away. Father’s wrath and rage seemed to know no end as he cursed the gods and the universe for taking away his sweet favorite leaving him with rejected misfit myself.
Around the ages of 15 and 16 when most young women were making suitable marriages I had no suitors. Every young man in the village knew of my deformity though I rarely made an appearance in town. Bad news travels fast. My family was fairly well off and we lived quite comfortably so I had a somewhat considerably dowry, yet I still had no takers. No man wanted to love me.
Eventually as I approached my 25th birthday having resigned myself to being an Old Maid my father finally found a match in a far flung outpost where no man knew my embarrassing truth. Negotiations began. A Wedding date was set and I was delivered to my betrothed. The Festivities nearly two days and my future husband was eager to retire to our luxurious tent to consummate our union.
But there was no consummation because once my betrothed removed my clothes, he screamed in disgust that he had been saddled with a hunchback for a wife. He refused to do his husbandly duties and angrily return me to my father’s tent. My father ashamed and now disgraced in not one but two villages sent me packing out from our tribal home into what I perceived as an unknown and dangerous wasteland. So great was his fury and so hurried his dismissal that I hurriedly left with only the clothes on my twisted back and what few personal possessions I could carry, rushing to escape his stormy anger.
Good Fortune did smile on me as I traversed pock marked, poorly lit, rubble strewn road leading away from the only home I had ever known. Angels in the form of my mother, aunts and sisters had extinguished my father’s fiery rage through liberal applications of wine spiked with sleeping potions. They then saddled horses from his stables and intercepted my wilderness journey. We hugged, cried, and mourned the passing of me, Jephthah’s daughter cast out like Hagar from those she loved traveling who knows where.
They had also bargained with the disgruntled groom and his family to win back half my dowry which gifted me along with one strong but sway back donkey, an animal who mirrored my disability and fortitude. I a prodigal daughter who had committed no sin in my youth and innocence only to be rescued by the House of Sin…………………………………
“I Know that I’m not much to look at but I used to be the Crown Prince of Manhood, the Courtier of Cum among Royal Lovers.”
This laughable boast came on an exultation of foul and fetid breath akin to human waste lying in the bottom of a sewer emitting from this wizened and emaciated corpse like figure with a red bulging knobby doorknob on the end of a shriveled pecker. How it managed to stand at attention was a miracle from the saints or gods of nonstop porn. His face was a veritable road-map of lines, wrinkles, valleys, pitted scars with a bird beak blue veined appendage masquerading as a nose jutting forth from sunken cheeks. Above the beak nose were two rheumy eyes topped by beetle brows which looked more like two warring caterpillars wrangling for domination of an egg shaped skull sprouting tufts of errant hairs growing from the beak nose, elongated ears and the various moles on his scrofulous person.
Then it began. I closed my eyes and did my best to disengage all my senses as this old bag of bones began his pitiful assault upon my body. I tried to drown out the sound of the Click-Clacking of false teeth in rhythm with hurried asthmatic prods that gradually became more pathetic and feebler though he put his hairy back best with his pecker pushing. Thankfully he was done in under four minutes. The way he panted and gasped for air I thought he was having a heart attack and about to cum and go at the same time!
Four minutes of torture and hell. Because I have Scoliosis I had to deal with the runts of the litter. Yup I get all the Gumbys and Pokeys. Though we are fed, housed, clothed and housed like Renaissance Odalisques there is still a pecking order of beauty. My face, my sun-kissed umber skin, my small perfectly round breasts and long curly wavy chestnut locks got me a reprieve from just being another filthy dirty street urchin but this curvature of the spine has relegated me to servicing the worst of the many Geezer patrons who pass through these palatial doors.
The soldiers, sailors, traveling merchants or other Spew head Jimmy’s as many of the Ladies were want to call them rarely came my way unless they too suffered from a disfigurement of the mind and/or body which they saw reflected in me. As is said Like attracts like so Freaks of Nature recognize one of their fellows. It was a rare and delicious opportunity to bed any head bangers who set you into spasms of delight Orgasms so intense that your eyes rolled up back into your head while head set a rhythm with the bed’s back board.
Missy Elliott – Get ur freak on
Sam and Dave – Hold on I’m Coming
Stepping from the filthy foul smelling streets men were ushered into exotic elaborately decorated quarters decorated with expensive Persian rugs, medieval tapestries, silk draperies hung upon windowless walls, tables adorned with Tiffany lamps. A subtle scent of incense permeated the airways. The decorations seemed incongruous yet harmonized together in an irregular yet pleasing manner. Palatial taste a bit ostentatious like a Renaissance bordello. The furnishings were highly articulated and faceted Baroque/Rococo objects, many with deep gouges and gashes suggesting transparency and interior penetration. This room and much of the house as well as the street urchins who passed through seemed to us an Orientalist fantasy. At the far end of the living room hung a painting of a Minotaur coupling with a Centauride.
I saved my favorite costume for my only true Lover. For him. The Bringer of Pleasurably pain.
It was a beautiful blood red silk satin with lace trimming with velvet calf length skirts. However as joyful as I was when I donned the frock what pleased me even more were the Bordello Shoes—Red Velveteen Victorian button-up Boots with a two inch heel. My long thick wild curly Chestnut hair was caught up in a chignon I captured the Bohemian spirits of long gone Flappers. She be the Flâneuse of Golden Gilded Age.
Rag’n’Bone Man – Bitter End (Mahogany Session)
The Power of Black Women
Black HerStory Month
Black Women have been pretty much ignored and Left out of the Women’s History and Feminist Movements in America. We are excluded from the predominately white feminist narratives.
Our stories rarely get told and are certainly not in the history books. You rarely if ever see Black Women recognized in the Suffragette or Modern Day Feminism. Few if any white female feminists spoke up when Sandra Bland was murdered by the police and take note that over 50% of white women voted for the racist KKK sexist pervert who currently illegally occupies the Oval Office. ‘Nuff Said. Case Closed.
Today I Honor and Salute Shirley Chisholm, Mae Jemison, Fannie Lou Hamer, Ella Baker, Mary McLeod Bethune , Harriet Tubman, Rosa Parks, Angela Davis, The Queen of Sheba, Assata Shakur, My Biblical Namesake A Judge Over Israel DeBorah whose exploits can be found in the Book of Judges Chapters 4 & 5.
Queen Mother Moore whom I had the Honor of meeting when I was in my 20s. Queen Mother Moore reminded me that I’m African first and always!
The True Founder of the #MeToo Movement ~~ Tarana Burke
We are Warriors, Queens & Pharaohs
Me DeBorah Ann Palmer aka Sp4 Palmer who served a country that neither Loves nor respects me. U.S. Army ~~ November 1977 to November 1981
I remain now and forever a Soldier in the cause for Black Women. Ready for Battle and Prepared for War.
27 black women activists everyone should know
As far as the most influential Women in my family First, Foremost and always #1 is my Mom Mable Elizabeth Palmer
Both my Grandmothers Hattie Finney Banks and Eva Sophronia Gordon Palmer
My Female Ancestors
BLACK WOMAN ~~ KNOW THYSELF
WE ARE NUBIAN QUEENS AND GODDESSES