for avotcja (14)

for avotcja
1941 --

melodies, rhythms, & timbres arise from
the immersive environs of spanish brooklyn.
a girl child is born, swaddled in the wafting
cuerpo de espíritu of laguerre velez, the
seditious crónicas of jesús colon & the deific
musical conversations of tito puente. u came
to us, avotcja, addicted to sound, even the
white noise released from the kinetic crashings
of cultures, the new sonorities of loneliness.
passing thru spanish harlem's liminality, thru
its screens of specified mesh — growing up
latina in new york —u landed in & bounced
around the avant garde spaces of los angeles'
central avenue & the influence of horace tapscott.
no one had to tell u of the inseparability of
music, dance, rite & poetry, my sister. like
most african-derived artists, u knew intuitively
that such separations were but artificial devices
of academics trying to stretch their thoughts like
goat skin over the membranophonic frames of
heart & soul. yr ideas — word, rhythm or song —
grew organically from the nature of yr spiritual
timbre. yr poems are polyphonic choirs of wood,
skin, & metal; yr rhythms, melismatic inducements
for spirit trance. yr dance, acrobatic virtuosity
wed to explorations of multiple percussive tone
color & rhythm. these were yr meat; sustained
you thru the fire & blood of watts, thru yr
sojourn in europe & return to california to play
with rahsaan, john handy & so many others.
u have always known, my dear poet sister,
percussionist, olorisa, just like u know the
source of earth, wind, fire & water, that the
music erupting from the fissures in yr heart
& soul, is the same as the dance of the claves
in yr hands, the rippling, cascading twinkle
of tuned wind chimes, the urgent slap/strike
of yr ocean drum & idiophonic wood blocks &
cowbells, the contained rainstorms of yr rain
stick, the reco reco's rasping counterpoint,
the life rattle of the shekere & the stark
tintinabulations of yr temple gongs. the
poignant poetry of the words condensed
from yr deep water body through which all
feeling (draining from the soul of the world)
flows,or from the magic theater of yr sobriety,
where one learns to do the next right thing
one day at a time; produces its own validity;
is validated again & again in yr rich creative
spell-weaving that celebrates the ever
resurrecting goodness in us all.

©Joseph McNair; 2010