Search the Dark Waters of Nun

Friday, February 19, 2010

Isis Unveiled

Pierre generally prefers red-bones like his beloved fiancé, Mary. However, he’d never seen a Belgian chocolate beauty like his prospective sister-in-law, before. Isis was a 43-year-old ebony bombshell with a pretty face, 28-inch waist, and 44-inch hips. 

She often wore tight mini-skirts to show off her combustible curves and  mouth-watering thighs that glistened in the blistering summer sun. Whenever she was gracious enough to offer the world a glimpse of her luscious cleavage, men would feast their starving eyes on her ample gourmet breasts.

One night last June, Isis called Pierre to ask for a small favor. She requested that he drive over to her apartment in the Clinton Hill section of Brooklyn because she needed someone to help her check the wedding invitations. When Pierre reached Isis’ ninth-floor apartment he could feel the baseline to the Jones Girls’ “Nights Over Egypt” pulsing through his body.

Pierre rang her doorbell once. He rang it twice. He rang it three times. Through her peephole, framed by a gold triangle, Pierre saw what looked like the All-Seeing Eye of Ra blink once before staring back at him like a falcon. When the door opened, Pierre realized that the person holding it for him was hiding out in the corner of the doorway. For some reason they didn’t want to be seen. Nevertheless, Pierre strolled into the apartment with Ketamine calm. The door slammed shut.

Pierre turned around and saw the lovely goddess Isis in all of her splendor and glory. Most of her mysteries had been unveiled for Pierre’s naked eyes to see. She wasn’t wearing anything but aqua blue stilettos, a matching thong from La Perla and nipple tassels pasted over her dark chocolate mounds. Isis’ luscious frame blew Pierre’s brain stem to kingdom come. Even with traces of premature gray in her hair, Isis was a knockout beyond compare.

How she kept her body in such fine shape was one of the world’s great mysteries. Isis was syrupy thick, but not a patch of cellulite could be found on her tight obsidian body. Pierre was surprised when his fiancé told him that none of the men in the neighborhood had ever asked her out on a date. She was very approachable. As a matter of fact, Pierre’s previous interaction with Isis had long revealed that she was more beautiful on the inside than she was on the outside. Isis’ most beautiful curve was her smile. Given her physical appearance, that was definitely saying a lot.

Pierre later discovered that jealous women in Mary’s Church congregation scared the sorry chumps off by spreading a ridiculous rumor that Isis was a conjuror of evil demons. They even went as far as to say that she engaged in devil worship. The Queen of Darkness was adept at the Black Arts, no doubt, but by no means was she a Satanist. It was obvious that the old prunes from the Church were threatened by her stunning sex appeal and razor-sharp wit. Isis was very well learned, but as a professor of Africana Studies at Columbia University, what else would you expect? Her shelves were lined with books by Yosef Ben-Jochannan, Ivan Van Sertima, J.A. Rogers and Cheikh Anta Diop.

Pierre’s heart crackled into a bonfire of seething passion as Isis took him by the hand and escorted him to her plush living room. Pierre felt like a nervous schoolboy on the first day of Kindergarten. “What if my fiancé found out?” he thought. “Have you ever experienced the dark side of The Force?” she cooed softly into Pierre’s ear. His eyes were totally fixated on her sweet candied yams. Pierre couldn’t look her in the eye, much less offer a reply. He was at a total loss for words. “Pierre, I’ve been thinking about you night and day, so much so, that it’s beginning to interfere with my work. I need your head like a wig shop. Come here and get this sloppy top. Once you pop, I’ll do my best to sop it up like a big mop. I want you to fuck me  before you get cuffed by my sister, the red-boned cop.”

Pierre raised his head and marveled at Isis’ pretty face. Her dazzling brown eyes burned holes through his soul like hot crack rocks in a pitch-black alley. And to the weak-minded dick, her lips looked like a cult. Pierre had blown stiff with desire hoping they’d try to brainwash him. That was when Isis slowly unzipped his fly. What she found was as rare as a dollar bill that’s two bucks. She said it hung well like Klu Klux, and that she’d bury it deep in her throat like a dead man in a new tux.
Flattered and amused by Pierre’s stupor, Isis dug her middle finger deep into the crotch of her thong. When she pulled it out she wiped the French Vanilla frosting from her cake all over Pierre’s gaping lips. She said “Sweetie, I’d love to teach you the dark side of The Force. Why don’t you enroll your fine ass into my extra credit course?”

Isis’ voice was as mellow as jasmine smoke tinted by a pale moonlight that contained specks of stardust from the constellation of Sirius. The goddess left Pierre absolutely speechless. His heart was racing like the god Mercury trying to keep up with Usain Bolt and the Gingerbread man on the run from the IRS. He didn’t have a clue what to say to the exotic, mythical creature. Pierre was left stranded in a daze as Cherrelle’s “I Didn’t Mean To Turn You On,” rippled furiously from the speakers of the sound system in Isis’ plush Brooklyn apartment. “Honey, I'm going to my bedroom now. If you’re interested in having your way with me before your pledge of eternal servitude to my baby sister, I think you know exactly where to find me.”

As Isis sashayed across her living room floor, her voluminous butt cheeks swung from left to right and from right to left. The salivating serpent in Pierre’s garden tempted him to partake of Isis’ juicy apple bottom. Pierre yearned for the knowledge of good and evil, and he knew that the only way he could obtain it was through the dark side of The Force.

When Isis reached the archway that led to her bedroom, she turned slowly to face Pierre with her eyes closed and palms tightly joined in an image of pristine prayer. Standing on her left leg like some fly fudge flamingo from some mystic zoo in the ether, Isis raised her right leg slowly over her shoulders like an elegant ballet dancer and hooked it neatly behind her neck with no hands. Pierre could smell the Queen of Heaven speak to him from behind Isis’ burning bush.

“I am that I am from hence to eternity. I am your highness and your harlot, your queen and your whore. I am the barque of Ra that carries you from the seaside to the shore. Trample down my ninth gate, my love, and smite me with thy rod. Enter my creamy portal and unravel all the mysteries of the gods.” Pierre’s erection had grown stiff and firm, harder than an avocado seed. If he were a tall glass of orange juice, he’d be ready to spill for her sensual thrills.

Pierre could feel his entire mind, body and soul giving in to the dark side of The Force. He bolted out of the apartment like a mad dust head and bulleted down nine flights of stairs before blasting through the building on the way to his car. But lo and behold, Mary and the rest of his family-in-law were waiting in front of the cherry-red convertible. They were all clapping excitedly with tears of joy streaming from their eyes. Pierre’s mother-in-law Ma’at hugged him tightly and sobbed, “Son, I’m so proud that you passed our little test, and didn’t fall like autumn leaves to the temptations of the flesh. My daughter Mary couldn’t have asked for a more faithful son-in-law. The scales of judgment have spoken. Welcome to our family!”

Mentally fatigued and emotionally drained, Pierre wiped the sweat from his brow and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Isis, Mary and Ma’at were all testing him to see if Pierre would make a loyal and faithful husband, and he aced their little test with flying colors. Pierre felt proud of the decision he had made. One year removed from the wild incident, he finds himself a happily married man with a baby on the way. He’s just a year older now, but ten years wiser. 

Pierre’s experience with Isis reinforced a piece of advice that his dear old dad gave him several years ago: always leave your condoms inside the glove compartment of your ride……..

Monday, February 8, 2010

Dirty Words: Do They Actually Exist?

Words never fail to excite and provoke people. They affect our emotions. Our emotions affect our thoughts and our thoughts determine the very experiences which ultimately shape our lives. The Bible tells us that “In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God and the word was God” (John 1:1). To the casual reader with a good understanding of proper English syntax, this verse looks like a complete contradiction. Its verbiage implies that the word was in God’s possession, and was therefore a separate entity distinct from God, yet may be used by God as a tool for specific purposes. However the verse closes by stating “the word was God,” which means that there is no distinction between God and the word.

The reason why the verse is written in this seemingly confusing manner is because the writer’s intention was to convey the fact that a transition is taking place between The Creator and its relationship with the word. You see, what we sometimes forget is that God is an artist, and like any other artist, God uses a tool as a means to express its artistry. For Charlie Parker that tool came in the form of a saxophone. For Michael Angelo it was the paintbrush. For God it is the word. All great artists take the tools that they use and make those tools a part of themselves. That is why no one can take a great artist’s tool and reduplicate that artist’s work. It might come out similar, but it won’t be quite the same. An artist of this caliber has given his soul to the tool. He is the tool and the tool is him. There is no separation between the two.

God, the Supreme Artist, uses the most powerful of all tools and that tool is the word. Much like any other tool, NO word is inherently good or bad. It’s all about the intent of the user and the circumstantial context in which that word is used. Let’s take a careful, but dispassionate look at two words that never fail to ruffle the feathers of reactionary people.

I remember having a telephone conversation with a former girlfriend a few years ago where I used the word “fuck” in a sentence (I don’t remember what the conversation was about so don’t ask me). I remember her being taken aback with my use of the word. She said that she didn’t see anything wrong with cursing, but was surprised as she had never heard me curse up until then. I explained to her that my skill with words and my ability to express what I feel makes it unnecessary for me to curse casually, but added that there are specific situations where curse words are not only preferred for honest self-expression, but necessary.

People always say that “fuck” is such a “bad” word. My question is: how is this so? According to the Oxford English Dictionary—the best and oldest English dictionary—fuck is “an act of sexual intercourse.” It also means “to damage or to ruin,” but the word can be used as “a strong expression of contempt, annoyance or impatience.” As you can see, all of these dictionary definitions reflect aspects of common human experience. There’s nothing inherently bad about the human experience, is there?

Fucking is an extremely passionate form of sexual intercourse. There’s a time to make love (a gentle show of affection) and there’s a time to fuck (an intense emotional release). If you don’t have a clue what I’m talking about, then I pray for the day when you are fortunate enough to know. For those of you who have a job that you don’t like, what do you say when the alarm goes off on Monday morning? You say “Aw, fuck!” If you said anything else, given your disdain for the job, you would be compromising your true feelings for that job. Repressed emotions are arguably the leading cause of all cancer cases. You’ve got to express your true emotions one way or another. If you don’t, your repressed emotions will literally kill you. And for all of you Holy Rollers out there who are too pristine and Godly to curse, be honest: don’t you look forward to the day when Jesus returns on his white steed with great power and glory to fuck Satan up and throw that bitch in the bottomless pit? Be honest now! The word “fuck” is no dirtier than the words “duck, truck, puck or buck” The only evil lies in how and when you use the word. There’s a time and place for everything.


Use this word around a Black person who came of age during the civil rights movement and they’re likely to get hot flashes (yes, the men too) and start foaming at the mouth. Given their unique experiences dating back to that era, this of course is understandable. The general consensus is that “nigger” is a hateful word coined by white people and it is used to define an ignorant Black person. However it is worth noting that in ancient Kemet (Egypt) the word for “god” was “Neter” or “Neger/Niger.” The linguistic equivalent of the letters “T” and “G” were completely interchangeable among the ancient Kemetian people. The same can be said of the letters “E” and “I.” For those of you who would like to explore this particular subject further I recommend that you read Nigger: A Divine Origin by Shaba Shabaka and Dr. Ernie A. Smith.

For those of you who choose to hold on to a more conventional definition, we’ll just say that a Nigger is a Black person whose total sense of self is a product of Willie Lynch-ism and the sustained efforts of white institutionalized racism.

Before our African ancestors came to the shores of America and the Caribbean they were called Ghanians, Nigerians and Angolans. After they embraced their white master’s names, started eating the white master’s food and embraced his Christian religion they became a new people, a product of a sadistic European’s twisted imagination. You may recognize these former Africans today as Niggers.

When a man or woman makes something—whether it be a pot of spaghetti or a Nigger—they have the right to name that thing whatever they choose. My mother carried me in her stomach and nurtured me for nine months. This required great effort and dedication on her part. When I was born after many hours of labor she said “I’m going to name my son Adika.” In one of the West African languages my name means “Prince.” However I later learned through independent research that in Indonesia it means “Grand” or “Supreme.” Some people might say that Adika is a silly name, but my mother’s decision to name me Adika was within her natural right as she issued the sustained effort of which I am today a product.

Do you insist on giving your children slave master names like Robert, Clifford or Jennifer which have no real meaning? Do you eat the slave master’s food and embrace his religions (institutionalized Christianity, Islam, Judaism)? Would you rather be materially wealthy as an employee of the slave master or do you prefer living comfortably as the boss of your own small business? Are YOU the final product of a white supremacist’s sustained effort towards your Niggerization? Truth of the matter is that we’re ALL niggers to some degree if we go with the latter definition of the word. It’s just that some of us are more Niggerish than others.

Does it hurt you to read these words? Good medicine is often bitter to the tongue but it’s sweet to the soul. The truth hurts, but it doesn’t have to. The only shame in being a nigger is choosing to remain one. Before you can become a Negus (that’s the Ethiopian word for “king”) you must first admit that you are a Nigger. Remember, out of darkness came light, so if you are someone who seeks to shine their light for the world to see, then you must find your own direction through introspection. This means coming face-to-face with your dark side and learning to master it, instead of letting it be master over you.

The United States of America was founded by masons, but the black stone that those white builders refused is destined to become the head corner stone. It is the Nigger, and the Nigger alone, who has the potential to rise to the status of royal Negus before making the alchemical transformation into a divine Naga of old (The Nagas were the gods of wisdom in ancient Cambodia). The choice is yours. Everything begins with the word. It is the foundation upon which your reality is built.