Darryl DeAngelo Terrell

Here, in this space we as black people a forced to find liberation in our own bodies, it’s in us, deeper then melanin, and it is activated by bodily acts.

We Dance*

We Sing

We Praise

We Fly*

We Move* in ways that others can not fathom to understand. Through these acts, we find the most beautiful yet temporary forms of true freedom, we find joy, peace in these acts.

And when we are tired, and all tapped out of seeking for liberation in our own bodies, only at this time will we be presented with “a way to get gone”, they be portals, portals that are only visible to our eyes, our black eyes. You see they only appear in the hood, on our land that is sacred to use, on soil that tells our stories, they appear beside the rundown liquor stores, in parks, in the middle of the hood where there hasn’t been an occupied house in over 20 years, where empty fields are an abundance, where we’ve planted trees with intent to beautify, as a way to clean the air, a way to honor this land and the ancestors that once walk it.

“In the book “Holy Mountain” a "Peradam" is an object that is revealed only when someone knows they are seeking it.

So we’re looking for freedom, right? We know that it is a possible thing that can be achieved, but here, as black people, we can not access it, but by entering a portal, it becomes tangible, I’m talking bout complete liberation. Again only WE can see them, their shine, their glisten, their golden color.

{Ever question why gold looks the way it looks on black skin? It’s because Subconsciously, we know it holds power, we know, that it is the mineral that the portals that get us gone resemble. It’s under the soil, it runs thru our blood without us knowing...

like a tracking device?!

No,

like a guide, like a way home

It gives us this power to find a way out when most need it}

So, we’re here, staring at it, dead straight into it, our body knows to jump, our ancestors are behind us, ready to push, and hold on at the same time, once in, time does this thing where is standstill and speed forward at the time time, it’s like a glitch, you are now engulfed by a noise, a sound, this sound be a choir of vessels washing over you, at first loud, abrasive, yet warm, and tender, it sounds like them Saturday mornings, that smelled like biscuits, and bacon, Donnie Hathaway, and Anita baker. It’s Real Black Ass!