"not that i have to explain myself...as i go ahead and do it anyway. my work bears no image other than all the stories thrust on my psyche as a child's way of sowing, and comparing it to what i see readers of the same books reap. i wonder in writing, are we creators of ourselves through stories or do stories create who we are?! i'm driven by the knowledge that the first story told is by a female. the mother. and its first form of communication is emotion, or rather, feel. the story is told through the stillness and roughness of the waters we first wade. maybe its an explanation of why the moon moods all of water. staying current, but bear with me as i digress. as consumers of our environment, a child born of a mother, a celestial being, will absorb all of what its host does. as does gravity with fluid, it keeps it tethered to a center. a seed hangs on every rhythm on the umbilical cord as it serves as the image of all actions through life's first musical string communicating temper. sound moves as a rhythm. i am my Mother's son. so in the silence of our first communication, i write. write about all of what i have collected as teachings or lessons with the loudest sound. coming from a place where my learning was limited to the faintest signals, the womb, i equal in measure all of Her actions of a calculus full of open bounds. the physics that filters sound to create a brew of thoughts. noise collected to drown inanimate word since what i must utter is the right pitch to match Her emotional paths. let me ingress. the words i write here at mitishamba.com make up the unifying randomness of my existence. eerily so, ours. those robbed of a shade yet blessed with cover. it is as though we are of the same Mother."
"struck a green cord"