Indigo Girl

I've been doing this off and on for years. Sometime between October and January, I color my hair black. My hair is naturally black, but the sun turns it reddish, and then I henna it mahogany in the summer, so it doesn't stay black for long. In the past I've used Miss Clairol blue black, and other "safer" herbal coloring kits from the health food store, but since I henna my hair, traditional color doesn't stay in very long, and it makes my dreads very unhappy. Tonight I'm trying something new: indigo! The recipe will follow.

Indigo reminds me of the film Daughters of the Dust, and Nana Peazant's indigo stained hands. (Daughters of the Dust is a Steal Away Jordan inspiration, too).

I need 2-3 boxes, bottles, or jars of any hair coloring preparation to do my hair. Three will cover it all.

Here's the recipe I used:

• Approx. 8 oz. or so of indigo (aka "black henna"). That was one jar of Rainbow henna (black) and 4.2 oz. of indigo from Acadia Herbals. I could have used another 4 oz, and Rainbow brand is very gritty. Too gritty for dreads. Normally I henna my hair with henna gel, but it's expensive given how much I need.
• 2 c. water
• 2 c. apple cider vinegar (I almost used kombucha)
• 1/2 cup black tea (an afterthought)
• 1 package of pectin (1.75 oz)
• Essential oils of ylang ylang, petitgrain, and vetiver (because indigo and vinegar smell nasty when mixed together)--about 1/4 teaspoon total.
• latex-free gloves (found in my lab coat after work last night)
• Plastic bag
• Towel

Bring the water and vinegar to a boil. Whisk in the pectin. Boil for 1 minute. Let stand for 10 minutes.
Add essential oils to indigo powder (I may have used too much, but it smells better than it would have if hadn't used them at all).
Mix the indigo and liquid together and let stand for 20-30 minutes.
It should make a gel. If half of my indigo wasn't so gritty I think it would have. It was more like a muddy, sandy gel.

I smooshed it all into my hair. It got everywhere. Halfway through the process I took off my shirt, put the bowl into the tub, held my dreads over the bowl, andsmooshed the indigo into my hair. Towards the end I just stuck the dreads in the bowl and mushed them into what was left. I needed more, but I coated most of my hair. Then I covered my hair with a plastic grocery bag, and played on the computer for a couple of hours.

I hate the rinsing part. It took 20 minutes to get all the henna out of my hair, where it usually takes an hour to rinse out all the henna cream. I still have a little plant matter in my hair, but not enough to be annoying or look gross. Next time I'll keep it on overnight. I didn't want to sleep with mud/henna in my hair, covered by a plastic grocery bag and a towel.

The next morning...
I looks much more natural than the hair dye, and my gray hairs are still visibly gray. The ends are still a little reddish brown, so I think I'll order more indigo, or some Surya henna cream, and do it once more in a few weeks. The powdered indigo wasn't as messy as I thought it would be. My dreads love henna. They feel silky smooth (for dreads) every time I henna them, even with the henna cream.

So here are my hair observations. Since I don't spend mych time on my hair on a daily basis, when I do something big like color it, I think about it lots.

• My hair is inconveniently long. I have to move it out of the way when I pee, I sit and lay on it (and get stuck), it entangles people, and I close it in car doors and windows, among other things. Even still, the benefits and conveniences outweigh the inconveniences.
  
• I spend more money per year on monthly eyebrow maintenance than I do on my hair. All I buy for my hair is henna, soap (the same I use for the rest of me), conditioner (which Chris uses up before I ever would), and hair oil, which I make myself. I splurge from time to time and buy a scarf or a hair toy, but I find people give me these more than I buy them.
  
• I spend very little time on daily upkeep and styling of my hair. A little water on the scalp, a little oil all over, and I'm good to go. If I want to get fancy, I can put my hair in a bun in 37 seconds, and do a half bun in 16.
• Strangers ask if it's all mine at least twice a month. (yes, it is, random man at the Y)
• I always go first whenever I play Aquarius.
• I find hair styling rituals fascinating. And shaving one's head is just subversive. (In a great for you, but no thanks for me way)
  
• I love to see people's reaction when I tell them I grew my hair out from less than an inch. (There's a picture elsewhere on my blog of me in my pixie cut)
  
• In my contraband drawer, I keep a Ziploc bag of my kitchen trimmings (I trim the nape of my neck every few months--the parts that won't dread, even after 9 years), and dead dread ends (the ends get thin, and I pull them apart). Next to my bag of White Rabbit candy, my fine fancy chocolate, and other items I won't mention publicly. It's the hair-cutting as an act of subversion thing.
  
• I think about cutting it short all the time. The thought makes me laugh.
• I have nightmares twice a year or so, where I get a haircut and regret it.

More about Daughters of the Dust.

Mystery Murder Ballad

This afternoon, as I returned from the Y,
I went to the co-op, some dinner for to buy
I espied Farmer Tom, in the Co-op parking lot
And I chanced upon his truck, and we talked for a spot.

He told me about his crop this year at Three Sisters Farm
We talked at length of murder ballads amidst the park'ed cars
He gave me a snippet of a song, and I pass on to readers fair
Now I would like to hear it, but the details of it are bare.

I pass along the hints with the hope a reader might know
The who, what, and wheres and how one might just go
About getting a copy of this haunting murderous tune
For my Murder Ballad Blackjack game, which I want to play again soon.

And here is the snippet. I'm not sure if I have it all correctly. I'm transcribing Tom's writing, and the only thing we found to write with and on was a crayon and an envelope.
The closest thing I've found is "The Cruel Ship's Carpenter" as recorded by Mike Waterson.

"...She said Sailor, O Sailor come spare me my life.
When out of his pocket he drew a sharp knife.
He ripped her and tore her and cut her in three.
Then he laid his poor Mary underneath a green tree....

O green grow the laurels, and red grows the rose
and the raven will follow wherever he goes.
A cloud will hang over his...head
And he will never rest easy
Now that Mary being dead."

Name that tune! Please!

The Awesome Thing I Can't Yet Tell

Is going to drive me nuts until all is confirmed. Once confirmed, I'll announce it in full at Stone Baby Games, because it has something to do with Steal Away Jordan. So without spilling the beans prematurely, I'm going to talk around the issue:

Back when I was looking at colleges, my grandmother really pushed for me to go to an historically Black women's college in Atlanta. But I didn't want to. I didn't want to live in the Dirty South anymore. I opted for a women's college in Massachusetts.

My grandmother would be proud. I've been invited to speak at that college, as part of a 2 day event on black women and the moving image, and I have the chance to talk about this project that I worked on for the past year in a different circle.

I am just blown away that someone might want to hear me talk about my project. I'm honored, excited, and feeling a little validated. It's not just because someone saw what I did and liked it enough to invite me to an event (and I think they're going to pay me!). There are very few people from my cultural/ethnic community engaging in the creative endeavor that I engage in (rpg design). The thing I did is very much about the strength and struggles of my cultural/ethnic community. Lately I've been doubting myself and the thing I did, but this invitation that I can't yet disclose reassures me that I did do something pretty damn cool, that's less controversial and easier to "get" for some folks because they are working with a similar subject matter (strengths and struggles of my ethnic/cultural community).

Is that vague enough? I think I even lost myself.
**See the update in Comments!**

The picture is of Bessie Coleman, the first African American woman pilot.

Murder Ballad Blackjack

I've been thinking about this game for months. It finally came to me last night.
It's a short game, the GM is the "Bard". Here's the link to the wiki. Bear with me as I figure out the technology.

Technically you can use any kind of ballad, and long as there are plenty of unanswered questions, contradictions, and conflict. I wouldn't call "Barbara Allen" a murder ballad, but it would work for this game. I'm jonesing to play this with any given version of Tam Lin.

Inspirations

Inspired by Charles Vess' The Book of Ballads, which I read so many times on vacation last year that I almost wore it out; those antique books of English and Spanish folk ballads that I bought on the same vacation; Pentangle; Steeleye Span; Solas; Silly Wizard; Silly Sisters and consequently Maddy Prior and June Tabor; John Renbourn and Jacqui McShee (whom I've seen live twice and are two of my all time favorite shows along with Ravi Shankar); Anne Briggs; my autoharps; Rise Up Singing; Ewan MacColl; murder ballads; Meg's 1001 Nights; my Dog's in the Vineyard character named (Pretty) Polly; the folk tale component of Steal Away Jordan; Sandy Denny and Fairport Convention; bluegrass; and all the other random sources of "Barley Music" I encounter. (Chris calls the folk music I listen to "Barley Music" after "The Wind that Shakes the Barley".)

And, of course, Blackjack!

The Cook Escapes

Ingrid and I took a little trip to the Dixon Gallery and Gardens. This was one of my favorite museums when I lived in Memphis, and it's still a small yet wonderful place to spend a couple of hours, even with a two year old. We made it just in time to hear the last few minutes of Mary LeCompte from Lake Charles, Louisiana tell stories about growing up in Cajun country. Then we walked through the gallery at a toddler's pace to view The Blue Dog: The Art of George Rodrigue exhibit. Ingrid loved it. I did, too. Those blue dogs are joyful and uplifting. Then we walked around the gardens and took pictures. That was Ingrid's favorite part. She got to run up and down a wooded path, talk to sculptures, pick up rocks, socialize with people captivated by her cuteness, throw pennies in a fountain, walk over bridges, and pick more stuff up.

It was just what we needed after spending the past three days cooking and planning meals for my parents. I had not left the house since Friday night. I was hoping to be able to address some of the food issues in the house, and how to avoid caregiver fatigue, but no one wants to hear me preach the gospel. So I just cook and hang out with Ingrid and my dad, and my mom when she's not working. Every once in a while, I retreat to my old room and read. Unfortunately Ingrid's not getting much quality grand parent time. My folks are stressed out. They talk to her through me, avoid hanging out with her even when I beg for just some time to take a shower. (The house isn't childproofed at all.) I think Ingrid's having a moderately suck ass time, but at least there's cable, a friendly dog, and frozen yogurt.

I have recused myself from giving injections, but tomorrow and Tuesday I'll be doing it again. I'm really good at giving injections. I'm rusty on being a nurse, and the drama that surrounds injection time grates my nerves. I sound like a bad daughter. Really, I'm just a impatient nurse. I'm glad to be able to help out, family drama and dynamics notwithstanding. The alternative is much, much worse, and my dad looks better every day.

Adolescence in Boxes

I'm in Memphis visiting my parents, helping to take care my of dad who just returned home from a two week hospital stay following a diagnosis of congestive heart failure following a heart attack. Physically he is very weak, and it hasn't quite set in (to him) just how seriously he is. It is difficult to see him in this state. He has a three page list of meds to take, he must follow a strict low sodium diabetic diet with serious portion control. He's so weak he has trouble walking from the chair to the kitchen or to the bathroom, and he's sleeping in the mother-in-law-suite downstairs on a rented adjustable hospital bed until he is able to go upstairs. If you read back far enough on this blog, you can guess that his heart attack was inevitable. In December I figured he'd have one within 2 years given how poorly he managed his diabetes and took care of himself. It is what it is. It happened, maybe it will be a wakeup call, maybe not. And here I am with Ingrid until Wednesday.

My parents don't throw away anything, and their house is so big, it hasn't yet hit critical mass with all the stuff. They've never had a tag sale in the 38 years they've been together. The last time I was here the (walk in) closets practically burst with clothes and junk. So my mom recently boxed up some of the junk and sent it to the attic. This means she boxed up 24 years of my crap. So much crap. I went through some of it looking for scary dolls. I found a couple, but not the one I had in mind. I did come across oodles of books and other strange things from my adolescence and early college. Some of the highlights: my skate board, clothes from my thrift store phase, an awesomely hot black lace corset, notebooks, sketchbooks, and one handmade book of poems and photographs that is so raw and painful to read it makes my stomach ache just thinking about the night I created it. And the poetry is bloody awful! I've only been able to read a few lines here and there. Talk about dark night of the soul. I must have been drunk or high or something that night, even though I remember it like it was last week. It was 15 years ago. I want to bring it home so I can burn it and give it a proper burial.

My mom and I are bookworms. You find books in every single room of this house, including the bathrooms and kitchen. There are even books in the garage. My mom actually has a library. This is one of the things I love about snooping though my parents' house. If I'm not careful I could replace the clothes in my suitcase with books. I have several titles that I'm bringing home to use to finish the revisions of the next edition of Steal Away Jordan (which I'm working on while I'm here when I'm not helping out with my dad's care). I also have a bunch of beloved books from decades gone by. Here are some of the gems I'm packing up in a box to send back with me. Some of these I'm bringing back for their 1950-60's pulp covers:
Black Women for Beginners, Saundra Sharp (for more books on antebellum life check the Stone Baby Games website in the next few days.
A Fairly Honourable Defeat, Iris Murdoch.
Ficciones, Jorge Luis Borges.
The Romance of Tristan and Iseult, retold by Joseph Bedier. (with cool cover, not like the one in the link)
The Dream Merchants, Harold Roberts.
The Mesh, Lucie Marchal.
Missing Time, Budd Hopkins.
The Big Sleep, Raymond Chandler (wicked cool tawdry cover! Not the one in the link.)
The Problem of the Wire Cage, John Dickson Carr. (another tawdry pulp cover)
Missing Time, Budd Hopkins.
Skin and Bones, Thorne Smith (yet another awesome cover, same as the one in the link!)
Sin Doll, Orrie Hitt ("The only way Cherry could get places was by going bad...and cherry wanted to get places! A novel which focuses in on the hot picture racket--boldly revealing how girls are recruited--and why!" And then there's the cover!)
Primitive Orgy, Bob Tralins ("'There is only one way to get the evil spirit out of my body!' she moaned...." see the awesome pulp cover in the link.)
The Big Sky, A.B. Guthrie, jr.
A Story of Deep Delight, Thomas McNamee (autographed even!)
A Victorian era three volume collection of the works of William Shakespeare.
The 1887 edition of Cyclopaedia of Obstetrics and Gynecology, volume III (Obstetrics : The Pathology of Labor)
The complete score of A. Maillart's, Les Dragons de Villars (from around the mid-late 1800's as far as I can tell)