Gea Haff's Blog

Wynwood Black; Scribe of the Seven Gates

photography by Rob Haff/short story by Gea Haff

Jade

There are gates in our mind, our heart, and the manifest world.  There are gates to Heaven and gates to Hell.  To far-flung galaxies and different realities right here on Earth.  Ten thousand gates with ten thousand keys.  An image can unlock them.  An experience.  A painting, photograph, a war or a love.  A single word.  Even a wall.  And all these things can close them too. 

There are ten
thousand ways to close a gate. 

Ten thousand locks with ten thousand keys.

Miami is a place
of many gates.  Wynwood, especially.  That’s why I’m here.  Wherever there is art there is a gate to
somewhere else and Wynwood has the densest collection of street art in the
world.  Free for anyone who wishes to
come and look.  No doors to be buzzed
through.  No locks.  Open even to America’s poorest a few blocks
over. 

Wynwood is full of
walls, some faded, some fresh, some tagged, others revered.  Colored walls laid bare beneath the sky for
all to see.  Walls with words written,
images inscribed, symbols sprayed upon their smooth concrete like modern
hieroglyphics.  And if you squint your
eyes beneath the blazing sun you can see magic shimmering through the heat like
fumes of jet fuel wavering in the solar shadows. 

Wynwood’s walls
are made to be climbed over, slipped through and written upon.  These walls don’t keep you out, they call you
in. 

They whisper.  Open
your eyes, slip the veil.  

They scream.  Wake the fuck up motherfucker!

Artists come here from all over the world to stake their claim, gate makers all of them even if they don’t know it.  Not trained in the ancient ways as I am, but trained in their own ways, none-the-less.  Some train in ghettos, abandoned warehouses, or subway stations.  Others learn in schools, private classes or their own bedrooms pouring over pictures and magazines, filling up blank sheaves of paper with their forms and letters.  Words tight as bullets.  Sharp as a knife. 

All kinds of scribes come to Wynwood.  Some lead you nowhere; others take you somewhere.  Portals open in your mind.  A door cracks ajar.  Light leaks in or darkness.  Street writers smash boxes, transgress borders, merge reality with dreams—another reason I come here; my gates blend right in.  Occasionally they tap a primordial power and an image emerges like an invocation, reminding us there is more to this world than what we see with the naked eye.

And oh there is so
much more!  Right here in Wynwood.  For the place teems with ghosts.  From very early on I saw them—ghosts that
is—as a girl in the desert.  That’s why
they chose me, that and my bloodline.  There
are not many of us left and fewer still inclined toward such things.   

A lion, a witch, or a wardrobe; it is all right here in Wynwood.  Stare at a wall long enough and you may momentarily slip into a parallel universe.  All kinds of things thrive here:  goddesses and gods; strange hybrid creatures—winged whales, tentacled elephants; animals of all sorts—jeweled birds, three-eyed tigers, snarling dogs, reptiles and white rabbits, a two-story tall mouse sprinkled with stars; woman and snake ecstatically entwined, movie stars staring back at you, girls with guns, men and spaceships, storm troopers and aliens, words scrawled upon walls in high-def secret code.  Even a brand new language meticulously inscribed upon concrete that only the initiated could read.

And ghosts.  A swirling multitude of ghosts.  Ghosts from everywhere, just like the living.  That’s why I’m here.  I am a gate maker and it’s my job to bring our ghosts back home.

I come from the land between two rivers.  Mesopotamia we called it, before the British declared it Iraq.  It is a desert now, the color of burnt caramel.  Once it was green, a long, long time ago, before the rivers changed course, before my people vanished into the dust.  Before bombs and missiles.  But Miami.  That is a place as green and lush as the Garden of Eden.  A place that stuns you with rampant color and skin and noise.  So much motion.  Here, the rhythm is different than the desert.  Faster, more manic.  My mind speeds up despite a century of training.  My long black hair, usually smooth as water, warps and revolts from the moisture-laden air.  My Sumerian skin turns bronze beneath the burning sun.  Here, even in winter the sun bites. 

Miami.  Magic city.  Why do they call it that?  I’m still not sure unless it refers to the spell it works on dreamers, those hungry souls who cross oceans, and mountains, and deserts to come here.  Souls from all over the world no doubt imagining a place of eternal light.

Yet I hunt shades and lead them back to the Great Below and I can’t help but see the darkness here.  It is my job to see things, the living and the dead, the thin places where the light leaks through or the darkness seeps in.  I see it all, light and darkness everywhere, struggling for ascendancy and in Florida, Wynwood straddles the divide as only a place marked by modern mystics can.  

When I first
landed here, stepped off the bus with boots soft as butter, my woven bag across
one shoulder, I was struck with a wave of heat, not dry like the desert but wet
as a breath.  An oppressive breath.  Dominating as a slap to the face.  In it, I could smell the fertile earth and
the ocean despite miles of asphalt blanketing what once was a vast wetland teeming
with mangroves and fish. 

Now it is cars,
cars, cars.  Miami is a screaming
metropolis, yet everywhere pockets of wilderness burst forth like some wild
virulent jungle vying for space, impatient to return.  Nature chomps at the bit.  She snorts and shakes her head in violent
frustration.  The encroachment is already
here.  It is a constant battle to keep it
back—the alligators, the snakes, the iguanas. 
The rising waters, the tangled vines. 
In the desert life fights tooth and nail just to exist, while here it
can’t stop from being born.

Maybe that’s why
the dead come.

I’ve been here
thrice now and every time I step off that bus my impressions speed up.  They flash at me like frames of a
film—faster, faster, faster—assaulting me with their images.  Capricious rain, torrential storms,
bougainvillea dripping like blood, rough waves, white moon, stars, emerald
palms whipping in the wind, a dark glittering sea, an ocean of grey descending
like a wave, black clouds sweeping in like ravens, a ravenous sun, rot steaming
beneath a canopy of leaves, hot nights full of violence and cracked devils,
lost girls with jagged blood, café colored gangsters with roaming eyes and
hungry hands, tired men and women asleep on broken sidewalks beneath an
underpass, beside an overflowing homeless shelter, white girls in the wrong
neighborhood, black girls in the wrong neighborhood, over-flowing shopping
carts teetering from the detritus of one’s life, a mislaid life, a drowned life
in alcohol, insanity, crack and confusion, heartbroken hookers chewing at the
air, their jaws working ceaselessly for that fix that never comes fast enough
or lasts long enough, a quick suck or fuck for total oblivion.  And I walk through it all, anonymous as a
ghost, hidden beneath hoodies, armored in ancient ways and a relentless
stride. 

No one stops me.  They let me go.  They don’t know what I am, where I fall in the hierarchy of things, so they let me pass unscathed.  For now.  But still I must be careful.  Eyes open.  Seeing everything.  Bearing witness.  Taking it all in.  The geography, the empty spaces, the lines of color and turns of soul, until I find just the right place to write my own soul down, open the gates to Irkalla and lead our lost back home.

I walk the streets, crisscrossing N.W. 2nd Ave.  It’s changed since I was last here.  More moneyed now despite Overtown still languishing half a mile over.  Almost all the surfaces are painted or marked.  Concrete walkways sprayed with stenciled phrases tell us MAYBE LOVE WAS MEANT TO SAVE US FROM OURSELVES or POST NO SELFIE.  Dumpsters and street lights have been tagged with paint or stickers and rainbow colored, wide-eyed girls stare back at me from walls.  A giant manatee takes flight while up the road a white jeweled tiger looms above the sidewalk the way engraved lions once did in the cities of Uruk or Nineveh. 

Boutiques sell exorbitant hand-painted cowboy boots and imported textiles.  Restaurants hawk shrimp tacos and mussels simmered in saffron.  Hipsters hang out at Panther Coffee, Joey’s, Wynwood Café.  A candy red Lamborghini idles along the curb.

Last time I was here,
Wynwood was a dejected place of empty warehouses and shady drug deals.  The post WWII working class neighborhood had
fallen into disrepair, abandoned as manufacturers fled for safer places.  That’s when the taggers and bombers moved
in.  Graffiti came first, followed by
street writers.  All that smooth
concrete, all those blank walls guarding abandoned lots, tempting itchy fingers
and gallery rejects with their wide open canvases free for anyone who had the
courage to claim them. 

Ten thousand gates with ten thousand keys.

And why had I come
here, so far from my home?  I’ll tell
you, even though you won’t believe it. 
It’s my job to write things down, especially those things no one will
believe.  But let me warn you, here’s
where the story gets strange.  As if
portals and winged-whales weren’t weird enough. 
There are so many different stories to tell and so many different ways
to tell the same story.  But, I’m writing
about Wynwood so I’ll keep my story brief.

My earliest name
is Šerida, but you may call me Aya.  Not
a hundred pure Sumerians breathe in this world, and I am one of them.  We follow the old ways.  I have many titles:  Daughter of the Seven Scribes, Scribe of the
Seven Gates, Reed of Inanna, but my kind simply call me a Scribe of Irkalla.  Cuneiform is my high art, though I am adept
with pictures and pigments too.  My
favorite colors to work with are Egyptian blue and Lapis Lazuli, and with the
right spell I can make colors that glow like the galaxy.  I know all our mystical creatures and divine
symbols by heart and can draw the Bull of Heaven blindfolded.  I read Sumerian, Akkadian, Babylonian, and the
stars though they’re hard to see in the city, and have been trained in love and
war as befits a servant of Inanna.  All necessary
skills for a scribe to open the gates and lead our dead back home. 

Of course this
takes time, but we begin our journey early and live long.

I walk in the footsteps of Enheduanna, the world’s famous, first known scribe, daughter of King Sargon.  Üanna, as I call her, was High Priestess to the moon god Sin, and yet she wrote hymns of unrivaled passion to her mistress Inanna, Queen of Heaven, Goddess of War.  Only a dozen of Üanna’s tablets remain in our library, but I’ve read them all hundreds of times. 

This is what she
tells us—

Inanna went down to hell and let the spirits out.   Hmmm, perhaps I use the wrong word.  Hell belongs to your world, not ours.  Innana went down to Irkalla, the Underworld and let the dead out.  Why she descended to the Great Below is a mystery but I suspect she did it because she could.  Why not?  A King would go where he wanted, why not the Queen of Heaven? 

She was granted
passage through Irkalla’s seven gates only if she followed the gatekeeper’s
instructions to the T.  At each gate she
was ordered to remove an emblem of Queenship, of power, until she stepped stark
naked before her sister’s throne. 

They say Inanna’s
eyes, the color of Lapis Lazuli, glimmered in the dark.  Her bare skin shone like the moon, like
crushed pearl, and her long black hair falling upon her perfect breasts, gleamed
like onyx, shifting in radiance as oil does upon water from black to darkest
blue to deepest violet. 

Inanna, Queen of Heaven, Morning Star, shone so bright she lit up the Underworld like a torch, illuminating Irkalla, the Great Below, as if a meteorite had struck its depths.

Needless to say, her
sister Ereshkigal, Queen of the Underworld, was not pleased.  She staked Inanna through the heart and hung
her up for dead like a carcass of meat. 
A goat or a pig.  For none who
enter the Great Below shall ever rise again. 
It is the Land of No Return, and no one who enters, not even a god, is
ever allowed to leave.

But Inanna doesn’t
play by the rules.  She always was a wild
one.  Dragon slayer, King’s sword and
lover all in one.  She makes Pandora look
like an innocent pup.  Inanna could turn
the whole world on its head.  No wonder
she was worshipped for four thousand years. 

Artists Fin DAC & Kevin Ledo

And yet, she does sometimes leave a wake of destruction in her path.  And when after three days she returned to life and awoke in the Great Below, she lead the dead back through the seven gates, out of Irkalla, and up to the Great Above just to spite her sister, I suspect.  Our lovely Goddess of War unleashed her sister’s wards upon Sumer.  Spirits, and shades, and demons too.  We, Scribes of Irkalla, have done our best to round them up and lead them home, but some of them are slippery fellows.  They glide right by our gates, they slip our noose.  They wander far and wide until they’ve crossed continents and seas to wreak their havoc and whisper their rage into other people’s heads.

And yet, despite
being scamps, they’re desperate for hope, and I have seen them hovering about
Wynwood’s walls as the sun descends, hungry and thirsty for the light they
cannot reach.

We still hunt
them.  Not to hurt them.  They’re our brethren and Ereshkigal’s
wards.  She holds us accountable.  We simply mean to bring them home.  They’re our ancestors, lost as they may be,
and they belong with us.  Ancient scribes
from other lands hunt their own ghosts. 
When we find ours, we open the gates, all seven, and we let the shades
back in.

And so, as a
daughter of the Seven Scribes, it is my duty to wander the world, studying the signs
and tracking the dead.  Shades roam far
and wide, but they are drawn to thin places and drift to portals.  They like heat and life and blood and feed
off mayhem the way flies feast upon corpses. 
A shade wants to feel something, anything,
and pain, even that of others, awakens them. 

Hence Miami.

Mayhem flows
through this city of magic the way power flows through my mistress Inanna.  You can try to lock it up, contain and
control it, but it’s no use.  It seeps out
of the earth like water.  It ties itself
in knots like vines.

Pain shines here.  And heat and life and lust.

And so the shades come and whisper to people.  Stir them up.  Get their blood boiling and send the weak ones on their murderous way. 

The thing is, street writers are drawn to portals and thin places too.  They whisper to the living and the dead and stir them up.  They scream.  Museums and galleries are cold and quiet, but street art burns beneath the sun, thrumming through despair, thriving in broken places and cherishing the forgotten.  Decaying projects and fallen neighborhoods are its temples.  Whores are welcome to come and worship.  Killers too.  And so the modern street scribe plays with fire, laying down words and pictures like self-taught sorcerers wielding half-formed magic and drawing ghosts to them the way a naked woman ensnares a wild man.

Wynwood has many gates and I am here to open seven more.  But first I must find the right spot on the right night, when the stars align and our dead are close.  And so I wander the streets, searching the shade and the light, following the signs other scribes have left behind.  Signs that lead to the thin places.  A place where a woman or a man rips off the veil.  A horned goddess, a striped shaman, stare straight back at you.  A tusked beast with a long memory looks so deeply into your soul that you feel as if you might cry. 

We are all gatekeepers of some kind
or another.

There are ten
thousand gates with ten thousand keys.

 What gates are you opening? 

My latest obsession

Jeffrey J. Kripal is a scholar of religion at Rice University and his books are addicting. They speak of all my favorite things: gods, death and sex, mystics and mutants, saints and super heroes, angels, aliens, and the paranormal with a splash of quantum physics thrown in for the skeptics. Every time I read one of his books my mind cracks open a little bit more.

Secret Body; Erotic and Esoteric Currents in the History of Religions

These are the ones I’ve read so far as I work my way through his corpus.

This is one of my favorites. The hardback is beautiful and so fun to read.

Dr. Kripal’s specialty at Rice is GEM–gnosticism, esotericism, and mysticism.

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Deeply Inspiring

I recently read Outsiders; Five Women Writers Who Changed the World by biographer and scholar Lyndall Gordon. These women– Mary Shelley, Emily Brontë, George Elliot, Olive Schreiner, and Virginia Woolf–paved the way for future women writers while staying fiercely true to themselves. This book is deeply inspiring.

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A Poem by Emily Brontë

“Emily wanted to be a Night Walker before she knew what one was.  Sometimes I think she summoned it.”  

~Anne Brontë, Nightwalker

Here is one of Emily’s poem’s.  It reveals how, despite the deep blackness of night on the moors, she was unafraid of the darkness.

A Poem by Emily Jane Brontë

Ah! why, because the dazzling sun

Restored my earth to joy

Have you departed, every one,

And left a desert sky?

All through the night, your glorious eyes

Were gazing down in mine,

And with a full heart’s thankful sighs

I blessed that watch divine!

I was at peace, and drank your beams

As they were life to me

And reveled in my changeful dreams

Like petrel on the sea.

Thought followed thought–star followed star

Through boundless regions on,

While one sweet influence, near and far,

Thrilled through and proved us one.

Why did the morning rise to break

So great, so pure a spell,

And scorch with fire the tranquil cheek

Where your cool radiance fell?

Blood-red he rose, and arrow-straight

His fierce beams struck my brow:

The soul of nature sprang elate,

But mine sank sad and low!

My lids closed down–yet through their veil

I saw him blazing still;

And bathe in gold the misty dale,

And flash upon the hill.

I turned me to the pillow then

To call back Night, and see

Your worlds of solemn light, again

Throb with my heart and me!

It would not do–the pillow glowed

And glowed both roof and floor,

And birds sang loudly in the wood,

And fresh winds shook the door.

The curtains waved, the wakened flies

Were murmuring round my room,

Imprisoned there, till I should rise

And give them leave to roam.

O Stars and Dreams and Gentle Night;

O Night and Stars return!

And hide me from the hostile light

That does not warm, but burn–

That drains the blood of suffering men;

Drinks tears, instead of dew:

Let me sleep through his blinding reign,

And only wake with you!

.

Emily Jane Brontë

April 14, 1845

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A Poem by Emily Jane Brontë

“Emily wanted to be a Night Walker before she knew what one was.  Sometimes I think she summoned it.”  

~Anne Brontë, Nightwalker

 

One of the deeply enjoyable aspects of writing Anne Bronte, Nightwalker was incorporating the Bronte’s poetry throughout the manuscript.  When I came upon the following poem, #184 in The Complete Poems of Emily Jane Brontë, ed.C.W. Hatfield, I couldn’t believe it.  It fit my story so perfectly.  In Nightwalker, Emily, unlike Anne, takes to the night naturally, far preferring it to the day.  And then to stumble upon this poem, where in Emily’s own words, the sun brings fire, death and pain.  What a surprise!  And, I must admit, a perfect gift.

 

Here, Emily likens the sun to a weapon, “arrow-straight” whose fierce beams strike the brow. It blazes, blinds, and “drains the blood of suffering men.”  She rejects the light, and despite the nightmares and insomnia that plagued her in real life, she longs for the night.  For where the sun is harsh, the night is gentle.  It brings a “pure” spell and union with  . . .  someone or something.  A vision of Shelley perhaps?  God?  Night itself?

 

It’s to the Stars, Dreams, and Night that Emily pleads for protection.

 

This poem deeply inspired my story.  It’s this poem that gave me inspiration for Anne’s words above, and showed me that Emily, despite the deep blackness of night on the moors, was unafraid of the darkness.

 

A Poem by Emily Jane Brontë

 

Ah! why, because the dazzling sun

Restored my earth to joy

Have you departed, every one,

And left a desert sky?

 

All through the night, your glorious eyes

Were gazing down in mine,

And with a full heart’s thankful sighs

I blessed that watch divine!

 

I was at peace, and drank your beams

As they were life to me

And reveled in my changeful dreams

Like petrel on the sea.

 

Thought followed thought–star followed star

Through boundless regions on,

While one sweet influence, near and far,

Thrilled through and proved us one.

 

Why did the morning rise to break

So great, so pure a spell,

And scorch with fire the tranquil cheek

Where your cool radiance fell?

 

Blood-red he rose, and arrow-straight

His fierce beams struck my brow:

The soul of nature sprang elate,

But mine sank sad and low!

 

My lids closed down–yet through their veil

I saw him blazing still;

And bathe in gold the misty dale,

And flash upon the hill.

 

I turned me to the pillow then

To call back Night, and see

Your worlds of solemn light, again

Throb with my heart and me!

 

It would not do–the pillow glowed

And glowed both roof and floor,

And birds sang loudly in the wood,

And fresh winds shook the door.

 

The curtains waved, the wakened flies

Were murmuring round my room,

Imprisoned there, till I should rise

And give them leave to roam.

 

O Stars and Dreams and Gentle Night;

O Night and Stars return!

And hide me from the hostile light

That does not warm, but burn–

 

That drains the blood of suffering men;

Drinks tears, instead of dew:

Let me sleep through his blinding reign,

And only wake with you!

.

Emily Jane Brontë

April 14, 1845

 

 

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The Brontës and Book Clubs

Book clubs love the Brontës, and yet Nightwalker is a strange, new twist on their story, so I’m very excited to announce that a book club is reading Anne Brontë Nightwalker right now! This is a first for me, and a new and wondrous feeling. Thank you Renee Rockweiler Wilson for sharing this pic.  And thank you Andrew Jalbert and Julia Pearson for welcoming Nightwalker into your group.

 

 

 

Tonight, via video, I will be meeting the club and answering questions.  This is another first for me!  I’m a bit nervous, but really looking forward to engaging with readers and hearing their thoughts on Anne’s adventure. For any book clubs out there, please know that I’m happy to participate with your group via person, phone, or video.  You can reach me at geahaff@gmail.com.

 

Until then . . . Good Reading!

The post The Brontës and Book Clubs appeared first on Anne Brontë, Night Walker.

Anne Brontë Nightwalker and Book Clubs

Book clubs love the Brontës, and yet Nightwalker is a strange, new twist on their story, so I’m very excited to announce that a book club is reading Anne Brontë Nightwalker right now! This is a first for me, and a new and wondrous feeling. Thank you Renee Rockweiler Wilson for sharing this pic.  And thank you Andrew Jalbert and Julia Pearson for welcoming Nightwalker into your group.

 

 

 

Tonight, via video, I will be meeting the club and answering questions.  This is another first for me!  I’m a bit nervous, but really looking forward to engaging with readers and hearing their thoughts on Anne’s adventure. For any book clubs out there, please know that I’m happy to participate with your group via person, phone, or video.  You can reach me at geahaff@gmail.com.

 

Until then . . . Good Reading!

The post Anne Brontë Nightwalker and Book Clubs appeared first on Anne Brontë, Night Walker.

Anne Brontë Nightwalker Giveaway!

Enter for a chance to win one of three signed first edition copies of Anne Brontë Nightwalker by Gea Haff!

 

I am a huge Goodreads fan.  It is my favorite, go to site for everything on books, reading and writers.  There’s hundreds of reading groups and it’s fun to make friends with other readers who share your tastes and obsessions.  Plus, Goodreads gives away thousands of books for free each year.  Check it out!

 

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Goodreads Book Giveaway








Anne Brontë


by Gea Haff

Giveaway ends January 07, 2017.

See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.

Enter Giveaway

 

The Goodreads Giveaway is open for entries on December 13th and will run to January 7th.

 

 

 

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Anne Brontë Nightwalker is here!

What happens when you work Fire/EMS and read way too much gothic English Literature?  Anne Brontë Nightwalker!

 

Nightwalker is here and available on Amazon in paperback and kindle.  If you enjoy reading about literature, the Brontes, blood and EMS (a strange combination, I know!) then you may find it darkly entertaining. Thank you all my friends for your warm-hearted support and encouragement. Your kind words have given me courage.

.

Special thanks to Ayesha Pande, Marinda Williams, Ericka Adams Cole, Dana Isaacson, Joe Havel, Ruben Munoz, Rick Rizzo, George Izquierdo, Patrick Knowles, Julie MacKenzie, and Randy Brooks for reading/polishing my manuscript or patiently answering my questions on realms outside my experience.

 

And also, of course, my darling beautiful husband, Rob Haff, who always supports my most impractical, outlandish pursuits. You, my darling, are a prince.

 

The post Anne Brontë Nightwalker is here! appeared first on Anne Brontë, Night Walker.

Anne Brontë Nightwalker is Out!

Nightwalker is here! It’s available on Amazon in paperback and kindle.  If you enjoy reading about literature, the Brontes, blood and EMS (a strange combination, I know!) then you may find it darkly entertaining. Thank you all my friends for your warm-hearted support and encouragement. Your kind words have given me courage.

.

Special thanks to Ayesha Pande, Marinda Williams, Ericka Adams Cole, Dana Isaacson, Joe Havel, Ruben Munoz, Rick Rizzo, George Izquierdo, Patrick Knowles, Julie MacKenzie, and Randy Brooks for reading/polishing my manuscript or patiently answering my questions on realms outside my experience.

 

And also, of course, my darling beautiful husband, Rob Haff, who always supports my most impractical, outlandish pursuits. You, my darling, are a prince.

 

The post Anne Brontë Nightwalker is Out! appeared first on Anne Brontë, Night Walker.