During my first year in college, I discovered, along with many other discoveries, that I am moved by spoken word.
I've encountered it several times in the past year, and every time I came across an artist that spoke with integrity, passion, love, and rhythm, I was engulfed in a storm of inspiration. Gil Scott Heron and Eve Ensler are the two I have been acquainted with so far.
I'll admit, when I discover that I like something, I often simply explore more work by that particular artist, rather than venturing further out into the genre. These artists often have to come find me for me to fall in love with them.
Aya de Leon found me.
I want more of this woman. I want her passion, I want her discourse, I want her thoughts. I want her like I wanted more of Inga Muscio after I read Cunt, like I wanted more of Suzette Haden Elgin after I read Native Tongue.
I stumbled upon Aya recently while watching a documentary made about her, definition: Aya de Leon. The program was recorded lazily and the timer set with only slight curiosity, to be tucked away in my DVR until I felt just bored enough to hit the play button. I'm glad Free Speech TV did play it, and that I didn't simply delete it to try and appease my father's cries for more recording time (I monopolize much of it with documentaries).
The poem "Cellulite", which I have posted here, particularly struck me. Lately I've been feeling so low anyways, so out of touch with any good feeling about myself. Normally, this manifests in an obsession with several real or imagined malfunctions that I am certain I possess. This time it is a preoccupation with the flaws of my body.
I think Aya might have inspired me to reform my lazy approach in discovering talented spoken word artists. Had I been more inclined to explore the genre, I might have found her out sooner, and perhaps could have praised her in more depth. However, this time, excitement preludes intimate knowledge.
And really, I can't say this is a particularly unpleasant change.
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