Moura

Today I got to thinking about the Peruvian writer José María Arguedas again, and remembered his words: “con toda honestidad, no puedo creer que un río no sea un hombre tan vivo como yo mismo". In his novel Ríos profundos [Deep Rivers], the main character, Ernesto, a boy of fourteen, must leave a place in the sierra and must go to a tree to bid farewell. The scene is heart wrenching and the reader knows the white boy has an indigenous mind, his language and world are Quechua. I found a quote somewhere that says: “the árbol (tree) functions as a powerful living symbol representing deep roots, memory, endurance, and a fraternal link between humans and the Andean natural world.” The great rivers of the sierra are the veins that flow to the coast, an image that is fundamental to a later Arguedas novel, Todas las sangres [All the bloods].

I’m telling you this to help you understand that I, as a moura, a type of Galician shapeshifter who lures passerby with my beauty and a comb I run through my lovely locks, think exactly like Arguedas and the characters in his novels. I also must remind you that my thoughts and memories are both ancient and contemporary, that I am both a siren as in classical writing, and a singer of worlds both mythical and devastatingly sad. In my infinite life, many melodies have entered my mind and flowed out again, leaving me their watery footprints. They mingle, flood my every cell, then ebb until their currents recall they must return to me over and over. My shifting shape incorporates, absorbs the notes of songs heard and never forgotten. They are imprinted on every centimeter of me, in no special order.

Ol’ Man River Old Man River, Old Man River He don't say nothin', he must know somethin' Old Man River, he just keeps rollin' along … I get weary and so sick of tryin'I'm tired of livin', and afraid of dyin' But Old Man River, he just keeps rollin' along Old Man River, he just keeps rollin' along

Red River Valley… As you go to your home by the ocean May you never forget those sweet hours That we spent in the Red River Valley And the love we exchanged mid the flowers/Come and sit by my side if you love me Do not hasten to bid me adieu But remember the Red River Valley And the one that has loved you so true. I sang this countless years ago, never knowing where that valley was nor if the Red River existed. It was a part of me, alive and loving, too sentimental yet breathing next to me as I sat on my high rock and called to it.

 Shenandoah Oh Shenandoah, I long to see you, And hear your rolling rivers Oh Shenandoah, I long to hear you, Away, you rolling river. Oh Shenandoah, I long to hear you, Away, we're bound away Cross the wide Missouri. River that spoke sadness and departure, running through my moura veins, filling them, then dripping out and leaving them dry. I seek fountains and waterfalls to stay alive, thus fusing with rivers is essential for my survival.

Michael, Row the Boat Ashore Michael, row the boat ashore, hallelujah Michael, row the boat ashore, hallelujah Sister, help to trim the sails (hallelujah) Sister, help to trim the sails (hallelujah) (Michael, row the boat ashore, hallelujah Michael, row the boat ashore, hallelujah) The River Jordan is chilly and cold (hallelujah) Chills the body but not the soul (hallelujah) Michael, row the boat ashore, hallelujah Michael, row the boat ashore, hallelujah River is deep, and the river is wide (hallelujah) Milk and honey on the other side (hallelujah) Michael, row the boat ashore, hallelujah Michael, row the boat ashore, hallelujah. Over and over I sang this song as I traveled to a great lake to learn to swim. Even magical beings sometimes need instruction in certain skills. I swam and sung and am still singing, like those living slavery once sang. I am bound, chained to, this song.

Deep River Deep river, My home is over Jordan. Deep river, Lord, I want to cross over into campground. Oh, don't you want to go, To the Gospel feast; That Promised Land, Where all is peace? Paul Robeson’s voice was a river of its own and pooled in my heart, taking it prisoner. I always feel like I am drowning in it and that the waters are alive in his deep, bottomless tones. Robeson the river, and me, the moura, sliding off my rocky ledge to be with him.

Eve Of Destruction The Eastern world, it is explodin' Violence flarin', bullets loadin' You're old enough to kill but not for votin' You don't believe in war, but what's that gun you're totin'? And even the Jordan river has bodies floatin' But you tell me Over and over and over again, my friend How you don't believe We're on the eve of destruction. Like the river currents I continuously push along, reaching for the shore and feeling vulnerable despite my mythical, indestructible nature. 

Moon River Moon river, wider than a mile I'm crossing you in style someday (someday, day) A dream maker (maker) My heart (you heart) breaker Wherever you're goin' I'm goin' that way (the same, the same)… Life's just around the bend, my friend Moon river and me. This river from a distant, former life, too old of a tune for youth, but maybe I never was young anyway.

Proud Mary And we rollin', rollin' Rollin' on the river Listen to the story now Left a good job down in the city Workin' for the man every night and day And I never lost one minute of sleepin' I was worryin' 'bout the way that things might've been Big wheel keep on turnin' Ooh, the Proud Mary keep on burnin' And we're rollin' (rollin'), rollin', yeah (rollin') Rollin' on the river (rollin' on the river). A rhythm I could hardly bear, a place I never reached, it was so far from my native Galician land. It came to me through happy voices that believed and revives me still with its joy. I was never meant to dance, Celtic origins do not guarantee that capacity, but I can sway, moving in ways the attract those approach me. My glistening gold comb slides down the rivers that are m my glistening locks and I am resuscitated in a way that was not possible for Ophelia. 

Whiskey River Willie Nelson Whiskey River, take my mind Don't let her mem'ry torture me Whiskey River, don't run dry You're all I've got, take care of me Whiskey River, take my mind Don't let her mem'ry torture me Whiskey River, don't run dry You're all I've got, take care of me. A song to accompany the Proud Mary impulse to get up off my rocky ledge and spin cadenced puddles for others to enjoy alongside me. Maybe it hasn’t run as deep as other rivers because I don’t drink whiskey, but it’s a survival attempt by a singer who is trying not to drown. Like passersby try not to allow themselves to be enticed by me, perhaps willie’s braids still flowing and helping people to resist. Not all waters run deep; they just buoy us up and that’s reason enough to sing this song.

The River Bruce Springsteen reminds me how life can be deep and unplanned. We'd go down to the river And into the river we'd dive Oh, down to the river we'd ride. No lapping waves of notes, just raw water and all that pours off Springsteen when he performs. A story told and retold, rushing to a sea of consequences. Like another sea in the poem by Jorge Manrique that haunts us all and reminds us of our unceasing mortality and capacity for grief, a place we sometimes sense is where drowning is destiny. Nuestras vidas son los ríos que van a dar en la mar, que es el morir… once heard, the lines continue to turn thoughts into a well of feeling. I, however, am not mortal and so should not feel the pain of “Our lives are the rivers that flow to the sea, where death awaits.” I drink in the poem and tears become rivulets along my face. I may be immortal, but I am not unaware of that sea and the rivers, sometimes blood-filled, that flow into it, like the veins of Peru.

Down by the River Neil Young frightens people with his son, yet insists on a tragedy that was invented and we cease to fear the words like an undercurrent, dangerous and deadly. Down by the river I shot my baby Down by the river Down by the river I shot my baby Down by the river Down by the river I shot my baby Down by the river. His voice warns us of the possible darkness of love, but we know it’s only a possibility. He cries from the edge that would pull us in, and we are meant to put away our weapons of desperation. I bear none, and rejoice.

Patches as sung by Dickie Lee is almost too mournful for me, yet I hum it often, as if reminding myself that mortals exist. Down by the river That flows by the coal yards Stand wooden houses With shutters torn down There lives a girl Everybody calls Patches Patches, my darling Of old Shantytown… I hear a neighbor Tellin' my father He says a girl Name of Patches was found Floating face down In that dirty old river That flows by the coal yards In old Shantytown… Patches, oh, what can I do? I swear I′ll always love you It may not be right But I'll join you tonight Patches, I′m comin' to you. I am sad that I cannot keep this river out of my thoughts because it takes the lives offered to it, lives that are sunken so low by societies that seek to erase them: poverty is a sin, youth cannot escape, in those worlds undeserving of love. That can never be my world and I’m happy in my eternity where water lives and gives back, where hope never sinks. Yes, I offer hope as I peel a person away from reality to contemplate my golden hair, golden comb, golden thoughts. 

It is time to rest, but one final fluvial thought washes over me. I didn’t expect to recall La casada infiel by García Lorca, but am not surprised, since it is torrential, unforgettable, like everything he wrote. Y que yo me la llevé al río creyendo que era mozuela, pero tenía marido. I took her down to the river thinking she was an innocent girl, but she had a husband Fue la noche de Santiago y casi por compromiso Se apagaron los faroles y se encendieron los grillos. It was July 25, the night of Santiago and almost by agreement the lights went out and the crickets started to chirp Sin luz de plata en sus copas los árboles han crecido, y un horizonte de perros ladra muy lejos del río. With no silvery light shining on them, the trees grew and a horizon of dogs barks far from the river. Ni nardos ni caracolas tienen el cutis tan fino, ni los cristales con luna relumbran con ese brillo. Neither spikenards or snails have skin that soft, nor moonlit windows shine that way. Sucia de besos y arena yo me la llevé del río. Con el aire se batían las espadas de los lirios. Soiled with kisses and sand I brought her back from the river. The lily swords shook in the air y no quise enamorarme porque teniendo marido me dijo que era mozuela cuando la llevaba al río. and I refused to fall in love with her because although she had a husband she swore she was innocent when I led her to the river. All of Lorca’s poetry is like a river of syllables and pours over me every time I read it. Yes, a moura can read if she chooses to learn. I chose to.

Some say, and you can find this if you look, that the “Mouras encantadas are magical maidens who guard castles, caves, bridges, wells, fountains, rivers, and treasures.” I guide and guard, am considered to be older than the hills, am stone and water, gleaming light, permanence, growth and movement toward somewhere we all must go. I am tree and brook that leads to the sea, not of death, but of life. I speak all the languages in the world.

Fear me not. I am yours and you are mine. We need one another to live. We are a liquid forever.