Thoughts on Nomadic Aesthetics and the Black Independent Cinema: Traces of a Journey

I sing of a man who was not a tree but whose roots spread throughout the land Who was not fire but who smoldered in every blaze Who was not water but quenched thirst I sing of a man who filled up space with his presence, 'cause he was the wind.1 The nomad has been desperately searching for water. He sends his children in all directions. He waits and none returns.