Bush Of Ghost

Tuesday Late… got to play with the Proof Copy of ‘The Invisible College’ Magazine. Sweet! Sure looks good, a couple of glitches, and then it is available.
Editing away on pages here, pages there of other projects… stay tuned. Our friend Tim never made it north, up from Mike Crowleys’. sigh. Tim had come over from Ireland to visit John Godzero, and to do some work with Mike on a project. There had been plans for him to come further north, but time got in the way. Maybe next year.
Getting cold here in P-Town. Winter has indeed arrived. Leaves dropping like crazy, my Salvia all flowered at last, and the dog and cat hardly venture out. I love it, and loathe it at the same time. Sunshine! yes please.
Heard from my friend Tom Charlesworth who moved down to Sedona. He has been swamped working with his wife Cheryl at their new Coffee Shop.
We revisit a favourite bit of music and art in this edition… Life in the Bush of Ghost…
Bright Blessings!

On The Menu:

Brian Eno/David Byrne – America Is Waiting

You Be The Editor!

The Sky God’s Stories

Bambara Creation Story From Mali

The Poetry of Stephane Mallarme

Brian Eno & David Byrne – Mea Culpa

Art: George Frederick Watts

Brian Eno/David Byrne – America Is Waiting


Here is a fun little exercise….
You Be The Editor! Life In The Bush Of Ghost


The Sky God’s Stories
Kwaku-Ananse the spider once went to the Sky God, Nyankonpon, to try to buy his stories. The Sky God said, “What makes you think you could buy my stories? The richest villages have all tried, and have all failed.”
Kwaku-Ananse asked, “What is the price?” “The price is Oninithe python; Osebo the leopard; Mmoboro the hornet swarm; and Mmoatia the spirit.” The spider replied, “I will bring you all these things and my mother, Nsia, too.
The spider went home and told his mother, Nsia, and his wife, Aso, what the Sky God had said. “How can I catch Onini?” he asked. “Go and cut a branch from a palm tree and a length of vine, and bring them to the stream,” said Aso.
Kwaku-Ananse did as he was told, and then he and Aso began to argue over the branch. “It’s longer than he is,” said Aso. “You lie,” replied Ananse. “He is longer.” The python overheard and, overcome with curiosity, asked what the quarrel was about. Ananse replied, “My wife, Aso, says that this palm branch is longer than you and I say it is not.”
So Onini the python stretched himself full length along the branch. As he did so, Ananse trussed him tight with the vine, all the way up to his head. Then Ananse and Aso turned their attention to Mmoboro the hornet swarm. Aso told Ananse what to do. He cut a gourd and filled it with water, and carried it to where he could see the swarm hanging from a branch. He spilled half of the water on the hornets, and half on himself. Then he cut a plantain leaf and put on his head, calling out, “Hornets! It is raining! I am sheltering under this leaf, but you have no protection. Why don’t you come into this gourd to keep dry?”
So the hornets flew into the gourd, and Ananse slapped the plantain leaf over the opening and trapped them inside.
Then Aso told Ananse to dig a pit. He dug it on the path between Osebo the leapard’s lair and the stream, and covered it with leaves. At dawn he went to the pit. There, helpless at the bottom, was the leopard. There remained the spirit Mmoatia to catch. Aso and Ananse carved a doll from wood and plastered it with sticky gum from a tree. Then they set the doll down where the tree spirits play, with a brass basin beside it containing an appetizing mash of yams. When the spirits came, Mmoatia saw the doll and asked it, “Can I have some yams?” The doll did not reply. So the spirit slapped the doll’s cheek, and her hand stuck fast. She slapped it again; her other hand stuck, too.
Then Ananse went to the Sky God with Onini the python, Osebo the leopard, Mmoboro the hornet swarm, Mmoatia the spirit, and Nsia, his old mother. The Sky God called all the other gods to him, saying, “See! Great kings have come seeking my stories, but were not able to buy them. But Kwaku-Ananse has paid the price and added his mother, too. Therefore, today and forever I make a gift of my stories to Ananse the spider, and now they shall be known as Spider-Stories!”



Bambara Creation Story From Mali

A little tale. A little tale…..

The egg and the chick went to pick lemons.
The chick said to the egg, ‘Climb up the lemon tree and pick the lemons’.
The egg responded that he couldn’t climb.
The chick climbed and shook the lemon tree.
The lemons fell.
They ate them.
The egg in his turn climbed, telling the chick to collect the dust and spread it out under him, so that if he fell he would not break.
The chick collected the dust and spread it under the tree, but a small stone was hidden in the dust.
The egg shook the tree and fell on the small stone, splat! And he broke himself.
And the chick laughed, and laughed and laughed.
But a branch cut off the chick’s head.
And the branch laughed, and laughed and laughed.
The fire burnt the branch.
And the fire laughed, and laughed and laughed.
The water extinguished the fire.
And the water laughed, and laughed and laughed.
The earth absorbed the water.
And the earth laughed, and laughed and laughed.
The earth and God quarrelled.
God picked up the earth and dropped it.
It is since that day that the earth is in her place.

I have left this small tale where I found it.

The Poetry of Stephane Mallarme

A Toast
Nothing, this foam, virgin verse

Depicting the chalice alone:

Far off a band of Sirens drown

Many of them head first.
We sail, O my various

Friends, I already at the stern,

You at the lavish prow that churns

The lightning’s and the winters’ flood:

A sweet intoxication urges me

Despite pitching, tossing, fearlessly

To offer this toast while standing

Solitude, reef, and starry veil

To whatever’s worthy of knowing

The white anxiety of our sail.

Futile Petition
Princess! To be jealous of a Hebe’s fate

Rising above this cup at your lips’ kisses,

I spend my fires with the slender rank of prelate

And won’t even figure naked on Sèvres dishes.

Since I’m not your pampered poodle,

Pastille, rouge or sentimental game

And know your shuttered glance at me too well,

Blonde whose hairdressers have goldsmiths’ names!

Name me…you whose laughters strawberry-crammed

Are mingling with a flock of docile lambs

Everywhere grazing vows bleating joy the while,

Name me…so that Love winged with a fan

Paints me there, lulling the fold, flute in hand,

Princess, name me the shepherd of your smiles.


I don’t come to conquer your flesh tonight, O beast

In whom are the sins of the race, nor to stir

In your foul tresses a mournful tempest

Beneath the fatal boredom my kisses pour:
A heavy sleep without those dreams that creep

Under curtains alien to remorse, I ask of your bed,

Sleep you can savour after your dark deceits,

You who know more of Nothingness than the dead.
For Vice, gnawing this inborn nobleness of mine

Marked me, like you, with its sterility,

But shroud-haunted, pale, destroyed, I flee

While that heart no tooth of any crime

Can wound lives in your breast of stone,

Frightened of dying while I sleep alone.

Brian Eno & David Byrne – Mea Culpa


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