Afro-Celtic groove on the Sound System - A Groove that questions the complacency of habit. A Groove that bypasses the genetic detectives’ flatfooted work; short cuts the in-betweens; connects the scars of generations, like join-the-dots through the layers of our ape brains – pre-recorded there in synaptic paths layered like the skins of a mutant onion.
Celt is the child that remembers home but knows not the way.
Celt is the child who yet allows the music in.
Celt is the soul that questions the music for clues; that laughs at his fears when the moon does her duty.
Celt is the one who most wants to return to the warmth and the vastness of space and the dome of the sky.
Celt is the child who remembers his name.
Africa is the great mother from whom we are all spawn.
Africa buried beneath the rubble strewn by her children who went back to show off their big-boy skills. Skills learned in the brutality of deserts traversed and bitter mountain ranges crossed.
Skills learned in the places where the tribes meet and interact; the quest for land; the quest for knowledge and the misuse of power gained over many.
Africa reels; those who remain do so because they must, despite the fact that everything they knew has been ripped and shredded in the meteoric introduction to 'progress' and the subsequent desertion when the plunderers had drank their fill at her breast - now only good to bleed her black blood from festering wounds.
Africa forgotten, the bastard children squabble yet over other lands; ignoring the lessons of the mindful.
Some squabble like hungry ape ancestors over a nut; the nut bound in the glory of the absentee fathers Yahweh and Allah
Some squabble for an unshared portion of what should be abundant to all; in the name of the greatest god, more fearsome than all – Greed.
And yet, the great mother still sings us to sleep, her music and her soul are imbedded in the world.
She lingers in the corners of our psyche; she is the source of all the stories; source of all our fears.
She tells us that our bodies are instruments of beauty – we dance to that rhythm more comfortably when we are without steps to learn; without disco; without the waltz; without the mamba.
She reminds us that those bodies may be played like flutes and drums and wailing horns; each an instrument in Africa’s orchestra.
Breathe her in, the soul of Africa that questions the wisdom of ‘More’; the soul that entreats us to slow down and enjoy the journey for what have we gained if we cannot enjoy the fruit of our intellectual growth from survivor to controller; from hunted to hunter
The soul that begs us not to blow it all away with nuclear dust up speedway nostril.
The soul that begs us to reconsider the laws of gun.
Celt is the child that remembers home but knows not the way.
Celt is the child who yet allows the music in.
Celt is the soul that questions the music for clues; that laughs at his fears when the moon does her duty.
Celt is the one who most wants to return to the warmth and the vastness of space and the dome of the sky.
Celt is the child who remembers his name.
Africa is the great mother from whom we are all spawn.
Africa buried beneath the rubble strewn by her children who went back to show off their big-boy skills. Skills learned in the brutality of deserts traversed and bitter mountain ranges crossed.
Skills learned in the places where the tribes meet and interact; the quest for land; the quest for knowledge and the misuse of power gained over many.
Africa reels; those who remain do so because they must, despite the fact that everything they knew has been ripped and shredded in the meteoric introduction to 'progress' and the subsequent desertion when the plunderers had drank their fill at her breast - now only good to bleed her black blood from festering wounds.
Africa forgotten, the bastard children squabble yet over other lands; ignoring the lessons of the mindful.
Some squabble like hungry ape ancestors over a nut; the nut bound in the glory of the absentee fathers Yahweh and Allah
Some squabble for an unshared portion of what should be abundant to all; in the name of the greatest god, more fearsome than all – Greed.
And yet, the great mother still sings us to sleep, her music and her soul are imbedded in the world.
She lingers in the corners of our psyche; she is the source of all the stories; source of all our fears.
She tells us that our bodies are instruments of beauty – we dance to that rhythm more comfortably when we are without steps to learn; without disco; without the waltz; without the mamba.
She reminds us that those bodies may be played like flutes and drums and wailing horns; each an instrument in Africa’s orchestra.
Breathe her in, the soul of Africa that questions the wisdom of ‘More’; the soul that entreats us to slow down and enjoy the journey for what have we gained if we cannot enjoy the fruit of our intellectual growth from survivor to controller; from hunted to hunter
The soul that begs us not to blow it all away with nuclear dust up speedway nostril.
The soul that begs us to reconsider the laws of gun.
3 comments:
Sometimes I read what your write and it unfolds without mysteries, and then sometimes I must read again and again, as it gains on its many layered content. We could loose it all so fast and there is so much to loose. Your words stir many pictures and it reminds me of a favorite book, On the Contrary, by Andre Brink. I hope you have read this. Esteinne Barbier, an adventurer in Africa.
I have not read that particular one (think I read A Dry White Season)
Try Wessel Ebersohn's 'Store Up The Anger' or Chinua Achebe's 'Things Fall Apart'
I will hold the names in my memory and hope the books come, in Mexico, one takes what one finds. I have lots of luck with books.
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