I was walking up the 59th street station uptown 1 train platform when I heard the cool sounds of Lankandia Cissoko, African Griot.  Since I started this project three weeks ago, I was hoping to run into him again.

Lankandia, Salieu Suso and a couple other guys here in NYC are descendants from the ancient line of bards once common Sub-Saharan Africa.  For thousands of years they played their harps, told stories, shared songs, memorized family genealogies, advised kings and taught children.  Unlike the Celtic bards, they are still around to teach us the ways of our ancestors.  Whenever I see them, I feel so excited to know that these men are like the branches of an ancient tree that still stands in the forest when it’s brothers and sisters have been long ago cut down.

I sat down and listened to Lankandia play for twenty minutes.  The Kora is an interesting instrument.  It is double strung (two rows of strings), has a wooden column and a half-sphere resonator made of a gourd and animal skin.  It is definitely in the harp family, but it looks completely different than the harp we usually think of.  Also, they play the Kora with trademark African polymetrics (3/4, 6/8, 2/4 and 12/8 time signatures are all playing at once!) which makes it sound quite different from the pretty-pretty harp sounds we’re used to.

After one of his numbers, I go up to speak to him.  A 50-something African American gentleman is talking to him.  Maybe it was just my imagination, but I could see a bridge being built from Africa to its descendants living here in America.  It makes me wonder what it would be like if a Irish bard, descendant from the old country, were sitting their to tell me about my ancestry.

I finally get to speak to him and tell him I play the harp and I’m essentially looking to do what he does.  I wish I could say something terribly exciting happened, but all that really happened is that he started speaking with a very thick accent and I had no idea what he is saying.  I took his business card however.  I now have his, and Salieu Suso’s (a griot I worked with three years ago on a children show), phone number.  When I get my new harp, I play to call them and ask for some guidance.

The guidance I hope to get from them will help me re-construct the Celtic bard culture.  I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the Dodo bird, but I am modeling my formula after their proposed comeback from extinction.  The Dodo bird was a very innocent bird found on an island in the Indian Ocean.  It had no predators and was therefore fearless of the European explorers (and it was flightless, making it even more vulnerable).  The European explorers however were not so kind.  They took to beating these funny looking birds to death for sport when they didn’t hunt them and their eggs for food.  This lead to their extinction in the 1700’s.

In 2007 however, the most complete dodo bird skeleton to date has been found and there’s talk of reconstructing the genome to bring it back.  This can be done by mixing it’s original DNA with that of surviving relatives.  And there’s good reason to do it too: the trees that depended on the dodo to crack it’s heavy seed-pod shell and help it populate is in danger as well.  I say let’s do it.  And I think this is a similar formula I can use.

As I collect “bones” of the Celtic bards unearthed by historians I can mix that DNA with that of living bards from other cultures.  It won’t be a perfect match, but it’ll be awfully close.  Why do it all?  Well, besides the fact that we can, it’s my personal prediction that the arts are heading back in that direction again anyway.  Books are made into films then into plays then into video games then into clothes then into theme parks then into toys then into a website and so on.  The arts are coming together; things in our culture in general are coming together.  The future is merging with the past in the present.  Let’s do it.

here in english

Σύντροφοι/σσες και φίλες/οι,

Ένα χρόνο μετά την κοινωνική εξέγερση του περασμένου Δεκέμβρη το κράτος, οι κομματικοί σχηματισμοί, οι ειδικοί της οικονομίας, δημοσιογράφοι και κάθε είδους δημοσιολόγοι προσπαθούν να οδηγήσουν το «καράβι» σε απάνεμα λιμάνια. Αναγνωρίζουν συνεχώς τις δυσκολίες. Μιλούν για την «πολύπλευρη κρίση που χαρακτηρίζει σήμερα την ελληνική κοινωνία σε μια περίοδο μεγάλης ιδεολογικής σύγχυσης» και ακόμα για την ύπαρξη «κενού ιδεολογικής ηγεμονίας». Μ’ απλά εμφανίζονται αδύναμοι να εξασφαλίσουν τον κοινωνικό έλεγχο.

Παραδέχονται ότι η φουρτούνα όχι μόνο δεν λέει να κοπάσει, αλλά τα σημάδια συνεχίζουν να είναι αρκούντως ανησυχητικά. Ο κίνδυνος να εκδηλωθούν εκ νέου κοινωνικές ταραχές δεν παραπέμπει βέβαια σε κάποιες ανεπιθύμητες καταστροφές ή απλά στην παράλυση της εμπορικής δραστηριότητας.

Ο εφιάλτης τους, εδώ και καιρό, εστιάζεται στο ποιοι επί πλέον θα κατέβουν οργισμένοι και έτοιμοι να αντιπαρατεθούν με όσους θεωρούν ότι ευθύνονται για την κατάσταση απόγνωσης στην οποία έχουν περιέλθει ήδη ή περιέρχονται με αδιάλειπτη ταχύτητα. Μ’ άλλα λόγια ποιοι είναι αυτοί που θα σταθούν δίπλα στους χαρτογραφημένους ως «παραδοσιακούς» ταραξίες, όπως άλλωστε έγινε και τον περασμένο Δεκέμβρη, με ποιους τρόπους θα αντιπαρατεθούν και το πιο σημαντικό τι θα τους σταματήσει ή που θα σταματήσουν οι ίδιοι. Και εδώ συνίσταται η ουσία της απειλής για την εξουσία, το μέγεθος της οποίας δεν μπορεί να υπολογιστεί, ούτε βέβαια οι συνέπειες της.

Θα το ξαναπούμε. Όσα καταλύθηκαν τον Δεκέμβρη ήταν στηρίγματα της εξουσίας γι’ αυτό και οι πληγές είναι ακόμα ορθάνοικτες. Αυτό δεν σημαίνει ότι οι διαχειριστές των κρατικών υποθέσεων δεν προχωρούν σε διορθωτικές κινήσεις. Δεν σημαίνει ότι δεν αναζητούν πίστωση χρόνου. Φαίνεται όμως ότι δεν την έχουν. Αυτό τους ξεκαθαρίζουν και οι ευρωπαίοι εταίροι τους. Και φυσικά το ζήτημα δεν αρχίζει ούτε τελειώνει στα περί οικονομίας ή πιθανής «χρεωκοπίας».

Σ’ αυτές τις συνθήκες η ευφορία θα έπρεπε να μας διακατέχει. Ο ενθουσιασμός για το ξέσπασμα της πρόσφατης εξέγερσης να καλύπτει τους όποιους προβληματισμούς. Και όμως όσο τουλάχιστον μας αφορά τα πράγματα δεν είναι έτσι. Γι’ αυτό επιμένουμε με πάθος να αναζητούμε εξαντλητικά τη διεξοδική συζήτηση για κάθε τι που αφορά τις αναρχικές απόψεις και πρακτικές. Να μην επαναναπαυόμαστε στις δάφνες κάποιων «μικρών» ή «μεγάλων» επιτυχιών. Να σκύβουμε με επιμονή επάνω στα «στραβά». Να μην κλείνουμε τα μάτια για να γίνουμε αρεστοί.

Να θυμόμαστε που και που τόσους και τόσους αναρχικούς που στο παρελθόν σε κάθε εποχή επεσήμαναν ότι όταν αποκτά θρησκευτική σημασία η αριθμητική αύξηση, η διείσδυση εξουσιαστικών απόψεων και πρακτικών πρέπει να θεωρείται δεδομένη. Τους τόσους και τόσους συντρόφους που κατέγραψαν με τα πιο μελανά χρώματα τις επιπτώσεις της έλλειψης ήθους, της απουσίας κριτικής διάθεσης, της παρατεταμένης σύγχυσης ακόμα και πάνω σε θεμελιακές αναρχικές απόψεις και θεωρήσεις, που οδηγεί τελικά στις πλέον κατάφωρες διαστρεβλώσεις.

Ανάμεσα σ’ αυτούς τους συντρόφους είναι και ο Max Nettlau που έγραφε χαρακτηριστικά τον Οκτώβρη του 1932 στην Ιστορία της Αναρχίας: «Η μελλοντική ελευθερία δεν θα είναι προϊόν ενός κατακτητικού πολέμου. Δεν ανήκει στον στρατό που εξασφαλίζει τη νίκη, ακόμη και αν νικητές είναι τα συνδικάτα, ούτε στους μεγάλους αρχηγούς που τα διευθύνουν. Δεν γνωρίζουμε αυτές τις κατακτήσεις. Μόνον εκείνες του Ναπολέοντα, του Λένιν ή του Μουσολίνι. Ο συνδικαλισμός αυτών που σκέφτονται διαφορετικά και αντίθετα από την Αναρχική ιδέα, είναι ένας συνδικαλισμός που αποβλέπει στον μιλιταρισμό, στον οικονομικό φασισμό, στις κατακτήσεις και τα αξιώματα. Ο πραγματικός επαναστατικός αγώνας γκρεμίζει τα εμπόδια, ξεβρωμίζει το έδαφος και, όταν είναι εφικτό, επιχειρεί την θεμελίωση του νέου έργου, που πιθανότατα διατρέχει τον κίνδυνο να είναι περιορισμένο, με καθυστερήσεις, όλο εμπόδια και αντιξοότητες, αν προσπαθήσουμε να το εντάξουμε στα παλιά πλαίσια, ακόμα και αν πρόκειται για τα συνδικάτα. «Ας ξεχάσουμε το παρόν». Αυτός είναι ο δρόμος του μέλλοντος».

Καλό Δεκέμβρη σύντροφοι.

Δεκέμβριος 2009

Ο Κύκλος Σύνταξης

source

]]> http://echoesblog.wordpress.com/2009/11/04/baaba-maal-21st-century-griot/ Wed, 04 Nov 2009 20:00:12 +0000 echoesblog http://echoesblog.wordpress.com/2009/11/04/baaba-maal-21st-century-griot/

Echo Location: Baaba Maal

To hear an audio version of this blog with Baaba Maal’s music, go here

Senegalese singer Baaba Maal emerges out of the griot tradition, African story-tellers who usually accompany themselves with the kora.  Legendary griot, Mansour Seck was his childhood friend and mentor, but Baaba Maal is a modern griot.

Baaba Maal:  Of course I think all of the new African musicians are still connected to this old role of playing music but telling the people, the messages are in the African language and they’re trying to change African life on the continent.

Now in his mid-fifties, but looking more like his mid -30s, Baaba Maal has worked with producers like Brian Eno and it was Baaba Maal’s band that inspired the creation of Afro Celt Sound System.  On his new CD, Television, he teams up with singer Sabina Siouba and keyboardist Didi Gutman from the dance group, The Brazilian Girls.

Baaba Maal: What I was looking for was the sound of drum and bass but also the electronic effects that I can’t get from the African instruments sometimes because the African instruments were not built to bring the sound of the wind, the sound of the desert or the sound of anything you hear which is not coming from the music.

Baaba Maal at Echoes

Along with the effects laden guitar of producer Barry Reynolds, Baaba Maal wraps these sounds around gorgeous duets with Sabina Sciubba.

Baaba Maal:   Sabina is a great singer for me because when she sings you can hear a culture, you can hear some pictures you can feel some colors, because she traveled a lot and she speaks like me a lot of different languages.

They sing lyrics that engage in social change and political commentary, but they sing them in several different languages from Pular to Portugese.  But even though the lyrics aren’t understood by western listeners, he feels the voices get the message across.

Baaba Maal:  Yeah, I think the voice can be leading people to an atmosphere where they can feel what I want to talk about.

Baaba Maal didn’t even see a television until he was in his late teens, but it’s a metaphor of social change and communication on his new CD.  Television is out on the Palm Pictures label.  I’ll have an interview with Baaba Maal on Monday’s Echoes.  This has been an Echo Location, soundings for new music.

John Diliberto ((( echoes )))

“Hot Water must easily be one of the most exciting musical projects to come out of South Africa…” The Citizen

Stylistically Hot Water’s music incorporates elements of “traditional African music with folk, blues and indie-pop rock.” They manage “to capture an authentic and unique South African feel and flavour.”

Hot Water just released the song, ‘Laduma’ from their 3rd album (which is due for release early 2010.)

‘Laduma’ is Hot Water’s 2010 offering and it features SA comedian of the year Nik Rabinowitz on some soccer commentary. It’s been called “an uplifting and authentic anthem of unity” that has been playlisted on a number of national radio stations in Europe.

In other exciting news-the band has been signed to Touring Agent, Griot, who also represent Freshlyground, Lira and Hugh Masekela.

As 2010 approaches, just being signed to a major touring agent as well as a new album on the way,  next year is looks to be very exciting for Hot Water!

xx

yours in musical madness

Picture taken by Cynthia Nelson

Ingredients
½ cup chopped shallots
½ cup chopped onions
Black pepper to taste
Minced hot pepper to taste
1 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme
1/3 cup fresh lemon juice
2/3 cup fresh orange juice
3 teaspoons salt
3 lbs boneless pork shoulder cut into large cubes
2 cups water
3 tablespoons oil

Method

• Add the shallots, onions, black pepper, thyme, hot pepper, lemon and orange juice and salt to a bowl or cup and stir mix thoroughly.

• Put the pork into a large zip plastic bag. Pour the marinade into the bag, squeeze out the excess air, close the bag and with your hand and mix the marinade and meat together. Place the bag on a plate and refrigerate. Marinate overnight or for at least 6 hours.

• Remove the marinated pork and bring up to room temperature.

• Pour the content of the bag – meat and marinade, along with 2 cups of water into a pressure cooker or large pot and stir to mix. If using a pressure cooker, close pressure cook for 8 – 10 minutes (time begins from the first whistle). If using a regular pot, cover, bring to a boil and cook for 45 minutes. The liquid should dry out. If it isn’t at this stage then let it continue to boil until it has or open the pressure cooker and let it boil until the liquid is gone.

• Heat oil in pan until very hot.

• Add pork to pan and let fry (sauté), turning a few times at 1-minute intervals until the pork is brown and the outside crusty.

Recipe by Cynthia Nelson from Staebroek News.

Griot is often served with Ti-Malace sauce, fried plaintains, Haitian accra, and rice and bean sauce.

to learn how to give love and to let it come in.

 in the spirit of love en resistance,

here’s another gift (yes yes y’all! tis’ the giving season)

more s/heroes waxing LIBERATORY  about  OUR  stories.

iS.I.S: you are beautiful

we have to start where we from.

change/ing our patterns is long term.

gotta use what we got.

share/ing our resources,

and this is not new.

we need to work on our own unity first.

so in the spirit  of  critically examining our gaps and tools,

here is an/other teacher,

one of my (revolushunary) guides in the path of story telling and teaching community.

 story telling for social change

 Subscribe in a reader

_____________________________________________________

CHAPTER 6: SOMETHING WICKED IN THE WIND

(READ Ch5, P.2 here)

The next morning Detective Litani awoke to find that Rebecca was nowhere to be found. The doorbell rang while he was in the shower. He thought about not answering it but the prospect of possibly finding Rebecca standing there, returning to greet him, propelled him to do so. He could still remember her chilling words to him last night as he had entered her. The idea that Childress had come anywhere near her, in that way, made him despise the man even further. It made him officially consider Childress as a predator. He cut the shower short, and wrapped a towel around his waist on his way to the door.

“My, my, nothing’s sexier than a man dripping wet in a towel,” said the effervescent teenager.

The white corduroy upper thigh length mini-skirt she wore hugged her body perfectly, too perfect. Her hair was pulled up away from her face the way she liked to wear it most times, with the length of the ponytail dangling over a tight backless red blouse. The entire package screamed jailbait.

The smile on his face disappeared quickly.

“What are you doing here Tina?”

“Oh now, Ray, don’t get mad. My bike broke down. I need a ride, don’t want to be late. The group’s organizing a really cool film festival on American New Wave cinema. Today’s the board meeting with all the big shots and muckety-mucks.”

“What group would that be, Tina?

“The people I work for silly, over at Filmspace. It’s gonna be great. Before Filmspace came along this town had zilch in the arts department. Unless you count the Historical Society’s bingo games, I know I don’t. Hey Ray, I just love the movies, don’t you?”

Showing only mild appreciation, he shrugged and ran off into the bedroom to finish getting dressed.

While left to her own devices, she poured a glass of milk and leaned up against the kitchen counter, contemplating. No doubt, it amused her that Detective Litani scarcely paid her any attention. Yet, it only made her want to invest more in their relationship. And they did have one — a relationship — whether he knew it or not. She was sure of that. She felt at ease talking to him, even when it seemed like he wasn’t listening.

“Oh I almost forgot. Cheryl and Grant want to invite you to my eighteenth birthday party,” she called out.

“Cheryl and Grant? Who are these people?!” he yelled back, while stepping into a pair of cream colored boxer short with an image of the Tasmanian devil imprinted on them.

“Cheryl and Grant Sycamore — my parents. Duh.”

He came back into the kitchen a couple of minutes later dressed in a pair of black slacks, and a white T-shirt that seemed to cling to his upper body, outlining every sinewy muscle. He felt good, thoughts of last night’s marathon session with Rebecca Jamison still fresh in his mind.

“You call your mother and father by their first names?”

“Most of the time,” she said. “It’s just easier that way.”

“But, they’re you’re parents . . .”

“They know who they are.”

She took a long swallow of milk that left a mustache, and then rather seductively licked the milk ring from around her mouth in slow motion.

“Cut it out, Tina. Enough is enough,” he insisted for the millionth time.

She followed him into the living room as he sat down on the couch to finish lacing up his sneakers. It was weird having her stare at him the way she did, and even weirder realizing that he was the only one embarrassed about the whole thing.

“–Heard about Lizzie French?”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Yesterday, at the Founder’s Day celebration, she passed this thing around for signatures. Her new thing. Every time you turn around that old battle axe’s got a new thing. Some kind of resolution on righteousness, is what some of the folks are calling it. And, guess what? She wants everybody in town to sign, so she can send it to the state Capital. That’s what I hear anyway. That’s something, huh?”

“No Tina, that’s something else.”

“Yep, old Lizzie’s our pride and joy! That crazy ringding can call on the Lord God Almighty like nobody’s business! She makes our Reverend Kernapple look like a wimp. Yep, somebody should have locked that ringding up years ago. But then again, every town needs a comedian.”

“I’d really love to hang around and shoot the breeze with you Tina, but I’m late for work.”

“Oh please, nobody cares what time you get to the Sheriff’s Office. Especially Sheriff Daniel, he’s still on bed rest.”

“I care, Tina. Is that good enough for you?”

“Whatever.”

He adjusted his belt buckle. “Wow, teenagers really know how to turn a phrase.”

His first chore of the morning – keep Tina Sycamore at bay. It proved itself to be a hard one, but he was still in confidence mode, after last night’s romantic bliss. He closed his eyes for a moment, and pictured Rebecca’s naked breast against his lips. He could still taste the sweetness of her body lotion on his tongue; the apple blossom scent lingering long after the deed had been done. Two years she’d said, since the last time she’d made love. Theoretically, it had been almost like being with a virgin. He had been honored that she’d chosen him to break her celibacy. Honored. Pleased. Thrilled, and just plain ridiculously optimistic. He had felt proud bringing her to climax, not because of ego but because he’d felt a true connection for the first time in a long time.

“Ray, snap out of it! What’s wrong with you?”

When he opened his eyes he found Tina on the floor at his knee repeatedly tugging at his pants leg. He immediately jumped up.

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? Why are you on the floor?”

She stood up, and pulled her mini-skirt down. He had a good mind to toss her right out the door, no explanation.

“I was trying to get your attention. You dozed off or something.”

It had been more like a wet daydream.

“And this action required you to get down on the floor, and grab the leg of my pants?”

“Look at it this way, I could have grabbed something else.”

She smiled invitingly.

“Not funny Tina.”

“Don’t get all crazy, Ray. My kindergarten teacher Mrs. Wainwright used to do the same thing to wake us up after nap time.”

“Don’t tell me you can recall your kindergarten years?” he asked, thinking she was full of it.

Tina put her hands on her hips, and pouted, “Didn’t we already go through this? I told you already. I have an unbelievable memory, just ask around. It’s what you call photographic. I was tested and everything. That’s why I know I can help you with the case, if you let me. I still have some of Patty Lowell’s life tucked away in my mind.”

He took her by the shoulders and guided her towards the door.

“What are you doing?”

“I’ll gladly give you a ride to work Tina, but you should wait out in the car.”

“Why?”

“No reason,” he said, and pushed her out the door.

As the police car pulled out of the driveway, Tina’s attention was soon diverted to the backseat near the driver’s side, to the exquisite ornamental box that presented itself like a mystery of which she was more than fond of. The more she looked over her shoulder at the box the faster the wad of pink Bubblelicious gum circled around in her mouth. He was careful not to say anything to her about it but he knew she could barely withstand the intrigue.

“So, Ray, I hear Victor Salley’s sister won’t let Doc Westminster autopsy Victor’s body because they’re Jewish, and you know, it’s a sin.”

She was in full snoop form.

“Who told you that?”

“I heard it that’s all. I have a knack for communication.”

“Really? Now all you need is the gift of silence,” he said. “Besides, you got it all wrong.”

“Oh, then there is gonna be an autopsy?”

He looked over at her without saying a word. His keenest impression of Tina was that she had a gentle enough nature, but was a bit of an instigator, who quite possibly had a hidden mean streak reserved for special occasions .

“Listen, Tina, maybe you should stop calling me by my first name. It’s a little, uh, . . . ”

“A little what? It’s your name, right? Or do you want me to call you by the full Christian name Raymond instead?”

“What I’m trying to say is Ray, or Raymond – they’re a little too familiar. Our relationship should be one of a strictly professional nature, and something more age appropriate. I just don’t think you know me that well to call me by my first name.”

The sweat from his palms made the steering wheel glisten as he turned the corner, past the library, and on to Congressional Lane. Maybe he was overdoing it by coming at her this way but he wasn’t completely clueless. A blind man could see that young Tina Sycamore clearly had designs on him, and he clearly did not want to appear to have assisted her along that path with any provocation.

“Really? Interesting,” she said.

“I just think it’s more professional that way . . . you being who you are, and I being who I am, that you should stick with Detective Litani, or even Mr. Litani.”

“You trying to convince me – or yourself? Besides, it’s a little self-righteous of you Ray, don’t you think?”

“How so Tina?”

“Well, if I was five, I could maybe see where you were coming from. But I’m not. I’m seventeen going on eighteen and . . .”

“That’s another thing, I really would appreciate it if you stopped repeatedly telling me how close to eighteen you are. I realize turning eighteen is a big day in your life, however, it is irrelevant as far as you and me are concerned. If you don’t remember anything else, please remember that.”

“But you call me Tina, not Miss. Sycamore. And I don’t mind.”

“I’ll gladly refer to you as Miss. Sycamore, or Ms. Sycamore from now on, whichever you prefer.”

“I prefer Tina,” she said, “I was just making a point.”

He sighed, in despair. She was one tough cookie, this precocious townie.

“Do you call Sheriff Daniel by his first name?”

“No, I call him Sheriff Daniel, or sometimes just Sheriff.”

His face beamed. He had her, or so he thought.

“You’ve just proven my point young lady. Oh, I’d also accept just plain old “Detective” as a greeting. It would do just fine.”

“You’re comparing apples and oranges Ray – it’s not the same with you as it is with the Sheriff. Even though I’ve known the Sheriff my whole life, I feel . . . closer to you.”

He didn’t bother to continue or even look over at her after the fact. Fending off Tina was one thing but he was having an ever harder problem getting Rebecca Jamison out of his head. He couldn’t help but wonder if her revelation to him about Childress had had something to do with her early departure from his bed this morning. Although, he couldn’t completely rule out the fact of there being ten kids waiting for her back at the orphanage as a contributing factor.

“You hear anything from Victor’s wife yet? She’s missing, right?”

“You don’t know that Tina.” He did know that.

“She’s missing all right. She stayed with him all the time when he was a drunken numskull. Now he’s dead. If anything, she should be walking on cloud nine, dancing in the streets. Maybe she knows something. Maybe she had to skip town quick. I don’t think she killed him though, that’s too easy. You know what I think?”

“Not even on a good day,” he said.

“I think Mrs. Peabody should hire a private detective to go looking for her sister-in-law. I know I would be concerned if my brother’s wife and children went missing like that, after he was murdered. I don’t think I’d wait around for the cops to figure it out either, no offense.”

“None taken,” he said. “I always like to know that the public’s thinking, even if the public is an overzealous teenager with a tendency to stick her nose where it doesn’t belong.”

He looked over at her. He could almost see the wheels turning. In reality, If things weren’t the way they were he would have seriously considered taking someone like Tina under his wings, to provide a kind of mentor relationship for a career in the criminal sciences like his good friend Sargent Ludlow had done for him, if that’s what she’d wanted.

“So– what do you think, huh? Think somebody murdered them too, the same as Victor? I think it’s a fifty-fifty.”

Detective Litani slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road. He cut the engine off, and leaned over closer to the passenger’s side. Tina Sycamore pursed her lips and closed her eyes. Her heart beat faster. She had been waiting for this moment since the first day of his arrival in town. This was her moment, and she was ready for him.

“Number one – nobody’s saying Victor was murdered. A suspected drowning is one of those things that has to be examined further before it can be called as such. It means that we have to eliminate the possibility of homicide. Number two – referring to your fifty-fifty chance scenario, I don’t think you understand how probability works. I admire your inquisitiveness in wanting to understand how all the pieces fit together. Really, I do. It’s like a puzzle to you, and you like to tinker and see how things come together. You’re young. Young people like puzzles, I get it. But, do me a favor? Please promise me you won’t go spreading misinformation around town. Oh, and you can open your eyes now.”

Disappointed at having not received the proper kiss she’d prepared for, she pulled the rubber band from her hair, and popped him with it.

“You are a cruel one, mister. Just plain cruel.”

Back on the road she was silent. Part of him considered this a triumph, especially since their earlier conversation about calling him by his title hadn’t been officially settled. Her silence meant no more worrying about dreaded questions, flamboyant suppositions, or even worse – relentless come-ons. Still, another part secretly relished the visceral reaction of her pushing back.

“So tell me Tina, how does it feel to be a high school graduate with your entire life ahead of you?”

She blew a bubble and peeled the bubble gum from her lips. It was done in such a way that he shook his head in disbelief. Practically every action she undertook was either delivered for effect or meant to entice. He was beginning to think Tina Sycamore was in her own little alternate reality, appearing live in Technicolor while everyone around her watched, amazed at the heights of her performance from day to day. Or, it had also occurred to him that this just might be her way of pushing back.

“Well Ray, I still wake up wanting to eat corn flakes so things haven’t changed that much.”

“Ah, but you’re a girl with ambition. I’m sure you’ve got some kind of plans for the future. Maybe leaving this town and making it big?”

“Yeah, sure, except I’m not done here yet. Just like you, some things need to be followed up on first.”

“What things?”

“Why should I tell you? You don’t respect me. You treat me like a kid.”

“You are a kid.”

“I’ll be eighteen in a matter of days, so there.”

Again with the reminder of her official leap into womanhood. He suspected she had the big day circled in red ink on her calendar since it had already been tattooed on her brain. It was difficult enough trying to manage her now at her present age; he feared the feat would prove nearly impossible the moment she became legally emancipated, so to speak.

“The board meeting at Filmspace I was telling you about . . . Childress will be there,” she said, hoping to reengage his interest.

“Really?”

“Yep, he’s the leader of the pack after all. He’ll probably smile at me the way he does, and put his hand on my shoulder and say, “Miss. Tina Sycamore, how are you today?”

“I thought we crossed this subject on Founder’s Day at the diner. Don’t go playing games with a man like that. He’s a wolf.”

“Then does that make me Little Red Riding Hood?”

He shook his head in amazement, “ You really are a glutton for punishment.”

He pulled up next to the Gothic designed building with its pointed arches and ribbed vaults. Filmspace, and a few other modern buildings scattered about, seemed completely out of place in a town with civic architecture largely comprised of early Christian basilica structures and colonial homes.

She got out the car and bent down near the window.

“I’m not gonna ask why you didn’t say anything about the strange box with the designs in the back seat. My senses tell me it probably has something to do with the investigation somehow. You know, I could really help you put things together. We could make a great team, but all I get from you is a big goose egg, and speeches on how not to call you “Ray.”

She cast a look of disapproval in his direction. He rolled his eyes.

“And by the way,” she said, slowly backing away from the vehicle, “I’d give anything to find out about all the juicy stuff you whispered to Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farms about the case last night while you fucked her. I bet she calls you Ray,” she surmised. “Don’t forget to give the bitch my warm regards,” she said, and then strolled off.

He had no idea how she knew.

The first thing Detective Litani did when he reached the Sheriff’s Office was take out his wallet, and look for the sliver of note paper taken from his motel room in Infinity City. He’d written the number on it that served as his only means of contacting Leilani, the young woman who said she was the dead Hawaiian’s sister.

He dialed the number and waited. After three rings someone picked up.

“Hello, may I speak to Leilani? Detective Litani, calling.”

“Leilani?” asked the voice on the other end.

“Yes, is she available?” he asked, wanting to move things along.

“Police?” asked the voice.

“Yes, Detective Raymond Litani. I’m sorry but it’s rather urgent. Can you please put Leilani on the phone if she’s there?”

On the other end, the phone was slammed down on a hard surface, causing him to flinch. A few minutes later it was retrieved by another listener. This time the voice was older, more mature.

“Hello, FBI? Kaminsky?”

“No, Detective Raymond Litani. Pardon me, but is Leilani available? It’s really important.”

There was a moment of silence, and he could hear the other party on the end of the phone breathing heavily.

“Leilani,” the voice repeated, “My daughter Leilani’s at the General Hospital.”

“Hospital? What happened?”

“Evil keeps visiting my family. First my son, now my sweet daughter. Something wicked. This evil, it travels through the wind.”

From what he could gather something dreadful had happened to the fierce and willful woman he’d met back in Infinity City. His thoughts went immediately to the fake Denny’s Restaurant that served as some kind of criminal underground, operating in broad daylight. He held the practical knowledge of a seasoned street officer and even he could not wrap his mind around it. He went over the elements in his head. One – Leilani had sent him to the restaurant for a reason. That something had more than likely to do with her dead, presumably murdered brother. Two – Victor Salley had left the recording on his voicemail prompting him to go to Infinity City, in search of the Hawaiian. Three – If the Hawaiian killed Victor, who killed the Hawaiian? It would have been easier if he could have accepted Victor Salley’s death as a simple drowning.

Clearly Leilani had figured her brother to be operating as some kind of mercenary, – that’s what his introduction to the Restaurant was all about. He hoped her revelations to him hadn’t been the catalyst for whatever had happened to her. Before he could continue the conversation further, Deputy Carlisle entered carrying a cardboard box full of cigarette cartons. He dropped the box down, and made a beeline for Detective Litani’s back end office.

“Well, well, well, look who decided to skedaddle back to town! How was your little trip to Infinity City?! Get any tail?!”

He yelled this while positioning himself in the doorway, hunched over like a tired vulture, after a gratuitous meal of scavenging and pillaging.

“Hello? Listen, I apologize but I have to get off the phone now but I promise to call back later and pick up where we left off. Is that alright with you?”

“Yes,” said the voice on the other end, “Peace be with you.”

Detective Litani hung up the phone and directed his attention to Randy Carlisle. There was a reason why he’d never made Chief Deputy. To put it bluntly, he was an idiot. Everyone knew it, especially Sheriff Daniel. It had appeared to Detective Litani since he’d arrived in Trinity’s Land End almost three weeks to today, that unfortunately, Sheriff Daniel seemed to count on it. He treated the young deputy like a mama bear would if she’d discovered one of her cubs was a little slow, or “touched in the head”. As long as Randy Carlisle remained safely under Sheriff Daniel’s wing, he would always be comfortable being an idiot.

“Hey there foreign boy. You speak Spanish or that Islam?”

“Well – let’s see, Islam is not a language. Farsi is a language. And as for the other – my parents were of Argentine and Lebanese roots but I speak the same language you do Deputy Carlisle. Is that good enough for you?”

Deputy Carlisle gave Detective Litani a half-grin and went on about his business, unloading the box of cigarette cartons.

The job of Chief Deputy required reporting to the Sheriff. The position was akin to a direct supervisor of department heads. Furthermore, in the event of the Sheriff’s temporary absence, responsibilities included the wherewithal to manage the entire Sheriff’s department until the Sheriff returned to duty. Last year, Chief Deputy Bannister, had resigned from the position and left for Las Vegas to be the lead security detail for a major casino. It had been a calculated move in which he had been guaranteed a salary twice what he’d earned working under Sheriff Daniel. With the position of Chief Deputy now void, and Sheriff Daniel still in the hospital, the Sheriff’s Office consisted of Deputy Carlisle, Deputy Hawthorne, who was on vacation, two part-time records clerks, and himself. It was a shoestring operation if there ever was one. And even though the words were sometimes used interchangeably – it was definitely more of a Sheriff’s Office than Sheriff’s Department.

“You know, that Tina Sycamore dropped by here to see you when you were over in Infinity City. Said she had something to talk to you about!” he yelled heartily across the room as if they were in the Roman Coliseum.

“Thank you Deputy for that message but I’ve seen Tina already.”

“Oh you did? I tell you that girl’s just itching to give it away, maybe you’re the lucky fella, huh? Shit, maybe even me. Age of consent is 16 here in our great state, and that Tina’s plus one.”

“Maybe you need to read the General Laws of Massachusetts again Deputy Carlisle, as I have, Chapter 272, Section 4, which sets a second age of consent provision at 18 if a person of “chaste life” is thought to be seduced by a perpetrator and put in harms way. You’re what? About 28? More than the law allows. And an authority figure in a position of power. Do you really want to risk getting caught up?”

Deputy Carlisle growled at him under his breath.

“What the fuck? You mean to tell me, a man’s in town less than a month, and he’s got nothing better to do than spend his time reading every inch of the fucking General Laws of Massachusetts? Why don’t you go down to the roadhouse and solicit for some pussy, if you’re that bored. Jeez Louise, that’s pitiful. And you’re fucking crazy if you think Tina Sycamore’s led a chaste fucking life. She went out out with this college boy over in Infinity City a while back, for Christsakes.”

It wasn’t before long that Rita Mason came by looking as spectacular as ever in a vintage pin-striped pants suit, and a pair of patent leather shoes. She was the closet thing to a fashionista in Trinity’s Land End. She reminded him of a black Marilyn Monroe in the way she glided over surfaces, hips in full swagger. It was hard to take your eyes off of her.

Deputy Carlisle sprang to attention to greet the visitor, complete with bulging eyes and irregular heartbeat. He wasn’t one for subtlety, especially when the fairer sex was in close proximity.

“Hey there Rita Mae, how you doing? Anything wrong with Mama Loas?”

“No Randy, I just dropped by to speak to Detective Litani over there, that’s all.”

“Oh, well, he ain’t doing nothing important so I guess you can go on in.”

“Thank you,” she said, “By the way, grandmama said she was gonna send me over to bring you some of that chili you like so much.”

A wide grin came across his face, and he lit up like a Christmas tree at the mere thought of being given anything by a woman he’d dreamed about banging for years. Of course, Rita Mason shouldn’t have felt special in this regard because Randy Carlisle had kept a mental list of all the women he’d fantasized about screwing since he was fifteen. Currently, there were three hundred and five names on the roster.

Once inside Detective Litani’s office Rita Mason closed the door behind her, sat down in the chair across from his desk, and crossed her legs.

“Nice to see you again, Miss. Mason.”

“It’s Ms.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I never get that right.”

“Oh that’s alright, I’m not one of those women who believes every word in the English language has to be refashioned to fit gender etiquette. I just like the sound of Ms. better. It sounds, dignified.”

“Do you worry about such a thing – not being seen as dignified?”

“I’m a black woman in a town that’s nearly ninety five percent white. Contrary to what you may think or have been told, we do not live in a post-racial society.”

“What’s on your mind Ms. Mason? Or did you just stop by to give me a political science lesson?”

She uncrossed her legs, and he could see that the crease in her pants leg was perfectly starched.

“You’ve been asking questions around town about Childress. You even upset my grandmama by the mere mention of his name.”

He could of asked her about her own family member’s connection to Patty Lowell but he’d save that discussion for some other time.

“Actually, she brought him up first,” he corrected, “Just to keep it all straight.”

“By all means let’s keep it all straight, Detective. Anyway, I think that you think he may have had something to do with that poor woman’s murder. You’ve no doubt heard about his proclivities for young blood, and I’m sure the townsfolk have provided you with many stories about Patty’s teenage years. It was a simple deduction to make. It’s what I do.”

“Right, you’re a psychologist. That’s what you do,” he said, with little conviction.

He ended up sounding a lot more hostile than he had intended. Perhaps it had something to do with his thoughts of Leilani lying in a hospital bed in Infinity City. Even more troublesome was the likelihood that the nefarious incident somehow related to the continuing murder saga back in Trinity’s Land End. Rita Mason was here to tell him something, and a voice deep inside told him it would be wise to listen.

“I’m sorry Ms. Mason, go ahead.”

She got up from her seat, and leaned against the chair.

“Maybe I should come back when you have more time?”

“No, please, sit down, you’re doing just fine. I’m just a bit preoccupied, that’s all. Sit down, please?”

Rita thought about it, and then pulled the chair halfway back.

“Whatever you do, it’s best you be careful when dealing with Childress. You see, he presents things to the outside world that may or may not be true. He’s like a chameleon in that way,” she continued, and sat back down.

“Okay, can you be more specific?”

“I thought I was,” she said. “Childress has a maniacal attention to detail. The man’s skilled at taking your weaknesses, and using them against you ”

“Now, would this be a bit of inside knowledge? Or is it just a general psychological overview of a certain type?”

She knew exactly what he was asking. It was only natural, considering the subject of conversation.

“Are you familiar with the way a vulture circles its prey? Let me put it to you this way – Childress has an unforgiving code of masculine behavior, and he likes to test the limits as often as he can. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

“I think I do. But Ms. Mason, I’m not looking for some kind of Alpha male battle. My only compulsion is to solve an open investigation. And right now the Childress name keeps popping up. It may be nothing, but one has to wonder about these things. And that’s what they pay me for, to wonder.”

She got up again.

“I just wanted to prepare you. Think of it as a professional courtesy. All you have to remember is you’re dealing with a man who essentially lies for a living. You may not be looking for a battle, but with Childress you’ll get one by default. And don’t expect much assistance from townsfolk here either. Many of these people have put their faith in Childress. They’re part of the misguided servants who see Childress as a patrician figure who’ll take care of them if they offer their unfettered loyalty,” she said, “Thank you for your hospitality. Oh, and before I forget, my grandmama would like to have you over for dinner sometime. She says you remind her of somebody she knew long ago,” “In a past life,” she added.

After Rita Mason had gone Deputy Carlisle came into Detective Litani’s office with a carton of cigarettes. It was one of the cartons from the several he’d brought into the station that day.

“Here, happy birthday”, he said.

He tossed the carton of cigarettes in Detective Litani’s direction.

“It’s not my birthday, and I don’t smoke,” said Detective Litani. “Where did you get these?”

He opened the carton and examined a box of Newport 100’s. The pack bore a Rhode Island tax stamp.

“I see, contraband,” said Detective Litani, “Well now, the state’s Department of Revenue really is going to love you.”

“Shit, seized fourteen cartons, hidden under a bush down by the Janus River. I ain’t fucking lying. All out-of-state, all illegal. Man, ‘been trying to get a fix on this operation for a while. Nobody knows how the shipments come in but the Janus River is one of the drop points. I got a call last week from my snitch, said to look for a new drop Founder’s Day, and sure enough . . .”

Detective Litani’s reaction was mixed. The thought of an illegal cigarette smuggling operation in one of Massachusetts beacons of small town living was both fascinating and perplexing.

“ Who’d be stupid enough to sell from their local store here?”

“All undercover, foreign boy. Down at the roadhouse at the end of town, Milo the barkeep has a whole fucking system of distribution to his customers. Shit, it’s like he thinks he’s some big time crack dealer or something, with his clucks on the lookout for buyers. Motherfucker’s never even been arrested, only his clucks, and they don’t say a word, just do the time to protect the operation. One time, Sheriff Daniel confiscated three cartons from Lizzie French’s nephew Luke’s trailer that came from South Carolina. South Carolina! Shit, they got the lowest tax on cigarettes in the nation. Our great state of Massachusetts stands to lose a shitload of dollars if South Carolina imports make it big her, goddammit.”

“I imagine the Sheriff’s Office is working with the state police on this.”

“Don’t even mention those freeloading shitbirds to me! Sheriff’s Office does all the leg work but those assholes get all the credit, and press. It ain’t fair. I talked to Sheriff Daniel this morning about it.”

“You did? How is he?”

“ Restless. Itching to get back to work. Says he’ll be in tomorrow. Anyway, I got the rest of the cartons locked away in the safe. They’re sending somebody from the division of taxation or something like that, to come over and pick’em up.”

“Add this carton to your contraband.”

Detective Litani shoved the opened box of Newport 100’s back into the carton, and returned the whole thing to Deputy Carlisle.

“Oh and Randy, you might want to consider the extra carton you took out for yourself.”

“Fuck you Litani, I called in fourteen cartons!”

“Well, how many did you really find?”

“Didn’t you hear me the first time? Fourteen cartons, alright?”

“Well, Randy, if you called in fourteen but leave these two out, they’re going to know you’re holding out. If it was your intention to be slick, you should’ have called in–”

“– Twelve! Aw shit, I screwed up.”

Randy Carlisle scratched his head and sighed, the way a less fortunate rascal would after realizing the inadequate implementation of his brilliant plan to walk away with a free carton of smokes, courtesy of the taxpayers.

“You can’t win’em all,” said Detective Litani.

“Yeah, yeah. Look here, foreign boy, what was that all about with Rita Mae Mason? She in some kind of trouble?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“What did she want with you, then?”

“ Oh nothing much, she just came down to tell me something.”

“Tell you what?”

“That Childress is the bogeyman. A Faustian mischief.”

A dumbfounded look came over Deputy Carlisle. He hated it when people said complicated things to him. He wasn’t good with irony or sarcasm, or any type of figurative analogy. He understood criminal lingo just fine, but language steeped in fancy literary metaphors drove him crazy. To make matters worse, he often appeared even more baffled than usual when attempting to decipher said language.

“What? She thinks he has some kind of powers or something? Mama Loas swears she’s got some. Calls herself some kind of hoodoo priestess. They say she put a curse on a man one time for calling her blackie.”

It’s often said that, “Ignorance can be cured but stupid is for life.” The more time Detective Litani spent in the presence of Deputy Carlisle, the more he was sure his less than mentally gifted colleague resembled that remark.

“No, I simply mean she thinks he’s bad news.”

“Well, I wouldn’t put much stock in rumors. He’s done a lot for this town. I know that. He’s always been here when we needed him. Last year he bought all new police cars with GPS and everything! And he’s the largest independent contributor to the policeman’s retirement fund. In a way he’s kind of like the town’s Santa Clause,” said Deputy Carlisle.

“You still believe in Santa Claus, Deputy Carlisle? Anyway, I’m sure he’s a powerful man. And I’m sure he’s got his share of enemies,” said Detective Litani, “You ever hear anything about him, and the murdered Lowell woman?”

“All I know is she used to work some kind of summer job for him at his corporate headquarters in Infinity City, back when she was a young girl. He runs these summer business programs for kids. You know, to try and teach the little fuckers business stuff. I don’t know why he would pick her though, everybody knew that girl only had one thing on her mind back then, and it didn’t have nothing to do with business.”

Rather than get into a tortured conversation with his colleague about Patty Lowell, he, instead patted Deputy Carlisle softly on the shoulder – the way you would a dog who’s just spent the last hour chasing his tail – and headed out the door.

“Where you off to, foreign boy?” asked Deputy Carlisle.

He didn’t bother to answer.

It was public knowledge that a Childress one night stand could last for days, weeks, or even months. He was nakedly and unashamedly self-promoting and required any woman he took to bed to fully understand she was at his mercy, to be called upon to do his bidding whenever he so desired. He saw it as a kind of contract between them in which the female party in question was expected to give up any preconceived notions of rights and feelings, and to submit wholeheartedly to the idea of furthering his interests in perpetuity wherever they may lie.

Rebecca Jamison was Childress’s most prized possession. A one-night stand that had lasted the span of twenty years. Since the age of seventeen she had been completely and utterly his in every way, and he had taken great pleasure all those years in debasing her at every turn. It had given him great pleasure then, and even more so now, to know that this very sensitive caretaker of the town’s orphanage had spent her entire life trying to please him for reasons only he was privy to.

Childress sat across from his concubine, his cold steel eyes devouring her. He wanted her to fully appreciate the fact that she was on display. They sat there in silence, his stare forbidding her to say anything before he was ready for her to speak. There was no room for negotiation, only subjugation. The strong and independent Rebecca Jamison that everyone in town thought they knew had been replaced by an obedient masterful creation of the town’s chief architect of misdirection.

“That feeling you’re feeling this instance my dear . . . it has a name, it’s called arousal. You could no more fight it then you could a charging locomotive. It owns you. I own you. Always have. Understand?”

“Yes,” said Rebecca.

That was all she said. She knew that he did not want her to say more. As she looked longingly into those eyes – those harsh soulless, empty eyes devoid of true human kindness – she felt disgusted. Inside she seethed with venom at the charges he hurled at her.

“That little scene in the diner on Founder’s Day, it was unbecoming. You would be wise to control your female emotions, unless I’m the orchestrator of them, of course. There’s absolutely no room in this arrangement for you improvising.”

“Yes,” she said, “But that young girl with you–?

“Not your concern,” he interrupted, and grabbed her by the arm from across the table. “On to more important matters. Did you accomplish your mission, my dear?”

“Yes,” she said again.

“So our policeman friend is completely, shall we say, turned on?”

“Yes, completely.”

“I have many plans for you, and your new toy.”

The Maitre-D returned with a bottle of Dom Perignon.

“Sir, the manager sends his gratitude for your presence at this establishment. He would like to offer you this bottle, as gratis. Have a terrific day, sir.”

“Thank you young man, I would, but I’ve made other plans.”

Four glasses later and Rebecca found herself back at one of Childress’s secret lair hideaways in Infinity City. There she hung handcuffed, in a leather harness that protruded from the wall, in front of a massive large scale mirror. Naked, her body lathered with peanut oil, she cringed slightly as the slippery leather strap between her legs seared into her flesh with each movement .

She closed her eyes, and tried to picture Detective Litani’s gentle face. In her mind he was still inside of her, and she was on the brink of exploding all over his cock. She turned her head to the side and breathed heavily in measured gasps as she felt her lower half repeatedly penetrated. Then she opened her eyes to the familiar shock of Childress on the other end. There was no mistaking the sheer malice in his face.

“Some people think, for some odd reason, that being in love is the only available emotion,” he said, “I’ve always found it a rather pedestrian assumption.”

“Yes,” she said, fighting tears.

“I’m glad you agree my dear,” he said, and extended his free hand to tug at her glistening breasts. “I have many emotional needs as you know, and love doesn’t even make my top ten.”

When he relieved himself inside of her, she too felt relieved that it was over and she could go home now, still knowing full well she’d crave his inhuman touch again sooner or later. She’d sought treatment before from a psychiatrist in Boston about her condition. The whole thing had lasted a week. The psychiatrist had referred to the kind of sex-and- human-misery relationship she shared with Childress as a form of Stockholm syndrome. Whatever it was, her best friend Patty Lowell had threatened to expose it to the entire town, before her brutal murder.

. . .THIS CONCLUDES CHAPTER 6: SOMETHING WICKED IN THE WIND  OF WELCOME TO TRINITY’S LAND END: TOWN OF MURDER & DECEIT. STAY TUNED FOR MORE CHAPTERS COMING YOUR WAY . . .

Welcome to Trinity’s Land End:Town of Murder & Deceit by
La-Tonia Denise Willis is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

for the griots of Bobo Dioulasso, Burkina Faso

and the sky was always blue,
jewel of unspent water
tugging me to your homeland:
worn pages of a guidebook,
liner notes on an album cover,
a gawky boy’s photo —
pondering, remote, painfully familiar —
your song lured me across oceans,
through three months of dysentery and bad gospel,
voodoo and drought,
wandering spirals unpeeling to a heart of sweet sorghum
revealed in a dream —

and through dry red streets
butterflies followed me in flocks
and the hour of fires called me to you –
gold ball sinking into red dust
and sprouting wing mirages
through dancing ladies,
origamied pink and purple turbans
in sunset on a parkbench,
an evening festival,
wind on wings of moped breath,
the endless rejoicing of bicycle bells
and the longing calls of beggar boys
and the final bliss of the end of a pilgrimage —
asleep under mosquito nets’ bridal silence
and the white sheets smelled so sweet!
and mornings — gay blue-painted dawn,
plastic-bagged yogurt, street-stall cafés,
light filigreeing through mango-tree cathedrals,
peanuts cracking the morning cool —
lime-green taxis sauntering in the shade
taking us homeward, a cracked green doorframe
where the sun always blinded me —

and in an instant I knew I was home,
more than I’ve ever been —
when children ran to greet me,
murmuring like possoms, alive,
small okra hands staining my shirts,
frantic — wielding crayons,
offering salad from open palms —
seizing love they never learned could be withheld —

and the towering gods of your mother and father
as they greeted us each dawn:
“bien dormi?”, a cup of tea —
black horses neighing white light,
riding Houet currents in dreams and music,
glowing trails of stars.
I followed their carved brown faces,
kissing the sparks on their tunic hems —

and you were their serious colt —
grown out of gawky precocity,
patriarch of princesses
speaking in watermelon tongues
of wet balafon syllables,
smiling deep sun grimace,
digging gold in a heart
I never even knew I had;
pulling strings of blown glass
from a harp of buried longing
too deep to excavate or recreate —

and you carved your hands in rock and leather
against the djembe’s grainy skull,
devil heartbeats, brother smirks,
reckless cigarettes dangling, play showoff murder,
all boys — never stop to talk,
coaxing women’s bottoms to dance,
and I danced — not thinking the night would end,
black air alive with flirting and flies,
tossed scarves and babies,
your rhythms calling tired children to sleep,
mats laid under full moons —

and through flowered chains of days we
played; braided together
in the women’s strong hands,
woven through giggling garlands
of ministering girls,
swept up in the evening cool with
drum head scraps, Maggi wrappers,
crayon peelings, cropped afro fluff —

and I counted each day as the mangoes dropped
one by one on the dusty soccer field,
never really thinking it would end —
each blue moment stretched taut on my ribcage,
uncured — a new drumhead of sky leather.
At night we formed a circle on the concrete,
dipping hands in one bowl.
“T’es invitée,” you’d smile;
“food tastes bad when you eat it alone.”

In the smoke of midnight my heart clutched you
as a baby clutches a finger —
memory rosaries budding my tongue.
The closer time slipped, the tighter the knot hitched
around me — each moment surreal, luminous:
the empty sound of taxis
and the last gas station open —
breathless coastings through streetlights
on moped backs — windswept dawn,
each night passing like falling stars
out of my hands, one by one.
A crossing in dreams,
where my origins blurred with the dawn —
goats crying outside the twins’ window,
my knuckles white on your shadow —

and the day I left:
pacing in the morning chill,
inhaling with all my nose,
knowing it would all be gone:
artifacts at the airport,
a cold croissant, loudspeakers,
the forgotten wince of toilet bowls,
strange shackles of shoes
hiding indelible red dust tattoos,
sudden winter, a cab ride home,
and no one to share my sauce with —

and the house so big,
the food so cold
without the brush of your fingers in my bowl —
hennaed fingers fading with each office hour
grey cell, flourescent light,
ticking clock,
black nailpolish.
Black nights of winter:
snow falling in my bones,
vacant traffic moans,
utterly void of goats, soulless.
A plastic fork, a takeout box —
my belly howled grief.
At night, I’d wake and wonder where I was —

and even now,
I can’t seem
to put this jewel away,
though I have no place for it here;
no chain or setting big enough
to contain so much blue heaven.
It cuts my hands, leaving
irridescent scars,
butterfly dust stains,
bleaches me silver.
I’ve travelled so far beyond tears,
embracing open holes
no frozen dinner will fill —

and for all I know,
the music still goes on,
and I know it goes on —
across the ocean, but also inside,
songs wound in knots thick as my fist
but music is patient,
wandering the cosmos
in endless perfect spirals,
scoping out hosts
even after we leave this life —
black colt ancestor,
blue smoke trail like a smile following you
into the blind heartbeat of the sun

into the next longing halo
of unborn souls —

for all I know, it goes on —
and I can’t help but follow,
butterfly riding your wake —
hunting my nectar in your comet trail,
pollinating flowers of our mother tongue.

© Sarah Noack 2002

_____________________________________________________

CHAPTER 5: FOUNDER’S DAY (P.2)

(READ Ch5, P.1 here)

Later that evening Detective Litani arrived at the Community Pavilion just as Mama Loas and her group were about to leave. He found the group tearing down the streamers, and packing away the remainder of the the pamphlets detailing the role Indians and blacks played in settling the territories along the Massachusetts Bay, until the next Founder’s Day. He picked up one leaflet that had blown to the ground. It was about the grave site of the first child born to the early colonists in Trinity’s Land End. The author of the leaflet claimed that the first birth was that of a mulatto child named Elsie. Elsie’s parents were purported to be a white blacksmith named Alden and a run-away slave named Mariah.

The centenarian caught him reading the flyer and welcomed him inside. He was met almost immediately with a plate of barbecue ribs and cold slaw. He wondered where he’d put it after his stint at Charlene’s Smack‘N Mack.

Mama Loas thought of herself as the critical voice of the town’s history. In addition to being the only living ex-slave in Trinity’s Land End, she was also the solitary official griot, or African storyteller, in all of New England who often held oral history lessons at her home. At present her family was the only black family in town. There had been others but the years had found them uprooting and moving closer to the city.

“Most people scared of me, how come you ain’t?”

“You don’t seem that scary to me. I’m from Baltimore and I’ve seen my share of really scary people Mama Loas and next to them you look like Snow White.”

“You don’t believe I got the power? The hoodoo? Like Tituba, the black witch of Salem?”

“No, now I’m not questioning your spiritualism or nothing like that but to be honest I don’t believe in that kind of stuff. I’m a man of logic.”

“You think logic alone gonna solve your case for you? I got news for you mister, there’s more in heaven and earth than we mortals dream of. I got that from Shakespeare,” she said, breaking into laughter, marveling at her own wit.

For a woman reported to be long over one hundred years old Mama Loas’ display of verve and rambunctiousness often took her opponents and admirers alike by surprise.

A curvaceous brown skinned woman wearing a Christian Lacroix dress and a pair of three inch heels interrupted and presented Mama Loas with a cup of water and two pills.

“This here’s my grand daughter Rita Mason. She helps me with the spoken word I give here at the Community Pavilion. Child likes to dress up in fine things nobody else in the family can afford but believe it or not, she’s also one of them head doctors.”

“The term is psychologist grandmama. I’m not a medical doctor. Please to meet you.”

He acknowledged the woman before turning his attention back to Mama Loas.

“Now what do you remember about Patty Lowell?”

Mama Loas swallowed her pills and took a long sip of water. She leaned back with one elbow on the picnic table. That’s when he saw the deep scar on her forearm. It went from the base of her arm all the way to her wrist.

“Pat Lowell’s mama was a Gypsy woman you know – part of them carnival shows that come to town. She used to sell potions and such and claim they had magic. I told her one day she won’t no conjure woman and them potions were fake. Still, the woman had to make a livin’. We all gotta make a livin’. Now I don’t grudge nobody that.”

“Mama Loas you seem to know a lot about people in this town, probably some things they wished you didn’t know as well. As I said before I’m not a superstitious person but I do believe in intuition and I’ve got this strange feeling that you know more than you’re telling me.”

“What you talkin’ ’bout? Pat Lowell didn’t have no special connection to me. Nobody knew who her father was or how he got her Gypsy mother to lay down with him. Word came down from the carnival the woman was pregnant. Baby came into the world premature, almost died too. Then one day came and something bad happened. I don’t know what but the rest of the Gypsies got that woman outta town quick. The best thing it was too ‘cause some white folks started harassin’ her pretty bad. Rebecca Jamison’s mama swept the child up and took her to the orphanage.”

“And that’s it? That’s the extent of your knowledge?”

“Ain’t that enough? Maybe if you find the white daddy who father’d her you’d be closer to the truth than I can get you.”

She held her arm out for him to get a better look at the scar.

“This thing here. I got it from a fire some years ago. Lloyd McNally’s fireman’s son Skip rescued me. The McNallys used to run the fire house before Lloyd got tangled up with Childress and made all that money. Sometimes I wonder.”

“About what?”

“Whether people are born bad or they just pick it up from being around other bad eggs. ”

“Nature vs. nurture,” he concluded, “It keeps the analysts guessing, but speaking of Childress, what’s your say on the subject?”

“I don’t care to speak on it, that’s what.”

“But you’re the one who brought him up, and his association with Lloyd McNally. Don’t go soft on me now Mama Loas, it wouldn’t be right.”

“I’m just a poor old woman tryin’ to get by on her last days. People in this town don’t care what I think no way but I’m gonna keep on thinking it.”

It wasn’t exactly an answer to his question, in fact, it could be said that it was more of a general foreshadowing of a question that had yet to be asked.

A dark skinned man with a slim build in either his late twenties or early thirties interrupted, and brought Mama Loas some pills and a glass of water.

“This here’s my grand baby. He’s down from Boston. Smart as a whip, got himself into a fine law school, tell him baby.”

“Granny’s right. However, the only thing she forgot is all the loan payments that are going to haunt me until my death after I get out of that fine law school.”

Detective Litani extended his hand, “I’m Detective Ray Litani and you are?”

“Please to meet you. I’m Byron Tyson.”

“Hello Mr. Tyson, I was just talking to Mama Loas about Patty Lowell. She was murdered a couple of days ago. Did you know her?”

The young man hesitated, looked over at Mama Loas, and then back at Detective Litani in a manner that seemed to indicate the nature of the question he was being asked carried with it an uncomfortable complexity.

“I used to spend summers here when I was a teenager. Pat was a couple of years older than me,” he said.

When the two men shook hands it was pure serendipity. He felt it, and the way Mama Loas’s smile slowly disappeared the longer he held on to her grandson’s hand meant that on some level she knew it too. Byron Tyson had referred to Patty Lowell as “Pat”, a more mature reference that perhaps belied a more mature connection between the two at one time.

If Tina Sycamore was to be believed concerning a missing diary and its contents, he figured he’d just found the mysterious B.T. of the item’s claim to fame.

Detective Litani found Rebecca Jamison waiting on his doorstep when he returned home that night. He was more than glad to see her. Their rather impromptu meeting at Charlene’s Smack n’ Mack had remained with him throughout the day.

Katarina had once told him that marriage had nothing to do with whether two people were supposed to be together or not. She believed that humans craved intimate relations devoid of formal institutions. He wondered if Rebecca Jamison had ever entertained the thought of marriage. In all her years as a provider of care to parentless children could she quite possibly long for the day to come around when someone was there to take care of her as well?

Rebecca smiled and threw her arms around him. Against the small of his back he could feel the mysterious box she held poking at him. They retreated to the kitchen. He offered to make her a sandwich but she assured him she wasn’t hungry or thirsty.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this but since the diner, I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind.”

“What did I do to deserve that?

“Well, for starters, you’re the one person who actually gives a damn about what happened to Patty and I want to do everything in my power to help you catch her killer. That’s why I brought this gift to you.”

It was a medium-sized red, custom-made ornamental box with fancy

lace embroidery. The beautiful cloth exterior had suffered somewhat from wear and tear through the years, but it still bore a remarkable testament to its original worth. A tear crept down the side of her face and she turned away in embarrassment. He guided her face back in his direction and kissed her gently on the lips from across the kitchen table. She sniffled and cleared her throat.

“I wanted to give it to her the day she reappeared in town but she wouldn’t give me the time of day. I was devastated. Why didn’t she want to confide in me, like when we were growing up? That’s what I kept asking myself?

She paused, waiting for him to jump in but he didn’t know what to say.

“I don’t hate her for it though. I could never hate her. We shared so much together. Out of all the other kids my mother raised here at the orphanage, she was like the sister I never never had.”

“I think Patty may have had demons even you wouldn’t have understood.”

It was his most astute offering.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right. One thing I have to ask though, who’s paying for this private autopsy you’ve arranged? I mean, as a member of Patty’s extended family I am in favor of it but you never asked me anything about fees. These things don’t pay for themselves. I’ve saved up some money just for the expense.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it, it’s all covered.”

“But how, where’s the money coming from?”

“It’s coming from the County, a judgment was issued and everything. Special circumstances.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. They sent me down here to work on special cases. So, I figure the bosses can foot the bill for my special case’s special independent autopsy,” he joked.

“’Big city policeman lands job in small town. Big city policeman stumbles on to murder mystery.’” “Yep,” she said, “I can see the headlines now.”

She gave him the box.

“Inside you’ll find some of Patty’s trinkets and stuff. It might help you to get to know her better. I used to see her putting things inside. I’ve never even opened it believe it or not. It was all that was left behind when she ran away, and I kept it all those years.”

He moved the ornamental box aside, and got up from the table. He pulled Rebecca up into his arms. She felt good, and he had every intention to keep her there.

“Are you going to finally tell me what Childress said to you at the diner?”

“Ray, I realize I shouldn’t have gotten so angry with him and exploded like that but sometimes–” she stopped, “Anyway, look, I don’t want to discuss that now, okay?”

He couldn’t stop now.

“Listen Rebecca, was Patty ever involved in an intimate relationship with Childress?”

She looked at him with fire in her eyes, “ Teenage girls don’t have intimate relationships with men more than twice their age. They have mistakes with these men. Mistakes in which they are taken advantage of.”

She moved away from him but he pulled her back. And then he grabbed her hand, and kissed it gently. He couldn’t give a name to what was happening between them. The only thing he knew is that he wanted it to happen, and he wished like hell that she did too.

“You looked lovely in that white dress today. Like a goddess.”

“Really?” she asked. “Which Goddess?”

“Take your pick,” he said.

She was silent for a moment. He could tell that she was a little apprehensive about the possibility of events that might follow.

“I heard about poor Victor Salley. Drowned,” she said emphatically and shook her head. “We’re not used to this kind of back to back mayhem in this town.”

“It hasn’t been officially ruled as a drowning. An autopsy is scheduled.”

“Wait? An autopsy? Wasn’t he Jewish?”

“It’s a long story but I”m in the process of arrangements between the medical examiner’s office and Victor’s sister, Mrs. Peabody. A rabbi’s involved, and that’s really all I can say about it. I’m more concerned about his missing wife, Gretchen. A woman stays with a husband who is a drunk her whole life and all of a sudden leaves now, after her problem has been taken care of, so to speak.”

“You find it suspicious? You think maybe she’s the one who took care of the problem?”

“I don’t know,really. Nobody knows anything. It’s been said that small towns like these carry huge burdens.”

He couldn’t tell her about Victor Salley’s last phone call to him and the startling message about “the Hawaiian” that had eventually led him to Infinity City. He definitely couldn’t tell her about the peculiar and ambiguous “killer for hire” establishment masquerading as a Denny’s Restaurant. He absolutely could not tell anyone, not even the Sheriff about these bizarre connections, until he’d figured out what it all meant in relation to Patty Lowell’s murder.

“Small towns? You mean in the way of secrets and lies?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s what I do mean. Trinity’s Land End spent years and years cultivating its image as a typical American small town with a wholesome appeal. Yet, I have this gut feeling there’s a layer of rot just inching its way towards the surface, and every time someone tries to cover it up, the stench, it just magnifies.”

It was a symbolic speech and partially pompous but he had never been one to shy away from controversy. Yet, In this case, his intended audience seemed a million miles away.

“So, what do you think?”

“Ray, it might surprise you to know but I love this town. The Lizzie Frenches of the world aside, I still love this town. My folks loved it enough to make their home here. That stench you talk about. It scares me. It scares me for so many reasons I can’t even begin to explain,” she said.

This time she was able to break away from his grip. With her back to him, she held her head down. She had no intention of crying, she just needed a moment to herself.

Detective Litani tried not to view the moment as an impasse. He liked Rebecca Jamison, a lot. From the moment he’d met her he knew that he’d felt a spark. Still, deep down he found himself questioning his motives. Did his interest in her have to do with the fact that he was by himself amidst uncomfortable surroundings? Would it be morally wrong for him to pursue a woman who adored the town he secretly despised?

“Did your parents like it here?”

She was putting him on the spot, and she knew it.

“My mother, until the day she died, could never get this place out of her system. That’s what brought me back here in the first place. She’s buried in the cemetery up on Oak Ridge road.”

Rebecca then turned around to face him squarely, jaw to jaw.

“It’s what brought you here but not what’s keeping you.”

“Are you asking me, or telling me”, he said

He didn’t want to say anything else. He simply wanted to feel something. He placed his hands around Rebecca’s waist, and laid a passionate kiss on her that had all the signs of wanting more.

She seemed startled.

“What’s wrong? Am I moving too fast?”

“It’s just that, well, it’s been a long time, Ray. Two years to be exact, since I’ve been, you know, intimate with a man.”

“Oh, I see. Well, if it makes you feel any better, nothing’s changed. It’s still done the same way you remember it, even after two long years.”

Just then something happened. He didn’t know how it happened so quickly but before he’d realized it, apparently the formal request had already been issued.

“What did you say?” she asked.

He didn’t actually remember saying anything.

“I’m sorry, what?”
“Well, Mr. Detective Raymond Litani, it sounded like you asked me to stay the night.”

A big golf ball like that hanging out there could either break or make a man. He was hoping like crazy for the latter. He swallowed, and gazed into her eyes. What if she told him to go to hell?

“Hell yes, I was thinking it but I don’t quite remember saying it,” he replied, “ I feel like an idiot but I can’t deny that I want it very much. For you to stay that is.”

Without saying a word she kissed, but just when he was about to unbutton her blouse she pulled away, again.

“What’s the matter, now?”

”I can’t. I have to get back to the kids. I left Mandy in charge and she has some strange ideas about being an authority figure.”

“No, what’s really the matter?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He grabbed her again, and kissed her hard. The next thing she knew she was being lifted in his arms, and escorted to the bedroom.

He put her down gently on the bed and got on top of her. Her body was warm and soft, and she smelled good. It was a triple threat.

“They’re trying to take my land and the orphanage.”

“They?”

“The zealots who run this town. Those sanctimonious clowns want to get rid of the kids and me. They’re trying to force the mortgage company to foreclose on the property. Mr. McNally was a business partner of Childress. We named the orphanage after him when he sold the land to my mother but Childress has always wanted that land back in his possession. They’re spreading vicious lies at the town meetings about the orphanage being a haven for child criminals.”

He opened her blouse and ran his tongue along her cleavage. She cooed underneath him.

“That tickles,” she said. “Do you think I should try and get a hold of Lloyd McNally? I need somebody in my corner. Maybe he could plead with Childress to stop the smear campaign?”

“I bet Lizzie French is involved,” he said, and bit her gently on the neck.

“Ooh Ray, that feels so good. So good . . .”

He unzipped her blue jeans and guided them, and her panties off her body. When he bent down to kiss her between her legs she shivered.

“Yes, right there,” she whispered.

He enjoyed this part. It was his specialty. He had known some men, some liars who pretended it was something they had no use for or that somehow it wasted time as a precursor to the penultimate act. He knew this to be bullshit and usually just an excuse for a sloppy lover to get his way. Besides, how could you ask to receive if you refused to give?

“That’s really good,” she said, and pushed his face in deeper.

“You like?” he flirted, briefly coming up for air.

She responded by wrapping her legs firmly around his head and writhing with pleasure. His tongue continued to lash out exploring all of her woman-ness.

“You do have, er . . ., some protection, right?” she asked rather shyly.

“Of course,” he said, “You’re in good hands.”

Later on he took her hand and placed it on the growing bulge in his pants. No doubt about it, his cock was ready.

“Ray, if I lose the orphanage I don’t know what I’ll do. It would be an insult to my mother’s memory.”

“Not going to happen, just relax.”

“But if I do–”

Later, when they were completely naked, he pushed her legs as far back against the bed board as they would go, and bent down to plant her face with kisses.

“I could look into it, find out the details.”

“You’d do that for me?”

He began to lavish her nipples with praise. They soon came to immediate attention under the heat of his hungry mouth. He sucked long and hard on each one while she tried to maintain the spread-eagled, bent upwards position that tested her flexibility to the maximum. Oh what interesting lives gymnasts must have in the sexual department, she thought. At least they’re better prepared, with excellent bodies conditioned for distorting in ways civilians can only dream of.

He saw that she was having some trouble and relaxed the pressure on her legs just enough to make her breath a sigh of relief.

“Too much?” he asked.

“For Nadia Comăneci, no. For me, however . . .”

He smiled. He admired wit in a woman. He reached down below to caress her clitoris. This little joy button, often imbued with a mystique beyond male or female comprehension, began to swell and retract under his constant stimulation.

Rebecca closed her eyes and imagined they were on a beach, like the one in From Here to Eternity, nestled in each other’s arms, blissfully atop one another. She, his Deborah Kerr and he, her Burt Lancaster. Of course the scene unfolding now was the more explicit version of the novel and not the censored film, with all insinuations and frankness in tact.

When he entered her she opened her eyes to see the look on his face. It was his expression that interested her. For a moment he dropped his head to her chest, and she cuddled him as he pushed ferociously into her.

His breathing came in short gasps of delight and escalated as he penetrated her deeper, stretching her tight caverns further, opening her up with each measured down stroke.

Two years without so much as a kiss, and now Rebecca Jamison was receiving, quite possibly the screwing that broke the camel’s back. What would he think of her when she told him about her and Childress? Would he call her the same awful name Patty had when she’d found out? She didn’t want to think about that now. For the first time in a long time she felt worthy of receiving another man’s touch.

He continued to fondle her clitoris while his rhythmic thrusts grew faster. She felt herself coming into orgasm, and reached below to join the patrol of his more than competent fingers.

When she came it was like the weight of the world being lifted from her shoulders, allowing her to feel pure satisfaction, if only for a brief moment in time.

His hot lips lay gently on her hers before parting halfway as if to consume the energy she’d just released from within. She thrust her tongue down his throat but he captured it in his teeth and held it there, meticulously slowing down her motions. When he was ready his tongue playfully slurped away at the sides of her mouth, and then pushed softly inside. This one single action drove her wild, and made her wetter than she’d even been before they’d made love. But it wasn’t over yet, thankfully, he’d held off reaching his plateau and had concentrated on bringing her on.

Just then he withdrew himself from her and knelt backwards. She watched with undivided attention as he stroked himself. She waited with anticipation of the next venture.

He placed her right leg down and sandwiched himself in the middle. He then anchored her left leg against his chest, grabbed her ankle, and arched himself into position. This time when he entered her she felt his penis against her cervix, and let out a scream.

“Ray, it was me and Childress”, she confessed, “I was seventeen when it happened,” she murmured, and flung her head to the side.

Outside Tina Sycamore watched with a burgeoning animosity as the lights went out in the Litani bedroom, and then quickly rode off on her ten-speed.

As the town of Trinity’s Land End settled in to relieve itself of the day’s exhaustion, it did so with a sense of pride and accomplishment of having extended the life of one of its most cherished rituals: Founder’s Day. With the last of the fireworks display having just wrapped over at the Junction, most of the crowds had, by now, slowly dissipated. There were those who had plans for private after hour celebrations, and then there were those who simply wanted to power down and fade away nestled comfortably in their beds. In any event, the Town’s Square, among other venues, soon returned to its original pre-festivities tabula rasa slate.

Barring any major celebrations like the one just passed, most nights in Trinity’s Land End were met with a loud yawn and an even fiercer sigh. In reality, the town had failed to live up to its would-be notion of a boomtown that had been fostered by some long ago. Still, no one could have foretold the events that were about to come; events that had been originally developed in the basement of a bank teller’s home, just five days ago in New York City.

It happened around 3:00 am, and as one of the old timer’s from the swap meet was fond of saying, “Nothing good ever happens at 3:00 a.m.” A helicopter landed in the fields near old man Naylor’s grounds – surprisingly near the yellow-taped off area where Patty Lowell’s body had been discovered at the beginning of the week. Immediately afterwards, four armed men dressed in all-black ninja styled attire, with backpacks, catapulted out and nodded an “affirmative action” to the pilot left behind.

Soon after, a military style Humvee approached like clockwork, barreling through the cornfields en route to its landed party . One of the men, a much bulkier character steered two of his team members towards the approaching vehicle, while the other remained closest to the helicopter.

The commando team was then ushered stealth-like, through the barren town streets until they reached the medical examiner’s building. Using a set of pick tools the group successfully broke through the fifteen year old lock with ease. Once inside, with little chaos among the squad, two of the men made their way to the morgue on the bottom floor, and went about quickly extracting the body of Patty Lowell and Victor Salley, while the other two remained in the hallway on lookout.

Not a word was spoken by either of the morgue “rescue team”, as the bodies were lifted from the cooler trays of the morgue’s, and hauled into the lobby where they were fitted for two burlap sacks. Retreating back into the morgue, they quickly grabbed a couple of containers in the refrigerators that were filled with specimen samples. Amongst them, was Patty Lowell’s severed finger in an iodine solution, and a test tube of liquid blue-green algae excrement deposits.

Overall, it seemed that everything was on schedule, and that the mission would be accomplished with little to no effort. That was until one of Dr. Westminster’s attendants, Roddy Sandpipe, having just ejaculated all over Luanne Reeve’s breasts, following their shared secret fuck for the umpteenth time in the janitor’s closet, descended the stairs and was given the shock of his twenty-three year old life.

When the two armed men on lookout noticed the lanky, freckle-faced, red-haired former track star staring back at them immobilized, they knew they’d won half the battle already.

“Shit, oh shit,” said Roddy. He could feel his nerves weakening “Look, I don’t know what’s happening here, but – look, I promise not to get in your way,” alright?”

He held up his hands in surrender; his mind’s thoughts reflecting on Luanne back in the janitor’s closet, post-fellatio. He hoped liked hell she wouldn’t find his disappearance in search of beer too long a wait, and venture out to find him. Being married to a man who constantly used her as a punching bag was bad enough, but walking into the middle of an armed robbery was surely the last thing on earth anyone ever imagined experiencing.

“Please, don’t hurt me,” said Roddy softly. Don’t let them find Luanne, said the voice in his head.

The other two armed men exited the morgue stuffing the refrigerated samples in a small cooler container retrieved from one of the backpacks. They took one look at Roddy under armed detention by their colleagues, and began to laugh uproariously under their ninja masks. Thus, abandoning their previous code of silence.

Make them be quiet, reiterated the voice in Roddy Sandpipes’s head. Don’t let them discover Luanne!

No doubt bout it, Roddy Sandpipe was scared to death of the mere thought that at any moment, he could be wallowing in his own blood, and that something worse could be waiting for Luanne if either of these men were to get their hands on her.

As the laughter subsided, one of the men approached him. Before he knew it, the hard barrel of the assault weapon had caught him across the face and side of the head. The mere magnitude of the force sent Roddy’s very nubile and athletic body hurling to the floor. One thing for sure, he could be no help now as a buffer between his mistress upstairs, and the assailants should they decided to pursue a full sweep of the place.

Sure enough, one of them motioned for the other to go upstairs and check things out. As Roddy slid in and out of consciousness from the attack, he could feel the motion of the remaining three men parading around him in steel toe combat boots. Ninjas with combat boots, he thought. He wanted so much to laugh but the shards of pain ripping through his head and neck, and the left side of his body where the weapon had lain into him, were incongruent with anything light-hearted.

Upstairs Luanne Reeves went about the task of using some of the industrial cleaning agents used by the janitor to mask the smell of death in the morgue, to cleanse the semen stains from her bare chest. She harbored no concern about the idea of these skin irritants coming into contact with her body. Quite frankly, she needed something strong to wash away any trace of her tryst with Roddy by the time she got home. Her husband had been prone to smelling her in the past, and the last thing she needed was to get on his bad side. It was quite the task to de-spunk herself, especially since Roddy Sandpipe’s deposits had been growing thicker and in more abundance, with each episode. She hadn’t let him fuck her tonight because she hadn’t the time to spare.

She’d left that so-called man of hers passed out in a drunken stupor, face down on the couch. He’d been throwing whiskey shots back all day at the Founder’s Day celebration, and by the time he had arrived home, he could barely stand up straight or tie his boot laces. She’d crushed about seven or ten sleeping pills into a thin powder,cut it with Nyquil capsules, and had mixed the resulting paste in the bottle of Jack Daniels he always kept under the kitchen sink, for special occasions. It had occurred to her many times that one day she might accidentally kill the bastard this way, instead of on purpose like she should. But, he always woke up from each random dosing meaner than ever.

The janitor’s closet might have been the least likely spot to convene for a romantic get-away, but it was just right for a late night booty call.

The six foot tall man armed with an AK-47 assault rifle peered through the locked room door’s half-window into Dr. Westminster’s office. Luanne had just finished putting her blouse on and had pushed the janitor’s door open to enter the hallway. That’s when she saw him. He’d moved on to the toxicology lab to canvas the area further. Rattling the doorknobs at each post, he pressed his face against the window pane, trying to get the best look into the room from the outside. Not completely satisfied, he took out a small black square case that resembled the “works” a heroin addict might use. By this time Luanne had recoiled in dread at the sighting of the mysterious ninja-clad criminal, and pulled the janitor’s door shut as silently as she could. However, on second thought, she figured it might be helpful to observe him as best as she could for identification purposes later. So, with great fear but a need to know, she cracked the janitor’s door slightly ajar to witness the armed man use some kind of mechanical pick to open up the toxicology lab.

“Oh my God, Roddy,” she whispered under her breath. Was he dead? Had he been killed by this man? Or could there be more? Unfortunately, she couldn’t hear any traces of movement downstairs.

Her heart skipped several beats. She pulled the door in tight this time and turned the door latch to secure the lock. The janitor’s closet was the only room in the building that didn’t have a see-through half-shell window pane.

The armed man continued to move steadily down the hallway until he’d reached the janitor’s closet door. Inside, Luanne had taken up a crouching position in the back corner of the room.

The rattle of the doorknob nearly sent her leaping forward into hysteria but she was able to remain calm.

Her mind began to wander. “This kind of thing is not supposed to happen in this kind of town. Trinity’s Land End isn’t some crime-ridden big city where masked gunmen broke into medical labs dressed in ninja costumes, leaving a trail of bodies and tears behind. This isn’t Boston, for Christ sakes, or New York City, or anyone of those kinds of places.”

To say that her life flashed before her is both a cliché and a reality, that captured the terrifying moment perfectly. She hoped Roddy wasn’t the next corpse to fill the morgue he tended. What would people say?

All she knew was it was not her time to die. She firmly believed this. She’d taken some of the worst beatings in her life at the hands of her brutish caveman of a husband and had managed to survive them all. She refused to give either of the bastards – crazy spouse or nutjob with an assault weapon – the satisfaction of parading over her cold, dead body in glee.

On that note, she grabbed a container of liquid in a spray bottle on the bottom shelf nearby and turned out the lights. The smell was immediately identifiable as ammonia. As weapons go, she would have to wager her bottle of this cleaning agent against the tall man on the other side of the door carrying a really big gun, should it come to that.

She sprung up in fighting position, waiting for the inevitable moment in which the armed ninja picked the lock to the janitor’s closet, and let himself inside. Suddenly, she heard a whistle from down the hall, just as her would-be attacker slipped the tools of his trade into the door lock and began the prying process.

And then the motion of the lock picking stopped, and the closet door opened slightly. She could see the black gloves on the handle. The whistle came again, this time much louder. And this time its beckoning got the attention of the tall man, and he released the door just as Luanne was about to pounce forward with ammonia spray bottle a-blazing.

After waiting a good twenty minutes or so, she sprinted from the janitor’s closet down the stairs to find her lover spread haplessly across the floor.

“Damn!”, she screamed. And when that wasn’t enough, let out a choral secession of extra expletives to release the anger and devastation growing inside her.

As she bent down to cradle Roddy Sandpipe’s head in her arms, a slight murmur pursed his lips, and his arms flailed upwards towards her.

“Roddy, baby, you alright?” she asked, not wanting to concentrate on the pool of blood emanating from a wound at the back of his head.

“F-F-F-,” he sputtered.

“I’ll go get help, honey, Just hold on. Hold on baby.”

“Phone,” he said clearly. “ . . . back pocket.”

On his orders she pulled out the little silver flip phone in his back pants pocket.

I’ll tell them all what happened. “Listen,” I’ll say, “it was at least two of them, and the one I saw was dressed in a ninja suit like some cartoon character.” That’s what I’ll say, me, Luanne Reeves, said the alternate voice of her subconscious self.

“Send somebody, quick! A man’s been hurt! At the ME building, 666 Congressional Ave in Trinity’s Land End. Please, HURRY!”

She held Roddy’s hand in hers as she waited for the 911 operator to provide further instructions.

“What, huh?” she asked, “My name?”

Tell them! The voice in her under-mind kept nudging away at her. Tell them, you coward! Forget that meatball husband of yours, and tell them what you know for the sake of the man you love.

“My name?” she repeated the question, stalling for time, “Uhm, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not say”, she faltered, “Just come quick before he dies!”

She hung up the phone and kissed Roddy gently on the lips. For the first time in her life, Luanne Reeves felt truly ashamed.

. . .THIS CONCLUDES CHAPTER 5, P. 2  OF WELCOME TO TRINITY’S LAND END: TOWN OF MURDER & DECEIT. STAY TUNED FOR MORE CHAPTERS COMING YOUR WAY . . .

Welcome to Trinity’s Land End:Town of Murder & Deceit by
La-Tonia Denise Willis is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

Genesis. (2004).Genesis.

FICHA TÉCNICO-ARTÍSTICA

Género: Documental
Nacionalidad: Francia / Italia
Director: Claude Nuridsany; Marie Pérennou
Actores: Sotigui Kouyaté
Productor: Christine Gozlan
Guión: Claude Nuridsany; Marie Pérennou
Fotografía: Patrice Aubertel; William Lubtchansky
Claude Nuridsany; Marie Pérennou; Cyril Tricot
Música: Bruno Coulais
Calificación moral: No recom. menores de 7 años
Duración: 81 minutos.                                                     Filmaffinity: 253 votos. Puntuación: 6,7/ 10

SINOPSIS:
Mezclando humor y seriedad, inocencia y sabiduría, un ”griot” africano (especie de trobador/cuentacuentos) utiliza el lenguaje evocador del mito y la fábula para relatar el nacimiento del universo y las estrellas, los ardientes comienzos de nuestro planeta y la aparición de la vida en la tierra; pero se trata de una historia real, de nuestra historia. Nos habla del tiempo, la materia, el nacimiento, el amor y la muerte. Los animales son los protagonistas de este Génesis extravagante, moderno e intemporal. Tras seis años de elaboración, he aquí el segundo opus de los creadores de Microcosmos.

La conférence tenue à Jérusalem du 24 au 27 avril 1972, sur l’Afrique noire et la Bible témoigne à quel point les rapports du “livre des livres, livre des hommes, livre de Dieu”[1] avec les Africains constituent un réel intérêt pour les théologiens, biblistes et responsables de communautés chrétiennes. Parmi les 21 communications sur le sujet il ressort que l’Afrique est non seulement présente dans la Bible,[2] mais que sa culture a des analogies avec celle des peuples des temps bibliques. L’intervention de Révérend Père Isidore de SOUZA est particulièrement éclairante pour le sujet qui est l’objet du présent article. Celui-ci a démontré en quoi, la Bible, sans s’identifier à la culture africaine, présente bien des analogies avec elle. La première analogie qu’il relève est la place de la tradition orale. Pour lui, malgré son caractère écrit, la Bible aurait ses origines dans l’oralité[3]. Longtemps elle a été lue et comprise à travers des principes liés à son caractère écrit; le temps ne serait-il pas venu d’explorer davantage sa dimension orale, en se laissant instruire par les sociétés à tradition orale? Je me propose d’aborder cette question en quatre points.

1.     La Bible comme espace de rencontre autour de la parole

« Existe-t-il un point d’ancrage entre l’Afrique noire et la Bible? »[4] Paulin POUCOUTA traite de cette question en partant d’une lecture de la rencontre entre l’Éthiopien et Philippe dans les Actes des apôtres (8, 26-40). Il met en exergue plusieurs aspects de cette rencontre pour souligner que même si la Bible semble être une étrangère en terre africaine, elle constitue un espace d’interpellation qui déroute, et qui met en route. L’expérience de l’Éthiopien avec Philippe est placée sous le signe de la rencontre vécue à travers la communication et le partage de l’évangile, le tout couronné par l’eucharistie. Cette rencontre est aussi comprise comme un “paradigme des retrouvailles entre peuples” (p115), puisque la communication qui s’y déploie est l’opposé de l’expérience de Babel et se traduit comme la pentecôte africaine.

L’ouvrage présente la Bible comme une grille de lecture de la situation africaine dans un esprit qui s’élève au-dessus de tout afro-pessimisme. Le thème de la rencontre qui est le fil conducteur de sa réflexion lui a permis de dégager des applications fondées sur le texte biblique en rapport avec les réalités existentielles de l’Africain. Sa lecture prend en compte les communications présentées à la conférence tenue à Jérusalem du 24 au 27 avril 1972, sur l’Afrique noire et la Bible. Avec P. POUCOUTA nous avons une lecture ancrée dans une tradition exégétique qui se veut critique, seulement son rapport à la tradition de l’oralité demeure parcellaire. La communication du Révérend Père I. de SOUZA qu’il cite, nous y introduit un peu plus et définit des éléments caractéristiques des sociétés à tradition orale. Tout en précisant que la Bible n’est pas tombée du ciel, il soutient que le processus de sa genèse s’inscrit dans une civilisation de la parole. (p.83) D’une part, les termes comme “ainsi parle YHWH”, “parole de YHWH”, “oracle de YHWH”, visent la parole. D’autre part, les genres littéraires qui s’y découvrent : la narration, les écrits sapientiaux et la poésie démontrent la centralité de l’acte de parler. Les propos du Père SOUZA sur la centralité de la parole rejoint l’exorde de la lettre aux Hébreux?

« Après avoir, à bien des reprises et de bien manières, parlé autrefois aux pères dans les prophètes, Dieu en la période finale où nous sommes, nous a parlé à nous en un Fils qu’il a établi héritier de tout, par qui aussi il a crée les mondes[5]. »

Cet exorde met en évidence les dimensions clefs du processus ayant conduit à la naissance de la Bible. Celles-ci touchent la dimension divine, la dimension humaine, et la dimension langagière qui constitue le lieu de rencontre des deux premières. Ces composantes affichent un cadre de communication dans lequel des personnes sont engagées dans l’acte de parler. Les théologies chrétiennes se sont particulièrement intéressées à ces différentes dimensions à travers diverses approches pour articuler les doctrines sur la Bible, parole de Dieu et parole humaine. Sa place et les modalités qui caractérisent sa production, sa transmission et sa réception sont largement abordées dans les documents officiels des églises[6] et dans divers ouvrages. Mais la particularité de l’exorde de la lettre aux Hébreux, est cette mise en valeur de l’acte de parler, qui caractérise la base du processus qui a conduit à sa naissance[7]. (cf. schéma)

Ce schéma qui illustre l’exorde, montre trois dimensions qui interagissent à travers l’acte de parler. La première touche la dimension divine et les deux autres la dimension humaine comprenant “les pères” et “nous”. Celles-ci communiquent entre elles à travers les prophètes, le Fils, et les serviteurs de la parole. Certes, ce dernier indicateur ne ressort pas explicitement de l’exorde, mais s’impose à cause de l’écrit lui-même, qui porte les traces d’un auteur humain. Ces serviteurs de la parole peuvent être les apôtres, leurs disciples ou tout autre hagiographe. L’acte de parler qui se trouve au centre des rapports se présente comme une des “tâches maîtresses de l’homme” (Georges GUSDORF, p. 37) et se révèle comme un indicateur qui permet de cerner sociologiquement l’expérience chrétienne des rapports entre le divin et l’humain. Il est ici question de communication, de relations vécues entre les prophètes et Dieu, le Fils et Dieu et les serviteurs de la parole et les hommes (“pères”, “nous”). Ces différents relais sont des “intermédiaires parlants” entre Dieu et leurs semblables. La Bible se donne ainsi comme une résultante des relations entre Dieu et ces relais et entre ces derniers et le monde qui les entoure; ainsi, ces relais parlent aux autres parce que l’Autre a parlé. Dès lors, il se construit un espace constitué d’interactions dont la sommité gravite autour de la personne du Fils, le Verbe incarné, qui est événement et interpellation à un rendez-vous. L’encrage de la Bible dans la parole rejoint la société africaine dans laquelle la parole, instrument des sociétés à tradition orale, occupe un rôle et une place de choix.[8].

2.     L’oralité dans la société traditionnelle africaine

D’après le Père SOUZA, l’utilisation de la parole dans la société traditionnelle en Afrique, repose sur deux organes, la bouche et les oreilles, et sur une faculté, la mémoire[9]; j’ajouterai une interaction. Le corps est tout à fait engagé dans la communication orale. L’émetteur dispose de plusieurs procédés pour que son message soit compris. Il communique par l’expression corporelle, ce qui humanise le message car communiquer c’est s’engager, c’est se dévoiler, c’est entrer en relation avec l’autre. Les gestes, l’intonation et les variations de la voix aident l’émetteur traditionnel à tenir son public en haleine. Les figures de style tel que la répétition, l’hyperbole sont au tant de techniques pour fixer le message dans la mémoire.

Si tous sont engagés dans l’acte de parler, en Afrique traditionnelle il existe des personnes spécialement douées à la communication. Ce sont les griots en tête de liste, les chantres traditionnels, les conteurs et les hérauts. Les griots sont des personnes issues d’une même famille ou d’un même clan. En principe, le griotisme traditionnel en Afrique est héréditaire et se transmet de père en fils. Le rôle des griots est de conserver les mémoires des familles nobles. Eux seuls ont le pouvoir de réciter les généalogies ponctuées de commentaires ou de donner des informations sur une famille noble. Ils sont de véritables archives, des maîtres dans la communication. Ils sont souvent accompagnés d’instruments de musique. Les musiciens traditionnels ou les chantres sont aussi des émetteurs qui savent provoquer les réactions du public. Leurs messages sont chantés et souvent accompagnés de musique. Hommes et femmes d’observation ils analysent les problèmes de la société et leurs propres problèmes et en tirent des leçons. Certains ne sont pas nécessairement des chanteurs mais des instrumentistes. Les conteurs quant à eux sont des hommes et des femmes qui ont un art spécial de faire revivre les textes anciens. Ils actualisent les récits mythiques, et les fables pour expliquer les raisons de l’existence de tel fait social ou culturel ou de telle coutume. Enfin, les hérauts forment un groupe dont le but est de faire véhiculer les nouvelles ou les communiqués qui touchent toute la population.

Tous ces spécialistes de la communication orale ont pour fonction de créer un lien entre le passé et le présent. Ils ont des textes dont le noyau du contenu est à respecter même s’ils ont une certaine liberté d’en modifier en tenant compte du contexte de l’auditoire. Ces textes qu’ils utilisent sont traditionnels et un bon émetteur est un bon transmetteur imprégné de la tradition. L’initiation permet de se familiariser avec la tradition. Elle agit sur la personne entière en la structurant à travers les rites et la transmission des savoirs en l’introduisant dans l’univers du symbolique. L’initié apprend à voir au-delà du concret pour atteindre les significations profondes. C’est pourquoi, la pensée orale est très imagée, ce qui donne une très grande flexibilité d’interprétation.

Dans la communication orale, le récepteur n’est pas passif; sa passivité est un mauvais signe, il doit montrer qu’il suit celui qui parle, soit par des gestes, soit par des paroles. Une parole émise requiert une impression de sa part. Cependant, toute réaction est soumise à des normes; car il n’est pas donné à n’importe qui de réagir négativement vis-à-vis des paroles de tous, mais cela ne pose pas le principe d’irréfutabilité de propos sans fondements. Une réglementation s’impose, ainsi un petit enfant fera beaucoup attention quand il s’agira de remettre en question les paroles d’un aîné. Discuter les paroles d’un aîné équivaut à s’opposer à sa personne, car l’individu n’est pas détaché de ce qu’il dit; il s’y implique profondément.

Pour réfuter les paroles de quelqu’un il convient de puiser dans le même fonds traditionnel de paroles, de faits et d’évènements. Dans le cadre de l’oralité, la parole est prise en tenant compte de cette banque de données à la disposition de tous. Les proverbes, les contes sont des exemples de fonds. Chacun peut y puiser et les articuler à volonté tout en respectant la hiérarchie. Il faut cependant remarquer que l’Afrique est en train de perdre cette valeur, car les jeunes s’arrogent souvent des droits à la parole sans avoir rempli ces deux conditions. Le fonds traditionnel se conserve grâce à la mémoire. Pour aider à retenir ce qui est dit, le communicateur oral se sert de procédés, tels le gestuel, l’intonation, le chant et les répétitions. Comment ces principes peuvent-ils s’arrimer avec la Bible?

3.     Expérience protestante de la catéchèse

La tendance à assimiler la Bible à l’écrit a conduit les missions et les églises protestantes à développer conjointement à l’éducation à la foi, des programmes d’alphabétisation pour permettre aux chrétiens de lire. Cette pratique continue de nos jours, et le “Thangba fuor-co lakol” en est un exemple. Ce terme en lobiri, (langue de la tribu lobi du Burkina Faso et de la Côte d’Ivoire) est composé de quatre mots : Thangba (Dieu), fuor (prier), co[10] (maison), lakol (école) et exprime l’idée d’école de l’église. Ses objectifs sont :

• former les adultes et les jeunes dans la foi par une série de cours bibliques et éthiques;
• les préparer à prendre des responsabilités dans l’église locale;
• préparer ceux qui désirent étudier dans une école biblique; formelle, à passer leur test d’entrée avec succès;
• alphabétiser en vue de la lecture de la Bible en langue locale.

Ce programme de formation se donne chaque année pendant tout le mois de février. Ce mois a été choisi en fonction de la disponibilité des gens car c’est le moment où les travaux champêtres sont terminés et chacun peut disposer de son temps comme il l’entend. Le programme complet est d’une durée de trois saisons à l’issue de laquelle un diplôme est décerné non pas toujours en fonction de l’excellence, mais plutôt en fonction de l’assiduité. Ce diplôme est remis lors de la grande conférence de l’Église qui se tient généralement dans la période de Pâque. Dans une localité donnée, ceux qui sont intéressés par les cours se rassemblent dans leur paroisse et un responsable, en l’occurrence le pasteur, dispense les enseignements. Les classes vont de 9 heures à 12 heures et de 15 heures à 17 heures. En principe tous les membres adultes et jeunes de plus de seize ans sont invités à prendre part à cette formation.

Le programme comprend six fascicules composés chacun de vingt leçons. Trois de ces manuels traitent de la vie de Jésus, du livre des Actes des apôtres et de la doctrine chrétienne de base. Les trois autres abordent les implications pratiques de la vie chrétienne et les questions liées à la culture et sont enseignés dans l’après-midi. Bien que ces documents soient constitués d’enseignements venant d’églises d’Europe ou d’Amérique, mais traduits en langue locale et imprimés sur place, un effort considérable est fait pour les adapter aux réalités locales. Ceci est surtout vrai pour les cours touchant le côté pratique de la vie chrétienne où les questions de culture locale viennent confronter celles de la Bible et du missionnaire.

Chaque séance commence d’habitude par un moment de chants et de prière qui généralement n’excède pas trente minutes. Après cela, chaque participant lit à haute voix un paragraphe de la leçon du jour pendant que les autres écoutent. Cette lecture est suivie d’explications données par le responsable et de discussions où chacun est invité à participer activement. Une fois la leçon terminée, il y a des devoirs à faire sur place pour vérifier si l’essentiel a été bien compris. Pendant que ceux qui savent lire et écrire s’adonnent à cet exercice, les autres suivent un cours d’alphabétisation dont le but est d’amener les apprenants à lire et à écrire dans leur langue maternelle.

Le Thangba fuor-co lakol est une institution qui répond à un besoin de l’église, celui de doter ses membres d’une connaissance théorique et pratique. Elle consiste donc à passer en revue les vérités fondamentales du savoir et de l’agir chrétien dans un contexte culturel où le taux d’analphabétisme dépasse les 70%. Dans cette condition sociale, la tâche s’avère difficile étant donné que pour beaucoup, la Bible est un livre à lire. Les concepteurs de ce programme ont bien perçu la difficulté et ont lié à ce projet des cours d’alphabétisation pour y faire face. Malgré le bien-fondé de ce programme et son succès relatif, deux remarques s’imposent.

Premièrement, le fait de voir la Bible comme un texte à lire pourrait occulter son rapport à l’oralité et perpétue les oppositions écrit/oral. Aujourd’hui pourtant, d’aucuns reconnaissent que le texte imprimé et l’oralité ne s’opposent pas nécessairement, mais constituent les deux ailes du même oiseau. Un ouvrage récent qui traite largement des rapports entre le texte imprimé et l’oralité est celui de Françoise WAQUET. L’auteure démontre que l’oralité n’a pas disparue avec l’imprimé du cercle des intellectuels comme certains le croiraient. Elle est bien vivante dans les conférences, les colloques, les cours en classes, en un mot, elle est omniprésente dans la culture savante. Elle démontre qu’entre « le XVI^e et le XX^e siécle, le monde intellectuel est bien un univers de langage.[11] » Dès lors, si nous appliquons ce principe de complémentarité, il ne serait pas exagéré de dire que la Bible conjugue ses deux dimensions d’écriture et d’oralité. On a surtout mis l’accent sur les principes liés à l’écrit pour la qualifier et la comprendre; les efforts de la Formgeschichte et de la Redaktiongeschichte sont à reprendre à nouveaux frais en s’inspirant des savoirs et techniques des sociétés à tradition orale. Réorienter les recherches dans ce sens ne fera qu’ouvrir de nouveaux horizons en herméneutique, exégèse et catéchèse.

La deuxième remarque repose justement sur le renforcement de la méthodologie en catéchèse à l’aide des principes régissant l’oralité. Certaines missions et églises protestantes, conscientes du problème de transmission dans l’éducation à la foi, ont opté pour ce qu’ils ont appelé : la présentation orale de la Bible (POB)[12]. En Afrique de l’Ouest, l’Église baptiste a initié “la Bible chronologiquement racontée” de l’anglais : “Chronological Bible Storying. Cette approche permet de se mettre en situation de conteur pour raconter une histoire biblique en tenant compte des procédés de la communication orale. L’animateur raconte le récit dans un premier temps, puis il demande aux participants –des volontaires- de reprendre le récit et de le raconter dans leurs propres mots. À ce point, les échanges réservent parfois des surprises, surtout, quand il s’agit de l’application du récit. En avril 2002 j’avais participé à un atelier sur la méthode que j’ai beaucoup appréciée, bien que beaucoup reste encore à faire pour vraiment l’inculturer.

En se basant sur cette approche, David et Sue Frampton ont expérimenté en 2001 ce qu’ils ont appelé “Oral Bible School” parmi les Konkomba au Ghana. Le but est d’aider ceux qui savent lire et ceux qui ne le peuvent pas, à redire des récits bibliques qui leur ont été racontés. Ces programmes qui visent l’oralité n’ont pas encore pris racine comme il se doit, mais illustrent les efforts consentis pour prendre en compte certains aspects de la pédagogie en contexte d’oralité. Cette pratique se fait en église, mais il y a d’autres lieux où la Bible est racontée de façon toute particulière. Ce phénomène bien que connu un peu partout en Afrique, se traduit d’une manière singulière en Côte d’Ivoire. On assiste aujourd’hui à un usage assez spécial des récits bibliques chez les comédiens et musiciens. Le chant qui suit en est un exemple parmi tant d’autres.

4.     Art et lecture biblique en Côte d’Ivoire

Le chant dont il sera ici question, est en français populaire ivoirien, et utilise des termes qui ne peuvent être saisis que dans le contexte. C’est en fait un texte oral et je l’ai reproduit tel quel pour faire justice à son caractère propre.

Vraiment ça a chauffé (ter)

Ça a chauffé ooh (bis)

Dieu a crée ce monde avec ses habitants

Tellement amour, il a créé aussi Satan

Mais dans la vie, tu sais qui peut te frapper

Mais tu ne sais pas qui va te tuer

Lui Satan, tellement mauvais,

Il a blagué (trompé) Adam et Ève

Et il a pris le monde de Dieu

Ça a chauffé, ……..Victoire (bis)

Dieu pour sauver son monde

Il a envoyé son Fils unique avec un plan de bataille

Jésus est arrivé, il a crée beaucoup d’églises

Assemblée de Dieu a attaqué[13] tous les maquis[14]

Royaume de Dieu a attaqué les cinémas

Protestants baptistes eux, ils se promènent pour prêcher

Tellement fâché (Satan) il a créé des églises

Au bord des plages là-bas on ne porte pas de chaussures

Ça a chauffé, ……..Victoire (4x)

Un jour moi je passais, c’est là, Satan il m’a appelé

Il dit : Jésus a des foutaises[15]

Il a pris mes maquis, il a pris mes cinémas

Aujourd’hui tout va finir.

Satan est arrivé dans kimono noir

Thiberland[16] dans ses pieds, son nez était percé

Tellement digba[17], il ressemblait à Goliath, Goldorat

On dirait une cigogne

Une lumière jaillit,

C’est là Jésus est arrivé dans kimono blanc

Sébargo[18] dans ses pieds, cheveux bien coiffés

Ça a chauffé, ……..Victoire (4x)

Jeu de jambes de Satan, jeu de jambes de Jésus

Il n’y a pas eu ouverture, le gnaga[19] était serré

Ça a chauffé, ……..Victoire (4x)

Coup de pied de Satan, Jésus a bloqué

Coup de tête de Jésus, Satan a driblé

Le gnaga était mortel

Ça a chauffé, ……..Victoire (4x)

Tellement ça a chauffé, tout Adjamé était sorti

Abobo est venu, Koumassi[20] était présent

Même le gbata[21] était témoin

Ça a chauffé, ……..Victoire (4x)

Jeu de jambes de Jésus, ouverture de Satan

Jésus n’a pas dindin[22] oh

Un petit crochet le Goliath a pris K.O.

Victoire, victoire…..

Oh victoire, victoire.

Composition de Petit Yodé et Enfant Siro, "Victoire",  dans Ya Foui, Abidjan, Tony Adams Productions, 2000

La pièce raconte de façon rythmée l’économie du salut dans un langage populaire avec une liberté qui rend même méconnaissables les données bibliques. S’il est vrai que Jésus n’a pas créé d’églises, ce qui est aussi vrai de Satan, les auteurs démontrent la liberté que le conteur en oralité a de modifier du texte. Ici le texte de la Bible passe de l’écrit à un texte oral. Ces musiciens ne racontent pas l’histoire comme le font les griots, mais, partant d’un évènement historique, ils en font une mise en scène symbolique pour dégager une leçon. Le chant se termine sur une note de victoire, mais ce n’est pas la victoire de Jésus sur Satan qui intéresse les auteurs, ils veulent simplement marquer de leurs empreintes un fonds de textes. Tout porte à croire qu’une partie des Ivoiriens est convaincue de la valeur de la Bible dans leur société. Certes, son utilisation ici choque, mais met en évidence une lecture, une inculturation qui n’a rien à voir avec l’orthodoxie théologique, mais qui puise sa vitalité dans les principes d’oralité.

Cette inculturation implique une interaction entre la culture et le message qu’annonce l’Église. Lorsque l’évangile prêché entre en relation avec une culture, il s’opère ipso facto un mouvement herméneutique, car toute lecture est acte d’interprétation, d’où altération. L’expérience montre que non seulement le message évangélique transforme l’environnement et l’Église, que cet environnement transforme l’Église, mais qu’aussi l’Église et l’environnement transforment ce message. L’environnement socioculturel et l’Église altèrent et mettent à mort la parole portée à l’expérience humaine par la prédication, mais, par la puissance du renouvellement qui lui est intrinsèque, la parole échappe à toute putréfaction pour se présenter toujours plus glorieuse pour quiconque souhaiterait voir ses décombres. Elle est cette semence[23] qui, jetée dans la terre du cosmos, meurt pour germer et porter des fruits, signes de vitalité dont l’Église traduit la réalité. (Jean 12 :24) Ainsi émergent des paroles de la mort de la parole. C’est à juste titre qu’un adage africain stipule : “c’est une parole qui fait venir une parole”. Cet adage africain traduit les interactions dans la communication orale tout en soulignant le pouvoir de la parole de l’autre de porter au discours celles des autres; la parole accouche de la parole. Comme de l’animal naît un animal, de l’humain naît un humain, ainsi la parole conçoit et accouche de la parole par le canal de personnes interagissant. Ce qui est accouché a toujours son caractère propre, même s’il porte des éléments de ce qui a contribué à son existence.

Somme toute, la Bible n’est pas seulement un écrit ou un musée de paroles, elle constitue les traces d’une rencontre marquée par l’acte de parler qu’elle porte et propage. Elle se refuse pourtant d’être Parole apprivoisée pour se présenter comme la parole qui rejoint l’autre et offre la possibilité de faire émerger des paroles. En Afrique aujourd’hui, des artistes, chrétiens et non-chrétiens, tirent leur inspiration de la Bible. Ils se servent des catégories bibliques pour exprimer la révolte et les luttes des peuples. La Bible « devient le porte-parole des sans-voix, »[24] et vient prendre sa place dans le fonds traditionnel des textes oraux. Trace d’interactions langagières, elle se propose dans son contenu et dans l’esprit qui l’anime, de rejoindre le peuple dans le parler des peuples. Ces paroles sont plurielles et diverses, et constituent des efforts de comprendre qui déroutent souvent, car n’utilisant pas nécessairement les catégories habituelles de lectures liées à l’analogie de la foi. Ce rendez-vous se veut rencontre et dialogue, rencontre autour du Livre et dialogue par l’acte de parler dont il témoigne; en d’autres termes, rencontre d’êtres parlant conjuguant écrit et oralité. À travers l’écrit la Bible rejoint davantage la rationalité avec toutes ses stratégies discursives et argumentative, tandis qu’à travers l’oralité, elle rejoint l’expérience humaine relationnelle et imprime les réalités dans l’âme[25].

[2] E. MVENG, “La Bible et l’Afrique Noire” dans Black Africa and the Bible/L’Afrique Noire et la Bible, Jérusalem, The Israel Interfaith Commitee, 1972, p.23-39.

[3] Isidore de SOUZA, “Bible et culture africaine”, dans Black Africa and the Bible/L’Afrique Noire et la Bible, Jérusalem, The Israel Interfaith Commitee, 1972, p.82-89.

[4] Paulin POUCOUTA, La Bible en terre d’Afrique. Quelle fécondité de la Parole de Dieu, Paris, Les Éditions de l’Atelier/Éditions Ouvrières, 1999, p.116.

[5] Hébreux 1, 1-2 version TOB

[6] Du côté catholique, Dei Verbum constitue un des textes importants traitant de la Parole de Dieu, de ses modalités de transmission et des principes de sa réception. Du côté protestant, la confession de la Rochelle sur ses 40 articles de foi en réserve cinq aux Écritures Cf. Confession et catéchisme de la foi Réformée, Genève : Labor et Fides, 1986. La déclaration de foi de l’Alliance Évangélique Mondiale place l’article sur la Bible en tête.

[7] Walter ONG, Orality and literacy. The Technologizing of the Word, London/New York, Methuen, 1982, p.75

[8] Mbombok, MAYI-MATIP, L’univers de la parole, Yaoundé, Éditions Clé, 1983, p.46; cf. Louis-Vincent THOMAS et René LUNEAU, La terre africaine et ses religions, Paris, L’Harmattan, 1980, p.46

[9] Isidore de SOUZA, “Art. cit”., p.83

[10] Prononcer le c comme le ch dans chat en anglais.

[11] Françoise WAQUET, Parler comme un livre. L’oralité et le savoir (XVI^e-XX^e siècle) Paris, Éditions Albin Michel, 2003, p. 143, Cf. Jack, GOODY, Entre l’oralité et l’écriture, Paris, PUF, 1994

[12] L’auteur qui a beaucoup travaillé sur la question est Herbert KLEM, Oral Communication Scripture. Insights from African Oral Art, Pasadena, William Carey Library, 1982.

[13] A attaqué traduit l’action d’envahir un endroit pour évangéliser

[14] Les maquis sont des espaces d’échanges et de restauration un peu comme les Pubs

[15] Ce terme exprime les sentiments de frustration que Jésus fait subir à Satan

[16] Grosses bottes que portent les militaires

[17] Très grand

[18] Simples souliers

[19] Combat

[20] Ces noms désignent des quartiers de la ville d’Abidjan

[21] La foule

[22] Il n’a pas hésité

[23] Frédéric MANNS, dans La symphonie de la Parole, Chiry-Ourscamp, Édition du serviteur, 1998, relève à travers quelques passages bibliques, le caractère séminal de la parole. P77-85

[24] Paulin POUCOUTA, Op. cit, 1999, p.116.

[25] Marie de l’Incarnation, Correspondance (1599-1672), Édition par Dom Guy Oury, Solesmes, Abbaye Saint-Pierre, 1971, p. 928-930.

Aelhra 'Boston' Edition of 40 Size: 24 x 18 Inches $10 Each

Here are two great (amazingly priced) prints from artist Aelhra, the above print is called ‘Boston’ and here is the inspiration behind it “I’ll always be a Texan at heart, but October marks my ‘enjoying’ twenty loooong years here in Boston. Sorry, not a fan of the winters at all! Consider this my take on a dynamic and youthful city on a crisp fall day, at peace with itself and the environment.” The image below is called ‘Griot’ it is an homage to the man who started it all “Since the turn of the new millenium, so-called “street art” has been enjoying a real boom. Everybody knows who Banksy, FAILE, and Shep are. David Choe rocks it, while Nick Walker and Dolk work the stencils. But let’s not forget about the first wave of graffers in galleries and museums; the charge lead by a true original of mixed blood, Jean Michel-Basquiat. I wanted to honor the man.” Both these prints are 2 colour 18 x 24 inch screen prints with edition sizes of 40 and they both will only cost $10 each, Seriously $10. Check it out HERE

Aelhra 'Griot' Edition of 40 Size: 18 x 24 Inches $10 Each

As an avid fan of documentaries, I look forward to watching two recent productions that use the power of film to contribute to the evolution of Africa’s image on the world stage.

This is My Africa (Dir Zina Saro-Wiwa) is essentially a space for expression of what Africa means to different people, thus painting an image of diversity and richness of Africa that can not be confined to a singular view. After all, what is Africa and what does it mean to be African?

The documentary features well-known British personalities of African descent such as Chiwetel Ejiofor, Yinka Shonibare, Paul Boateng and others, as well as lovers of the continent such as Jon Snow and Colin Firth. I love that this documentary is more than 50 minutes of film as it embodies a broader vision: This is My Africa is a movement for any willing person to contribute to rebranding Africa, such that Africa’s problems do not define her as they have and continue to do so in the recent past.

The TIMA movement recognises the power of culture to engender self-respect and understanding and it supports and promotes African cultures (both on the continent and in the diaspora). It is open to all Africa lovers wherever you are from in the world.

Check out the This is My Africa fan page on Facebook for updates on screenings (hat tip Kabfabulous).
Contact details: africalab{at}gmail{dot}com

Senegalese musician Youssou N’dour’s documentary I Bring What I Love (Dir Elizabeth Chai Vasarhelyi) is an intimate portrait of N’dour’s life, whose production stemmed from his requirement of a platform to address the misperceptions of his latest album, ‘Egypt’. An enchanting, meditative album intended to portray a different side of Islam and counteract that which fills our TV screens. A reminder of the beauty of Islam. It seems like kismet that N’dour who comes from a family of Griots in Senegal uses his voice to inspire others, but unlike the traditional Griots, his voice traverses boundaries and continents, making him therefore an embodiment of the potent evolution of his culture.

Check out the interview with N’dour on The Fader.

It was good, hell it was fantastic! This years edition was a well balanced mix of high quality groups and artists! Well done you guys and girls! And the Global Dance on friday was cool too! Wauw!

And this years edition was also a good year, because I had a good group of enthusiastic photographers who were very excited to make ‘the photo’ of the festival! Thanks to you all! More of that (over 700 pictures) on this flickr link. You can always visit the official website from the festival at www.afro-latino.be

Please enjoy the pictures…

More to come…

The problem with helping your friends out with their zine is that you’re never surprised with the finished product.

Fortunately that wasn’t the case with Griot 6. Not just because Brain tries too hard to be a man of mystery (though we didn’t find out the zine was done until it was displayed on a table 500 miles away from home), but because it was a split with Pudd’nhead.

In Brian’s half he continues to improve upon his philosophical style that involves over-thinking everyday situations. It’s easy reading but insightful. One tale uses cicadas to show the cyclical nature of life, another about the great cultural tradition of having a nemesis (to be honest I wanted Young Steppenwolf and the King of All Farts to join forces and create a super nemesis or at least duel to the death). Both stories are prophetic without being a bore.

While I had proofread all of Brian’s original work a month or so ago, there were a few surprises for me in his half. One was a comic by Constance titled “Dog Dream.” I’m glad the last panel is on a separate page so the ending is not desensitized by accidental peeking. Another is an interview by Aaron Smith (from the Big Hands zine) with a true Griot.

Flip the issue over and you get Pudd’nhead 5 “Red Menace.” I was a little reserved to begin reading this half due to the title, lack of graphics (come on now, the yearbook flier deserves to be a full page!) and footnotes, but this is quality writing about the author’s beginning days as a punk. He compares it to “Catcher in the Rye” and “Stand by me,” but fuck that mainstream shit. This is more like punk rock John Fante.

Any small-town punk can relate to these stories. To sum things up: a few friends, who can loosely be defined as punks, fumble through adolescence the best they can in their stifling hometown only to break up once they get older. What makes this work better than your typical zine is that the author specializes in pointing out the subtle, humorous moments from our youth we might have overlooked ourselves.

Both halves compliment each other well with upbeat nostalgia. Soon, however, we’ll have to worry about what it’s like to be grown up punks. Will it be as enjoyable to read? I guess we’ll be in for a surprise.

To receive a copy visit microcosm.org, email ieatfood123 at hotmail dot com, mail Griot at P.O. Box 10563, Columbus, OH 43201, or Mike Pudd’nhead at P.O. Box 7458 Mpls, MN 54407.

Descargue de manera gratuita la segunda parte de las cintas remasterizadas…

Descargue Aquí!

Esperamos que disfruten de la audición.  

Pulpo Producciones ® + Safari Records ™ 

Realizadores y/o Colaboradores: Andrés Camovella, División de Recuperación Sónica [Pulpo PRD ®], Domo Audio-Experimentaciones, Horacio Porchia, Lindani McWhorter Umoja Ensemble, Martín Mosquera [Archivo], Pablo Capos, Pulpo Producciones, Rafael Suriano, Safari Records y Ward W. Wilson.

4/25/09-Toumani Diabaté in Burlington

If there’s a single word to summarize the profound effect that regional culture has in shaping its native music, I haven’t found it. Not before yesterday, that is. Now I believe that influence may very well be described in the word “griot” – at least when we’re talking about music from Mali.

The warmest day of the year so far in Burlington (over 80°F – ugh) brought shoppers, cyclists, and folks of every other sun-loving pursuit to downtown yesterday. As the streets and sidewalks crawled with deliriously revitalized springtime activity, the Amy E. Tarrant gallery offered cool, quiet sanctuary to around 40 attendees with the latest in the Flynn Theatre’s ongoing series of pre-concert “INsight” discussions.

The afternoon’s guest of honor was the Malian kora master and storyteller, Toumani Diabaté. As he shared his own story over the next half hour it was readily apparent that he viewed his part of the timeline just the most recent chapter in a much longer, much more involved narrative that began with his first relatives, some 71 generations ago in the 13th c. kingdom of West Africa. Diabaté is a griot (or ‘djeli‘), a musician by patrilineal birthright. So was his father, and so is his son.

Griots are the vested oral historians of Mali, responsible for maintaining the culture as well as commenting on it, and passing on their knowledge and musical skills to the males of the next generation. In an illustration of the vital relationship between griots and their land, Diabaté raised his left hand, swept the length of his torso, and said “if West Africa was a body, the djeli would be the blood”.

The main voice of the griot tradition is the kora, a resonant, modally-tuned instrument with a light texture and fluidity often compared to a harp. With 21 nylon strings and a resonator made from the huge, bulbous hull of a hollowed-out, half-calabash – it’s a striking instrument in both looks and sound. Why is it played facing the performer, instead of outward facing listeners like other simliar instruments (the banjo, or guitar for example)?

4/25/09-Diabaté demonstrating the 'front' of the kora

As with most things in the griot culture, history and folklore each have a hand in informing the answer: Diabaté described the time very early in the tradition’s development when the kora was actually an instrument commonly played by the women musicians of neighboring Guinea, and how they gave one to the newly crowned Mandinka Prince in the mid-13th c. as a gift at the start of the Malian empire. Since that time it’s been an instrument handed down through the male ancestors, and it’s played facing the musician, “as if creating an intimate conversation between lovers”.

I listened to Diabaté’s solo performance yesterday afternoon (and last night at the Flynn, with his full 8-piece electrified Symmetric Orchestra) a little differently, after learning more about what I was hearing. The kora is played with only four fingers: both thumbs, and both index fingers. The other three fingers in each hand grip the long pegs on either side of the neck to keep it upright during performance. The left thumb plucks out the bass line; the right thumb plays the melody. That leaves both index fingers free to improvise over the top of the bass and melody.

When Diabaté plays with his Orchestra, the bassline of his left thumb is doubled by the electric bass; the melodic line of the right thumb is doubled by the electric guitar, and the flights of improvisational fancy allowed his index fingers is matched (and THEN some, to my ears) by the virtuosic sonorities of the group’s balafon player.

Listening to a kora under any circumstance is delightful, but seeing it being played, and understanding a little about the mechanics of the musicianship is absolutely enchanting. I hope you, too, are fortunate enough to have the opportunity sometime! More than an instrument, the kora is a chorus of voices, playing with and against each other in a strumming, thrumming, multi-layered conversation of music.

Would you expect anything less, for an instrument that speaks for over 700 years of people and their culture?

A final thought from Monsieur Diabaté: “If you can learn a song on the kora, you are a master. But you have to be born a griot.”

——–

For listening:

with guitarist/singer Taj Mahal: Kulanjan, 1999

with trombonist Roswell Rudd: Malicool, 2001

with guitarist Ali Farka Toure: In the Heart of the Moon, 2005 (Grammy winner, best traditional world music album)

solo: The Mandé Variations, 2008 (Grammy nominee)

Nine Inch Nails/A Perfect Circle drummer Josh Freese may have grabbed headlines for his unusual promotional tool for promoting and covering the costs for his new album, Since 1972. For a certain price, you could get anything from a digital download of the album ($7) straight to a weekend with the man himself, mini golf with members of Tool and Devo, and a couple of songs about yourself for a measly $20,000, which one 19 year old was more than happy to pony-up for. Call it the Radiohead/NIN/whatever model on speed.

Well, Freese certainly isn’t the only one of trying to figure out how to make ends meet in the new age of music. Freese made the idea to focus on connecting music directly with the fans, but hand it to an emo artist to make it truly accessible. Always focused on connecting with fans, Say Anything’s Max Bemis has opened his guitar case to his legions of fans with a little cash in hand.

All you need is $150 and it’s all you’ve got a song all to yourself. Well, sort of…

Max’s heart is in the right place, but his contract isn’t. The concepts that drove bands like Radiohead, Nine Inch Nails, and even Jimmy Eat World (post-Clarity posting of demos on Napster and recently with Clarity Live) were/are about challenging the way music is heard and consumed in our society. But therein lies the problem with the Say Anything song-about-yourself query. Just take a look at the terms and conditions:

“All songs are written by Max for you. Max and his record label retain all rights to the songs and you do not have permission to sell MP3’s, CDs or any other format known or unknown in this universe or any other. This is strictly for personal use by you and your dead dog.

Max didn’t want his team of lawyers to feel left out so we have asked them to further explain some rules and regulations, if you want your song you will need to agree to the following:

For good and valuable consideration, the receipt of which is hereby acknowledged, you agree that Max and his successors and assigns will own all right, title and interest to the songs delivered to you, and RCA Music Group and their successors and assigns will own all right, title and interest to the master recordings delivered to you as a work for hire (such songs and master recordings are referred to below as the “Works”). These retained rights to the Works include the worldwide copyright and any and all renewal and extension rights, and the unrestricted right to use and exploit the Works by any and all means through any and all media now known or hereafter devised, either alone or coupled with other materials, without any payment to you. You agree that you will use the Works only for your personal listening pleasure, and you will not copy, sell, distribute, publicly perform or exploit the Works in any manner whatsoever. Without limiting the foregoing, you will not make CDs or MP3s of the Works, you will not put the Works up on any website, and you will not allow the Works to be used in any manner that would allow any peer-to-peer access.”

Really, even though the song may be about you, if that’s what you want it to be about. But it won’t be your song. You’ll get a copy sent straight to you, with all the thoughtfulness that Max can no doubt squeeze out. But “your song” will belong solely to the RCA Music Group, not you. Even though it’s yours, you cannot burn it or share it with friends… technically when you own something, you should therefore have the right to do whatever you want with it, especially if you paid top dollar for said product. And sure, it makes sense to not sell or otherwise distribute the song for money, but to allow RCA to have the power over the song and to be able to distribute it themselves in whatever manner they please is a bit disconcerting.

It’s with something like an RCA contract agreement hidden in the terms of service that really makes the entire concept kind of a moot point. What happens when fifteen friends decide to chip in $10 each and buy a song? Do they have to choose which friend gets the song, or risk breaking the contract by copying it for one another?

Still, I’m quite torn about the entire thing… the terms of agreement would invalidate the entire concept. But, Say Anything certainly has grown into one of the better bands today, amassing a fan base it certainly deserves. That said, $150 is perfectly reasonable for the man behind the band to cook up a song for you. Hell, I’m even considering it, despite the objections I’m posing. No, I wouldn’t want a song about me, though I appreciate the idea wholeheartedly; it reminds me a lot of the role of the griots, who were musicians in West Africa that served under the royal families and memorized elaborate royal histories and recited them through song. Except this is much more democratized. And the small fee for a band that still holds a special place in my heart and who’s …Is A Real Boy remains one of my favorite albums to this day. I’d be willing to swing that much, even with the massive chunk it would take out of the small amount of money I have. But if I can’t burn it on a mix for friends, what the hell would I do with a $150 song? I’m all about sharing the joy of music – that’s one of the reasons this blog exists!

Perhaps I could go with The Cocker Spaniels for my personal-music fix: for as low as $25, the band will write a song that incorporates an idea you have. Pay a little more, and you’ll get a little more (including a percentage of royalties made off the song’s sales), and all the proceeds go to sustaining the musicians themselves, which is what the entire concept behind all of these new experiments with setting-your-music-prices is supposed to be about – sustaining the artists without ripping off the listeners!

It all feels a little too much like self-referential window shopping, though, there’s not much interest in injecting my personal life into anyone else’s work. Though, unless Max Bemis would want to write a song about America Is Just A Word. Now that’s just meta. Max, if you’re interested and want to use the potential song for some YouTube clip or whatever the hell you want, just drop me a line! Otherwise, I’ll find some way of gathering $150 to get Max to make a song about the plot of Infinite Jest (and there’s a nice way of getting around the 2 paragraph maximum description they ask for… and the book would operate as a footnote to the description… making David Foster Wallace proud as ever!)

today i performed with the West African Ensemble “Pan Africa”, which features Master African Drummer Dramane Kone of Burkina Faso, for the Arts Education Series at the Lakewood Child Development Center in Lakewood, CA. this video is just one of the two performances we provided for the pre school students, parents, and faculty.

this performance is part of our ongoing efforts to educate children of all ages of the music and rhythms of West Africa.

Dramane Kone is a Griot from the famous Kone family of Burkina Faso and Mali. a Griot is a West African poet, praise singer, and wandering musician, considered a repository of oral tradition. it is very rare to have a Griot in Southern California, as we are honored to share his knowledge and energy to many children and adults in this area. the tradition and knowledge Dramane shares with us has been handed down, generation to generation, for more than 1000 years.

on a personal note…

this particular video brings a smile to my face.

later this day, on a public on-line forum , i was told by a local “arts advocate” in my city that i needed to “get involved” and stop standing “on the sidelines” in regards to participating with the arts in my area. he went on to say that i should “roll up my sleeves” and make a change since “talk is cheap” and it is “the action that is very expensive”. this was in response to the fact that i did not attend a local arts “meeting/discussion” in regards to creating art in our area.

yup.
hes got me pegged.
its easy to see by looking at this video, i dont get a chance to participate in any art related forums in my area.

can you see the perfection in my day?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

my thanx to Master Drummer and Griot Dramane Kone for providing us with his talents, and for allowing us to educate the children in our area.

more videos to come soon, as we are booked in many different schools and forums in the area.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

if you would like to have Pan Africa perform for your school, business, event, or party, please let us know. we are always happy to be of service.

Pan Africa
(562)989-1060
steelparade@steelparade.com

peace…

Phil

please visit us on Facebook.

Toumani is a Griot. He plays a Kora. CM