An old legend tells of a dark lady who stood
on a mountain-top and sang the World into being. At the foot of the mountain raged the dragons
of confusion. Their breath was like a
many-coloured river that wove and lapped and twined around the mountain, as
rainbow-ribbons around the maypole. The
dragon’s colourful breath brought consternation to the World, ensnaring and
entangling those who espied its chimeric vapours as ephemeral clouds of the
morning. These bewitching strands and
skeins of accordion, fiddle and decorative filigreed
arabesque masqueraded before the sky in the morning of the day, sinuously
snaking and swirling around as zephyrs that do to dance upon the air. But from above, from the mountain’s lofty and
far-sighted peak stood a dark woman who was the voice of song. She it was who sang the World and she it was
whose incanting primordial voice held
the loops of scattered colour, sound and zephyr, shaping them to fit her song,
her chanting monotone that now swoops, abandoning form and formality,
now chants in dark oneness. This was the voicefrom the Heart, from out of the trees,
in early morning, driving away the mists of confusion, in the morning of the
day, the day of the World, fresh, vibrant, viridian, dark, of power primal and
autochthonous. The voice from the
mountain levels out all illusion. Cate mute cate slute.
Doina
din Dolj – Maria Tanase
Check this one out: “Cate Mute Cate Slute” – Maria Tanase:
Like afabulousmechanical yurt-on-a-cart pulled by a hundred thousand gold-tipped elephantspullulating across the Carpathians it’s…..Like a glittering, audacious, crackling speckled black crow of many colours, it’s…… Reminiscent of many and many a wonderful and splendidthynge, melting ice gleaming in the
sun, golden
straws of
autumn stooks, thatch, pitchforks hitched to a bullock-cart, the Heart’s-blast of the Ages, the swooning, swooping, ululating, wobbling, tocking, galloping, clattering, syncopated, shuffling, ecstatic, Golden, dusky and coolsounds; the sounds of the people of Romania… MuzicaPolularaRomaneasca
Complete
with lyrics, here is a generous collection of the songs of Maria Tanase, courtesy of Virtual Romania. These mp3’s are well-worth checking out.:
To magnifypages of ‘The Caterpillar”, simply click on the image and open in a new tab, then you have the option to zoom in and see the detail……. (Don’t forget to check the Archives, at the top of the blog, to see previous issues of The
Caterpillar!)
A
large collection of
music from manytimes and places:
Ripples
in aether-mercury emanating from the alleys
of continuum consciousness in unprecedented time/matter/energy-configuration. Situation stable as Universe appears to have
always existed. More on this story as
events unreel.
In the vignette the lady sipped from a crystal
goblet, eighteenth century, whilst gazing through a lorgnette out of the
gleaming bubble glass firelit candlelight glow to blazing logfyres among warm
damask rococo imbroglios. Swarming the
beads of consciousness scientifically balance on the nose of the law. Hey, tickling the nose of reality, once
again. This is the immutable ‘way of the
particle’ which can but follow the tracks of the grand special cellular
game. Given aeons of rattling
progression we reach to the age of the courtly dance, the periwigged real of
quadrille quatroons on cantaloupe plattering coaches, at midnight, at the
striking of the clock, at the charming of the cat, at the bat’s brittle
screeching flight, under the moon, under the moon, in the trees, automatically,
as wings aflap in the dark, as hooves of carriage-wheels clack, upon the
highway of moon-scudding clouds rides the silk-emblazoned lorgnette-lady of the
crystally-space real, a forgotten path, a street in the town where you used to
live. “Must’a dreampt it!” he
mutters, yet strangely a curious tangent feeling creeps up over him as the beams
take effect and he’s transported back up to the other side - experience of actual consciousness now, for
you. So saith the tall-collared figure at the grande ball, the great tete-a-tete, the
lace-figured, dapper & dandy dithering gathering of glimmering and
beglittered aristos in archaic garb quaint.
The goblet in her hand threw back the scintilla of swirling honeyed
honeydew honeycombed light of a golden - - Raising now upon the sunny banks of
wakefulness bemused his glance falls upon the crabbed and gushing manuscript. {{{{{ Clarity of Perception |- entranced before
daybreak’s feathery fingers of rose-golden white dawn will waft and droft and
drift him up to the surface clear of the pond of slewth. * oh
but nonsense said the Ambassador; you
cannot possibly think such a
thing. But he could. ]]]]] &
the dripping of drips loudly outside in the quiet night of the street dripping
and the house clicking the clock ticking house floor-beams creaking and clicking
at night – torn up paper and semi-conscious ink transformations found
accidentally on the radio of the future – these things you tell of, you
vouchsafe to dream of, can never be- quoth the ambassador once again - energy
of the universe in his merry old eye! *So, under the alfluence of inkohol, old boys be’d a staggering and a
swaying home along old old country roads of Ireland (stout) and France (ye
wines) and the old life goes on – no electricity in them days of course – bla
blab la - and ink so many -crystal-jewels-of--perfect-miniature--spinning-orbitals-back-to-the-scatter-mosaic-bee-beads
-
Bartok:
6 Romanian Dances
Bartok
“From Island of Bali’ (Mikrokosmos)
Bartok
plays ‘6 Dances in Bulgarian Rhythm (Mikrokosmos)
Louis
Armstrong & his Hot Five; Yes I’m In
The Barrel
Squalling
in out of the West, it’s the paper that tears itself…. The Caterpillar Dub,
Issue 45… available from all good outlets of the Alaja Vijnana, hanging out in
space, radiantly nowhere…..
Something’s happening in there,I know it.
I just glimpsed a hand
– well, I say hand,
perhaps I should say an appendage. Yes, something definitely slunk, sort of
withdrew, faded into the penumbra inside that gaunt and granite edifice that
faced me across the time-bemoldered alleyway of ongoing experience.
The day could not have
been more leaden and grey, a sobering blustering blast blew chill from
Atlantic’s swirling swell, flecked with crawking gulls and slopping jellyfish
blooms. A squall stole in, scattering
showers, gusts and blasts across the gables, tiles and slates of the village-towne. I’d noticed signs of activity in the old
warehouse recently, coeval with an increase in footsteps late at night, in
owl-hours and beyond. Sesquipedalian
scuttlings astir in archaic rhyme-rich dripping atmospheric glassy-eyed
glaucous backstreets. I seen lights on
in there at night and I heard hammering and a-yammering coming out of there and
I know there’s something going on in
there.
A slate-grey gloom
slayed hopes of drowzy summer’s slumberous afternoons, chilled and thawed and
frozen out as brittle bits and fractured fragments of brown-baked bracken blew
down like brittle biscuits. Maybe it’s
the Glagolitic Mass, echoing and emanating down tunnels of steel, bronze and
bulkheads of obsidian basalt columnular conglomeration in catalytic conversation. That’s probably what did it, what set my mind
to thinking and to realizing.
Blending into that
tea-like darkness, that was a being alright, definitely a being of some
sort. Swirls of fog notwithstanding,
some denizen flittered and flitted in, in stealthy flight departing. Thirsting for experience’s flow, I followed
and bat-like flitted silently inside.
An unearthly glow
pulsed colourless drenching the ancient chamber in nacreous effulvous
effulgence oscillating with slices of photoperiodic obscurity and a deep deep
blackness. A calm warmth seemed seeping
forth, encouraging my peregrination. A
fresh impression like a French Impressionist painting, blurry and soft; muted, speckled; plates, greenish-white glow, spinning
fingers, antennae, shifting plates of the carapace, a gliding motion of an
archaic garment of clothing, a vast greatcoat surcoat, swaddling the figure of
the being, the entity, the Caterpillar!
And now, as I look
back, the encounter – if such it was – is indeed a little vague and sepia-faded
at the edges, this being the inevitable concomitant
of such episodes as these, featuring as they do, the meeting of mundane with
supra-mundane Mind… I have a series of
recollections, rather fragmentary, disjointed and indistinct. I have much more positively in my possession though
the echo of the feeling, and this is
the subtle gossamer whisp that is so discolos hard to convey through
words. A sensation of being refined and
rarified, as when metal is purified in great fire. This suttleification was bathed in a warm
vibrant peace – whilst all this was going on, knowledge and informations were being
poured into me from a source universally present. The presence of the central figure was one of
great warmth and wisdom, a sunny benignity coupled with the dizzying mysterious
drift of space itself. In fine,
something that went beyond my limited grasp, yet left me uplifted, inspired
with a hint of something vast and brilliant.
When I had fully
returned to my normal condition, I was in possession of a casket of scrolls,
tablets, cuniform phonograph rolls, wire-recordings, sketch-books, scribbled
formulae and classical poetry, incantations, evocations and revalations. Rich food for the soul, for psyche’s flight,
butterfly-like into the new bright night of day.
What follows in ‘The
Caterpillar’ – A Visionary Ghetto Tabloid - & its remixed Dub Version is
culled from the fertile trove of lore and learning bequeathed to me on the
occasion of my most recent visitation of my mysterious carapaced friend, to
whom ye humble blogspot and its accompanying journals are most respectfully
dedicated.
The Caterpillar Dub No.44 brings you a new contributor,the jazz-horn player from Chicagee, Mr Ben Jacket. Please read responsibly and dissipate your euphoria in scintillating ripples of unbridled lightful joy. Any crackling audible over one's wireless set is a result of inter-orbital phonographic disturbance and will pass as we enter the next Age of Brahma. Poems and other pieces of verbage may be sent to the editor at the address to be found overleaf. Please do not forget to include a threepenny stamp and ten for a shilling if you get them hot. Allright, let's roll the film over the eyes of sleep.
Check out my fiction ebook, The Horned Whale - available from all good ebook sites - The Horned Whale or An Morvil Kornek by Jeremy Schanche - ISBN: 9780993490910 - 175,710 words - $3.99 - Contains the mystery novel - The Kramvil, plus short stories, poetry and glossaries. Find out more at : http://yecaterpillar.blogspot.co.uk/2016/10/the-horned-whale-by-jeremy-schanche.html
Please also see these blogs:
https://haroldhempsteadcagedcrusader.wordpress.com/
https://savetheholyheadland.blogspot.co.uk/
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