Post by Sediba on Jun 1, 2016 13:19:14 GMT 10
Well .... Last night I got a little pissed on the ruby red wine. This morning I was suffering. But two long blacks, a brekky of bacon eggs and salad with toast ... and the damage appears to have been no more than collateral.
As I re-read my ramblings of the night before I realised I had been a little unforthcoming. I had mentioned the 'vale of kadish' and I had left it there, unexplained, for the reader to make of it what he could. Well that would be very little, because, despite Pali's continous claims to the opposite that google has sixty million pages on any topic that can be thought of, you won't find any on the 'vale of kadish'
But hey, we can lift the mood. Here's a snappy little number you never heard before. Because it was released in the east only (arabian peninsula) way back in 77.
I've carried it round for a long time, because pissed as I am, this song, in one way or another, contains the only commandments I ever adhered to. It was given to me, on a cassette tape in a place called the 'vale of kadish' .. In 77. I've had it ever since.
Hehee .. I reely gotta get to bed now.
Let me tell you a little about this magical place.
It is in Lebanon. Beirut is the Paris of the east. South of Beirut the land is flat and desert all the way down to the Israeli border. To the east of Beirut is the Mediterranean sea. To the west, Liban is surrounded by Syria. But to the north lie the mountains, the christian stronghold. Impenetrable, well defended, un-takeable even by an army.
In the mountains lies a village called Kfarsghab. My village, at least the village of my great-grandparents.
Here is my photo of it taken from Aheden.
And here is a much better photo taken not by me.
I had been to a 'do' in a house in Kfarsghab. A well appointed house, higher on the social strata than the average place in Kfarsghab. I, purely because of my 'novelty value' in this region was a guest of honour. I was only young, early twenties. We had been drinking Arak, a fearsome aniseed concoction that was really a poisonous toxin that was labelled 'Arak' with home made labels on the bottle. A fight had started, and guns had been drawn. But immediately all the women set up an enormous wailing, all in unison, and the men, cowered by this strange sound, settled down again. I got out while I could still walk straight, I could no longer think straight. I was staying, as guest of honour in the village, at Houri Abdullah's house. Houri means priest. The only down side to this was that I was expected to attend mass every morning.
My Father had sent me a telegram. No one in our family had been back to Liban in 10,000 years, since the great migration. I was the first. The Telegram.
And Father Abdullah's house where I was staying
But when I woke up my head was sore and I skipped mass. I wandered off. There is a series of ravines, or canyons, or whatever you call them that run from Kfarsghab, all the way down thru the mountains to the mediterranean sea. This is known as the 'Vale of Qadisha'. My footsteps took me along the starting path and after an hour or two I was deep in the Vale. I had heard my father speak of it in an almost mystical tone, but he had never seen it. He never would.
I have a photo of it, but my camera was tiny and the photo is not much more than a blackish blur. here it is.
The Vale of Qadisha.
As I wandered downwards thru the canyons I saw someone else coming up the same path I was on. I am not a brave person, and we were at war, at least the christians were. Civil war, with themselves, with the muslims, and with the Syrian army. This person was carrying a gun, a rifle. I was no longer in a secure christian stronghold protected by tight knit christian villages, and I started to worry. But, vanity would not let me turn and flee back up the single path in front of the oncoming stranger. So, my little heart pitter-pattering, I continued down.
We met, we stopped, we talked. He spoke no english, only french and arabic. I spoke only english. He was desperately trying to tell me something, but I just couldn't get it.
Here are three drawings of the Vale of Qadisha, by an artist called W. H. Bartlett - in 1838. Nevertheless, as old as Bartlett is, he managed to reveal the Vale of Qadisha in a more complete light than my pissy little photos could.
So I and the stranger talked on, gesticulating and drawing things in the dirt at our feet. Eventually he picked up the rifle, held it like a guitar .. and started to sing, or caterwaul, a vaguely, very vaguely familiar toon. It was Elvis, he was singing Elvis Presly. It was the 17th of August, 1977, and he was trying to tell me big news, Elvis had died that day. I couldn't believe it. So far, the icons in my life had not fallen, since then, 1000s have fallen, but at that point I was stunned. Elvis? Elvis couldn't die. Elvis couldn't go like a cloud in the sky. I was truly shocked. I found out later, much later, years later, that Elvis had actually died a few days before... but there you have it, news travelled much slower in those days. It took three days to reach me in the mountains. For me, he died on the 17th.
We sat talking, both quietened by the tragedy. He reached into those voluminous clothes arabs wear and pulled out a cassette tape. he handed it to me. He wanted me to take it. He said this was a famous eastern singer and these songs would be good for me. He was right.
The cassette was an album called 'Magic', and it was sung by Demis Russous. That album is almost impossible to find today, but I haven't looked for a number of years.
I posted a song from the Album, Magic, called 'Sister Emillene'. But there is a song with a deeper meaning than that one on the same album. It tells the story of our journey thru the universe and the star stuff from which we are made, and how we do not remember this, except deja-vu wise, because there are only 'traces of illusion and distant memories' left, they cause us confusion. The song is called 'Before the Storm'
It's my wake up alarm tune ... and no more gentle tune, no better tune, could be found for such a purpose.
Hope you enjoy.
Greg
As I re-read my ramblings of the night before I realised I had been a little unforthcoming. I had mentioned the 'vale of kadish' and I had left it there, unexplained, for the reader to make of it what he could. Well that would be very little, because, despite Pali's continous claims to the opposite that google has sixty million pages on any topic that can be thought of, you won't find any on the 'vale of kadish'
I've carried it round for a long time, because pissed as I am, this song, in one way or another, contains the only commandments I ever adhered to. It was given to me, on a cassette tape in a place called the 'vale of kadish' .. In 77. I've had it ever since.
Hehee .. I reely gotta get to bed now.
Let me tell you a little about this magical place.
It is in Lebanon. Beirut is the Paris of the east. South of Beirut the land is flat and desert all the way down to the Israeli border. To the east of Beirut is the Mediterranean sea. To the west, Liban is surrounded by Syria. But to the north lie the mountains, the christian stronghold. Impenetrable, well defended, un-takeable even by an army.
In the mountains lies a village called Kfarsghab. My village, at least the village of my great-grandparents.
Here is my photo of it taken from Aheden.
And here is a much better photo taken not by me.
I had been to a 'do' in a house in Kfarsghab. A well appointed house, higher on the social strata than the average place in Kfarsghab. I, purely because of my 'novelty value' in this region was a guest of honour. I was only young, early twenties. We had been drinking Arak, a fearsome aniseed concoction that was really a poisonous toxin that was labelled 'Arak' with home made labels on the bottle. A fight had started, and guns had been drawn. But immediately all the women set up an enormous wailing, all in unison, and the men, cowered by this strange sound, settled down again. I got out while I could still walk straight, I could no longer think straight. I was staying, as guest of honour in the village, at Houri Abdullah's house. Houri means priest. The only down side to this was that I was expected to attend mass every morning.
My Father had sent me a telegram. No one in our family had been back to Liban in 10,000 years, since the great migration. I was the first. The Telegram.
And Father Abdullah's house where I was staying
But when I woke up my head was sore and I skipped mass. I wandered off. There is a series of ravines, or canyons, or whatever you call them that run from Kfarsghab, all the way down thru the mountains to the mediterranean sea. This is known as the 'Vale of Qadisha'. My footsteps took me along the starting path and after an hour or two I was deep in the Vale. I had heard my father speak of it in an almost mystical tone, but he had never seen it. He never would.
I have a photo of it, but my camera was tiny and the photo is not much more than a blackish blur. here it is.
The Vale of Qadisha.
As I wandered downwards thru the canyons I saw someone else coming up the same path I was on. I am not a brave person, and we were at war, at least the christians were. Civil war, with themselves, with the muslims, and with the Syrian army. This person was carrying a gun, a rifle. I was no longer in a secure christian stronghold protected by tight knit christian villages, and I started to worry. But, vanity would not let me turn and flee back up the single path in front of the oncoming stranger. So, my little heart pitter-pattering, I continued down.
We met, we stopped, we talked. He spoke no english, only french and arabic. I spoke only english. He was desperately trying to tell me something, but I just couldn't get it.
Here are three drawings of the Vale of Qadisha, by an artist called W. H. Bartlett - in 1838. Nevertheless, as old as Bartlett is, he managed to reveal the Vale of Qadisha in a more complete light than my pissy little photos could.
So I and the stranger talked on, gesticulating and drawing things in the dirt at our feet. Eventually he picked up the rifle, held it like a guitar .. and started to sing, or caterwaul, a vaguely, very vaguely familiar toon. It was Elvis, he was singing Elvis Presly. It was the 17th of August, 1977, and he was trying to tell me big news, Elvis had died that day. I couldn't believe it. So far, the icons in my life had not fallen, since then, 1000s have fallen, but at that point I was stunned. Elvis? Elvis couldn't die. Elvis couldn't go like a cloud in the sky. I was truly shocked. I found out later, much later, years later, that Elvis had actually died a few days before... but there you have it, news travelled much slower in those days. It took three days to reach me in the mountains. For me, he died on the 17th.
We sat talking, both quietened by the tragedy. He reached into those voluminous clothes arabs wear and pulled out a cassette tape. he handed it to me. He wanted me to take it. He said this was a famous eastern singer and these songs would be good for me. He was right.
The cassette was an album called 'Magic', and it was sung by Demis Russous. That album is almost impossible to find today, but I haven't looked for a number of years.
I posted a song from the Album, Magic, called 'Sister Emillene'. But there is a song with a deeper meaning than that one on the same album. It tells the story of our journey thru the universe and the star stuff from which we are made, and how we do not remember this, except deja-vu wise, because there are only 'traces of illusion and distant memories' left, they cause us confusion. The song is called 'Before the Storm'
It's my wake up alarm tune ... and no more gentle tune, no better tune, could be found for such a purpose.
Hope you enjoy.
Greg
