Yamore - Salif Keita - Cesaria Evora ;Salif Keita, singing in Malinke and French, expresses his feelings for his beloved one and exhorts her not to leave him because he cannot live without her. Cesaria, singing in Cape-Verdean Portuguese, speaks more generally about faith in progress, peace, struggle and resistance for a better future where all torments and tempests will be over.
LANSINE KOUYATE & SISSOKHO YAKHOUBA - KORA & BALAFON, Griot tradition from Mali.
I dream in the intimate semi-darkness of an afternoon. I am visited by the fatigues of the day. The deceased of the year, the souvenirs of the decade, Like the procession of the dead in the village on the horizon of the shallow sea. It is the same sun bedewed with illusions, The same sky unnerved by hidden presences, The same sky feared by those who have a reckoning with the dead. And suddenly my dead draw near to me... Visit by Leopold Sedar Senghor
My humanity is caught up inextricably in yours. When I dehumanize you, I inexorably dehumanize myself. Desmond Tutu.
Rhythm is the architecture of being, the inner dynamic that gives it form, the pure expression of the life force. Rhythm is the vibratory force which, through our sense, grips us at the root of our being. It is expressed through corporeal and sensual means; through lines, surfaces, colors and volumes in architecture, sculpture or painting; through accents in poetry and music; through movements in the dance. But, doing this, rhythm turns all these concrete things towards the light of the spirit. In the degree to which rhythm is sensuously embodied, it illuminates the spirit. Leopold Senghor, Xuman - Joal's Hommage
"My empire is that of Love, for I am weak for you, woman, Foreigner with clear eyes, lips of cinnamon apple, and a sex like a burning bush. For I am both sides of a double door, the binary rhythm of space and the third beat, I am the movement of drums, the strength of future Africa." The Kaya-Magan
I've known rivers: I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins. My soul has grown deep like the rivers. I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young. I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep. I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it. I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down. Langston Hughes
The celestial eccentricity that tap into the energy of the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year and a time that is associated with the rebirth of the sun: It's a ritual of transformation from darkness into light. It's the idea that when things seem really bleak, it is often our biggest opportunity for personal transformation.
Notice this Solstice date: 12 / 21 / 2010 In numerology this is a powerful 3/3/3. No matter what your belief system may be, this is bound to be a time of increased energy, inviting focus and intention: Envision only Peace, an end to war and poverty. Envision only Love, an end to fear. Envision only Equanimity, an end to privilege. Envision only Kindness, an end of greed. Envision the Earth Healing.
Where is sensible action, & my insanity whence? See the difference, it is from where to whence. From the church & hypocritical vestments, I take offence, Where is the abode of the Magi, & sweet wine whence? For dervishes, piety and sensibility make no sense, Where is sermon and hymn, & the violin's music whence. Upon seeing our friend, our foes put up their defense, Where is a dead lantern, & the candle of the sun whence? My eye-liner is the dust of your door and fence, Where shall I go, tell me, you command me whence? Take your focus from your chin to the trap on the path hence, Where to O heart, in such hurry you go whence? May his memory of union be happy and intense, Where are your amorous gestures, & your reproach whence? Make not restlessness & insomnia, Hafiz's sentence
The lions of war too often still roar in a world desperate for love. Fly, harmony dove, fly high in the air, end war everywhere. Where you spread your wings, happiness springs.
Tolstoy was a writer in search of Big Truths, but his ability to see reality in all its particulars destroyed the very theories he hoped to build. By entering directly into life in all its contradictions, he destroyed his own peace of mind.
As Tolstoy himself wrote, "The aim of an artist is not to solve a problem irrefutably, but to make people love life in all its countless, inexhaustible manifestations."
Contrast the artist with the economic modeler and you get something like: "The aim of the economist is to reduce life in all its countless, inexhaustible manifestations in the delusion of solving a problem irrefutably. Unfortunately, the economist's inability to see reality in all its particulars is the reason why he seeks to destroy contradictions, foster the illusion of "peace of mind" forecasting and maintain the hubris which allows him to think his model explains reality."
I guess I told you about myself to a degree just by telling you about people like me but people like me they speak politely they don't start no beef or peace... K'Naan
We, the undersigned, make this accusation: that you, the teachers of neoclassical economics and the students that you graduate, have perpetuated a gigantic fraud upon the world. You claim to work in a pure science of formula and law, but yours is a social science, with all the fragility and uncertainty that this entails. We accuse you of pretending to be what you are not.
You hide in your offices, protected by your mathematical jargon, while in the real world, forests vanish, species perish and human lives are callously destroyed. We accuse you of gross negligence in the management of our planetary household. You have known since its inception that one of your measures of economic progress, the Gross Domestic Product, is fundamentally flawed and incomplete, and yet you have allowed it to become a global standard, reported day in, day out in every form of media. We accuse you of recklessly projecting an illusion of progress. Kick It Over Manifesto
When I sing about love and war I don't really know what I'm saying. I've been in love and I've seen a lot of war. Seen a lot of people praying. They pray to Allah and they prey to the lord. But mostly they pray about love and war. I said a lot of things that I can't take back. But I don't really know if I want to. There've been songs about love. I sang songs about war..I sang for justice and I hit a bad chord. But I still try to sing about love and war. Neil Young
Human consciousness is in transition, and these transformations involve structural changes in both mind and body. In contrast to biological evolution which is an enclosing process, that particularized a species to a limited environment, unfolding of consciousness is an opening-up. Any attempt to give a direction or goal to the unfolding of awareness is illusory in that it is based upon a limited notion of time, the mental, which is linear and hence implies "progress." "Progress" is to move toward but is also a moving away from, and the question as to the fate of humanity is still open, that for it to become closed would be the ultimate tragedy, but that such a closure remains a possibility. Our fate is not assured by any notion of "an evolution toward" any kind of ideal way of being. The Ever Present Origin by Jean Gebser.
The God of the possibilities, by choosing to leave some of the future open to possibilities, allowing them to be resolved by free agents,is a God who can work with us to truly change what might have been to what should be. We are thinking, feeling, willing, personal beings only because we, like God, are beings who can reflect on and choose between possibilities. We are fully alive when we passionately seize them, adventurously explore them, and define ourselves by actualizing them, instead of resigning ourselves for an eternally settled future to happen. Because God desires to have an authentic, dynamic relationship with us as real, empowered persons, prayer is also a part of what makes us morally responsible agents. Gregory Boyd - God of the Possible.
Sema, the whirling or turning, is the gateway through which the mevlevi dervishes transcend all boundaries into a greater connection with the universe.
Until We Meet Again - A Note from Mary I know what you're thinking. You think I'm dead. Because you cannot see me with your human eye, cannot feel me with your hands or hold me in your arms, you think I am gone forever.
You recall how I looked when I left this place, and you cannot remotely imagine that I could possibly be alive in another place. You are racked and torn by the pain of our separation and it blinds you to that which is right in front of you...me.
How many times have you put yourself through such excruciating pain because you aren't willing to consider that I am not, by any means, dead? I want you to do me a favour and go back in time with me. Remember the glorious day you brought me home - was I not the most intriguing creature you'd ever met? Did I not make you laugh and giggle? Did I not look at you with such adoration that you wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of your life with me? I wanted this too.
Remember the days when I was in my prime and we did many things together. You were so proud of me! I was a good friend and I took care of you when you cried, were angry or felt down and unhappy.
When you didn't have a lot of time for me, I waited patiently for you. I was always there when you needed me. Did I not look at you with such acceptance and patience that at times you felt perhaps a bit unworthy? You were never unworthy in my eyes.
Remember when age crept up on me, my bones became stiff and my movements slower. We'd been together for so long, I was your very best friend regardless of what you were doing, saying, thinking. Did I not look at you with such kindness and understanding that you felt overwhelmed? I couldn't get enough of you.
Remember the last time we saw each other with earthly eyes. You tried to be brave but I knew you were crying... I know you so well. Better than anyone else in the whole world. Did I not look at you with such pure trust and love that you yearned only to hold me close and keep me with you always? Did you not promise that you would love me forever? I believed you.
Remember the depth in my eyes all those times I looked at you with adoration, acceptance, patience, trust and love. Who created this depth and love? Would the Creator diminish the song of our laughter which was created in the name of love? I am no longer an earthly figure, this is true. My body was only part of who I really am. My body would have been but a mere shell on earth if it were not filled to overflowing with my soul, my spirit, my loving light. When we met you thought I was cute, sweet, pretty and adorable. But what kind of relationship would we have had if this were all that I'd been? How could you have loved me if I'd had no spiritual substance?
We are all made up of energy that resides far deep down inside of us, it is our core, our soul, spirit and loving light. It is the energy that is all of life... it has no beginning, it has no end. It simply is and always will be and without it there is no life. You can't see it with the naked eye nor can you hold it in your hand, it is simply a certain knowing that this energy does exist. It's a knowing just as you know that our love existed on earth - you couldn't see our love in a solid sense, you couldn't gather it all up and confine it to one place. But you knew it existed. There was no doubt in your mind.
I came to this place to live a whole new life, not because I didn't love you anymore or because I wanted something better. I came here because it was time for me to go to the next phase of my existence, something all living creatures must do eventually. It is the normal progression of life. I was not taken away from you because you cannot take away that which was never owned. My presence in your life was and is a gift to be cherished and honoured just as I cherish and honour you.
I understand your tears, each one you shed is testament to your love for me and I am honoured and humbled. But don't forget the good things we shared - remember and smile. This is an honour for me as well. And when you need me I will be here. Close your eyes, relax, take slow, deep breaths and picture me in your mind. Shut off the world and your notions of what death is and give me a chance. Look for the subtle signs I send you. Don't stop being proud of me, I am a friend to be proud of, I am still your friend and soul mate.
Here I am, blooming as big as I am, stung by songs as by fiery bees. I heard you call me in the shining dawn, and rushed to you through night and dust and sweat. Cities and villages tore off from me. Lightning set thin fire to my old, gray home. A rain washed away the red traces. And I stood before your name, as before the blue mirror of conscience. Like flayed branches, my hands rap hastily on your bright door. My trembling and baffled eyes, like two sails, are drawn to you. Suddenly: the door is open. You're not there. Everything's gone. A poem left behind. Silly weeping. Incomprehension. Abraham Sutzkever
When every heart joins every heart and together yearns for liberty, That's when we'll be free. When every hand joins every hand and together moulds our destiny, That's when we'll be free. Any hour any day, the time soon will come when we will live in dignity, That's when we'll be free. When everyone joins in our song and together singing harmony, That's when we'll be free. Dione Taylor sings Oscar Peterson's Hymn To Freedom.
Who am I? Am I a part of an imperialist creation destined never to advance, enduring extreme poverty amid widespread graft that makes a handful of people wealthy, or a nation still in the difficult terrain of nation building? The many acolyte questions that stream from this mother vine yard of my Nigerian experience are endless. Akintunde Akinleye.
The life force that supports your creative evolvement is the same that holds an atom in its space and earth in space. That life force has one universal principle: to be ever-evolving, ever-expanding, ever-becoming. Your life's purpose for all time has been to experience life and to learn from it and to refine and integrate what you have learned back into the principle called life. Your true Self resides within the deepest part of you, where you are connected to the pure intelligence of the Universal Mind. The ultimate goal of your evolution is to reclaim your freedom from all physical and non-physical psychological structures, attachments, veils and unconscious persuasions that binds you to limited thinkings and divisive reactions and to understand what causes them or how they arise. Cultivate an open yet discriminating mind that seeks awareness and continual expansion of itself.
Your treasures are hidden in the ruins of my heart and my path to the tavern has now become sacred space. Speak not of disgrace; that's my fame and my base. And fame and high place, I despise and debase. Drunk and disconcerted and demented and deceived. Show me one who's not, within our town and our race. Fault not the pious one, because he, also, like us, is seeking love and grace, in his own way, at his own pace. Hafiz, wine in hand, always your lover embrace 'Cause flowers and joy fill this festive time and space.
His life was so simple he had no disguise. He lived day to day, no promise he would stay, but in these few words he stole my heart away. He said: My life's not to lead through power or greed. I am but a poor man when I'm cut I bleed. A more humble man you never will meet and here is my heart for only you to keep. No scholarly thoughts, he couldn't pay high costs. And sometimes it feels like he's totally lost. But he said this true and he said it loud: I promise you my heart with this solemn vow. Blackmore's Night - Peasant's Promise
George Ohsawa's Seven Principles: 1) All things being differentiations of one Infinity. Everything tangible and distinguishable arises out of the intangible and indistinguishable (undifferentiated), call it God or Infinity or whatever you like. All things arise from this Infinity, exist in it, and therefore embody at least something of the nature of Infinity. In everyday terms, maybe the creation of a human embryo gives us some hint of this process: it begins as a single, undifferentiated cell, divides and divides and divides (still undifferentiated cells), then, at various points of development, certain groups of cells differentiate to form particular organs, limbs, etc.
2) Everything changes. Even when a thing may appear unchanging for a period of time, changes are happening; for example, we may appear the same from one day to the next, but millions of unseen changes are going on in every cell of our bodies - new cells being created, old ones dying, etc. 3) All antagonisms are complementary. Where there is no conflict, there is also no harmony. Where there is no contradiction, there is also no agreement. Therefore, every thesis is progressing towards antithesis in order to synthesize and create a new thesis.
4) There is nothing identical. No two things are the same thing. Even if two things are exactly alike, the fact is that they occupy different points in space and/or time.
5) What has a front has a back. Every time you inhale, you then have to exhale. What goes up, eventually comes down.
6)The bigger the front, the bigger the back.
7) What has a beginning has an end: birth-death; formation-decomposition; poverty-wealth; meeting-separating; having-losing, etc.
Sing a Song for Basra - David Rovics; I am overburdened with agonies. My homeland knocks nightly on my door. Should I open it? I, running away impetuously from the narcissism of wars. I, a firm believer in day break with no grudges, as well as that shrivelling tremble before the onset of dusk. Basim Furat
Let your body become the music. Let her sing. Let your pen walk in the twilight between consciousness and unconscious. There, it will find such images, such ideas as you could never find. – Marion Woodman, Coming Home to Myself
Mali has brought to the world so many extraordinary musicians including Toumani Diabate, Bassekou Kouyate, Djelimady Tounkara, Kasse Mady Diabate: AfroCubism - Jarabi
And I say: In the far away there is something calling for remembrance. In the cities exhausted by the sea I dump my dreams. I have souvenirs from wars. And from cities' wounds I have the tears of reeds, The sighs of date trees, The revelation of oranges The blood of myrtle.
God and I are alone. There is an eternity seeking shelter in me, and forgetfulness abandons me leaving the smell of bombardment in the corridors of my life.
Childhood that was darkened by poverty and orphanage is here scoffing at me, at my life now darkened by war and exile. Wherever I lie, I find the Euphrates lying beside me, extending its dreams to me. Dreams crammed with bombs and sirens I wake up and roam the streets weakened by memories.
War also has its songs, those that drenched the bosoms of mothers with wailing and anxiety. Windows wide open for waiting with no-one approaching. Doors eroded by sadness and whose steps are crumbling. Dreams dragged along the streets. Oh streets, when will I see ...the death procession of my grief? Pale streetlights exhausted by the frost
Just as prophets and holy books emanated from you wars have always failed you. And you found yourself outside the borders of home and once you thought of home you were swallowed by exile. You blow your years and ashes is what you find and scared that your dignity might be buried.
There's no south behind me so I can say: Here's my homeland. Nor is there south in front of me to cut through I am the absolute south equipped with a long history of war and tragedy.
Stripped me naked in the forbidden land, my night is filled with details of the barracks, the nighttimes password, the officer on duty, and the death squads
And I say: Oh gasp of the two rivers to shake hands with my alienation. Should I set my roots on fire? And cast thirty years out to the sea to make a feast for the fish. Do I have to take off my shirt which is full of bombs, insults and sanctions to be embraced by a sky that doesn’t belong to me. And I say: Oh gasp of the two rivers in the far away cities there is something calling for remembrance. In the distant lands exhausted by the sea I dump my dreams I have souvenirs from wars and from cities wounds.
"I think that as humans, we need to consider the way that our work affects others, and have an understanding of exactly why we are permitted to photograph horrific scenes or the worst moments of a person’s life. If the goal is to elucidate and to contribute to our appreciation of the value of a life, then that to me would be relevant... but we can't commodify truth. Commodity and knowledge are mutually exclusive ideas" Andy Levin
Emilio Morenatti has a unique, sensitive eye. He is a master of light and color, framing and narrative. But does the beauty of Emilio Morenatti’s picture actually obscure its meaning? Does a "pure art" photograph exploit the subject and deceive the viewer? If so, at what cost? And who pays? Is a "beautiful" photograph offensive to the subject if they are suffering?
I heard it in the sizzle and fizz of beer and burgers the toneless music of commerce played deep in the belly of the malls. But it's what I didn't hear that bothers me today. I heard no songs of peace sung in competition to the drums and bugles. I saw no crowds gather to sing not only of an America that is good, but of an America that could be better.
Hearing bombast in the music of a people trapped by war, I couldn't help thinking... that most Americans just cannot empathize with those at war, because they've never been in one. They know it only through the sophistry of self-sustaining politicians, or in the false bravado of screeching hawks.
Recall is the aftermath of war that wounds the soul, and a veteran can never again walk free from the shadow it casts. War reminds its aging sons what it was like to be death's companion. The memories come in nightmares that gallop through the darkness, or in flashes of horror that fire through the head at unexpected moments; while driving, while dining, while listening to music, while playing with children, while watching a movie, while making love.
They - we - share the music of America in different ways, adding to an anniversary observed with flags and bugles by reminding those clapping to the beat of anthems that the downside of patriotic music is often a moan.
Listen closely and you'll hear the discord of human pain trailing through compositions that stir the soul. The last bugle to play will sound taps. It will be as much for a culture diminished by war as it is for a soldier who dies in one. Al Martinez
