Thursday, May 24, 2007

plum bumps in the jungle

more new beads...

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plum bumps - mashed bits of light silver plum, silver foil and a pressed blob on each side of dark silver plum.

those of you who know me - and fear my shopping - know that i junk up some stupid stuff.

bolstered by the response to to the weirdsville paintings i think i will occasionally post some of my best finds. and here is one of my all time favorites -

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a novel, "Congo Song" by Stuart Cloete, 1943

from the cover:
"Alone in a society of men on the equator, Olga Le Blanc is occupied by her lovers, her tame gorilla, and her own good looks."

a little something from the book:

Chapter 5, The Gorilla

"The mind of a gorilla is the mind of a gorilla. But the mind of a gorilla that had drunk woman's milk is the mind of a gorilla that had drunk woman's milk. It is conditioned. Not only by the heredity of the forest, but by circumstances that are human.

Also, Congo was male. Not yet fully, but approaching maleness, aware of an unease that caused him to flex himself, to extend his arms, to test his strength by lifting objects, by breaking them. He was unaware that he belonged to Olga. In his opinion Olga belonged to him. She was an extension of himself, of that personality which existed within him. When he was with her, he was happy. He felt completed, though restless. Alone he was unhappy.

His eyes were on the prodder that leant beside the bath. To him the prodder was GOD. It was power. The prodder and the snake were the only things he feared.

If it had not been for the prodder, he would have lifted Olga out of the bath. He did not like her to be in it. It might hurt her. He did not know why, but there was a memory of water. Water was dangerous. This extension of himself should not be immersed in it. There were many memories in his mind, half-formed pictures of hanging lianas... of branches, of great leaves dripping with moisture, of fruits, of nuts, of fat white grubs. Sometimes he had a pain in his chest. It seemed as if it would burst. Then his eyes were suffused with blood and he beat upon it with his fists, That was at first.

Later her had come to enjoy the sound he made as he hammered at it. One day he know what he would do. One day he would tear down those posts that closed in his windows. One day he would catch someone passing by the arm. One day... His strength was mounting; he was gorilla, almost a man. How nearly he had missed being man, no one would ever know: some accident some million or so years ago: a sport, or the lack of it. But he came near. No one knew how near. No one know anything of him: of his emotions, his pains, or of his desires.

He loved Olga, an extension of himself. His mother.

He liked the smell of geranium.

His belly was full and his heart, and he was strong, happy in his fullness and his strength.

Soon she would dry herself. He did not like that either. She might get hurt.

He did not like the prodder or the snake. Sometime she frightened him with the snake. There were memories of snakes in his heart.

He took off his cap and twisted it in his hands. Olga said "No, Congo." He put it back on his head."

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