Lost Tribes Re-edit
By blackjack-davey
- 4811 reads
Of all the mutations central to human development, the schizophrenic gene, the ability to hear voices, the desire to make comparisons about nothing—we can say what things are like but we can say next to nothing about the thing itself—whatever that is – nothing is greater than the hunter-ditherer.
What we know from the small settlement outside Avignon is next to nothing. A hunter-ditherer weary of chasing the mastodon through swamp and pasture, with an ankle injury more likely caused by dancing than a sharpened flint, holed up in a cave. He no longer foraged for blueberries, drawing the line at tracking winter elk through the river valley. Instead he took up face painting. Part-time. Chewing on an aphrodisiac root that made his legs tremble he developed a whole new anti-motivational philosophy.
His cruder spear-hurling cousins decided at some point to leave him alone—something that would be impossible today. They let him do his thing. They let him dither. One day he decided to grade stones according to their smoothness. Next he tried to extract the sting from nettles as an early morning pick-me–up. Not that he ever saw the cold Palaeolithic dawn with the great behemoths wreathed in smoke, trumpeting their sad and celibate cries across the forest.
Unable to finish anything he moved on: a bit of casual groping in the settlement, some half-hearted love-making when he would stop in the middle, distracted by dragonflies hovering in the cave entrance. While the alpha males were out wrestling mammoths, beating their breasts in meaningless macho rituals of co-operation and violence—rituals you still see today on every street corner—he was left with the women and had ample time to impregnate the tribe. Besides, he was a good listener. Delousing his wives and lovers he made encouraging sounds, ‘of course you can have a go at cave painting… why not try a little antelope? That’s really good for a first attempt...’
He thought about other cave painting (while painting his toe nails red) and this thing he couldn’t communicate – the dance of blood and fire behind his eyes. Someone had painted shapes on the inside of his skull from the time before and he grew dizzy. Nobodaddy, the original lost father, the voice in the void, commanded him to plan a mural of fronds and feathered explosions but first to wait for a nice sunny day. The weather wouldn’t break and he gorged himself on raw acorns and gave himself up to a new love affair.
Considered a bit of a joke by his flesh-eating brothers he subtly undermined their confidence in the old chest-beating ways. Like male relatives today who, when they meet, enact the ritual of the road route, telling you of a new cut through that has reduced their journey time, demonstrating their fitness to read maps and therefore reproduce at the next opportunity it only takes one yawn from the man who arrives late by bicycle – late because he saw something interesting in a hedgerow – for the thing itself, whatever that is, to rear its head and make everyone consider that the turns offs and by ways may be the most important part of the journey.
We can only surmise at his temporary exile from the settlement and study the scented candles and massage oil buried in a quarry further south. Was he sent out to pick redcurrants before being waylaid by bands of light on the rushes? Did he wander among the redwoods, the avenues abuzz with giant dragonflies, fascinated by his fingernails, holding his hand to the light breaking through the treetops in a game of peek-a-boo with cosmic forces? The realization too, as he saw the crescent moons and white cuticles, that he was part of the same profligate force, the tightly wound mechanism that at conception begins producing hair, nails and teeth, pushing through gums and mud and riverbanks, grinding and clawing at clods of earth until the fingers curl.
***
Whatever happened to the settlement at Avignon? Well, as I said almost next to nothing is known but clearly a decision had to be made about the tribe’s future as the long summer afternoon came to an end. The ice age froze up the river valley and the elk pushed further south. The hunter-ditherer didn’t leave. In all likelihood he was a prisoner. He poked about the cave, packing his shells and bracelets, sorted through his dyes and pigments. Wrapped in borrowed furs he stood by the cave entrance snuffing up that last golden day. A giant iguana inflated his ruff at the huge rock hurtling past the sun and shuffled past. He looked into those dark reptile eyes and saw the flash of sunlight striking quartz and the cold of cliff tops and then summer was gone.
What was discovered among the bear droppings and leaky bowls were a set of calcified toe nails, carefully painted. Toe nails painted to measure time passing as the nail pushes the paint to the very edges.
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Comments
I'd keep that Nobodaddy para,
I'd keep that Nobodaddy para, BJD. Sorry if that's contradictory. The lucky alignment of lizards is a keeper. Technically, it could go if you need to chop off words but it justifies the lethargy, underlines how horizontal and slow thinking he is. Celt will have better editorial advice, expect he'll be along soon.
Crafty: 'Considered a bit of a joke by his flesh-eating brothers he subtly undermined their confidence in the old chest-beating ways.'
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Wonderfully dreamy, I love it
Wonderfully dreamy, I love it. Oddly and honestly I have a dithery brother who lives just outside Avignon...
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He dithers in his own tiny,
He dithers in his own tiny, tiny theatre (of course), http://www.chapeaurougeavignon.org/ perhaps we could do an ABCtales event there one day...
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deep in his skull there were
deep in his skull there were other cave paintings. i.e. he thought about other cave paintings (and painting toe nails red). even cod anthropoloigists would dither over dreams and/or visions would dither over that. But if you changed the register and try instead cod Nomodaddy, the orginal father, commanded him to plan murals of genitals and frond and feathered explosions, but to wait for a nice sunny day and the alignment of...
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take a look at Banksy's mock
take a look at Banksy's mock image (stoneage man pushing a shopping trolley) planted in some art collection, it would be perfect for your mock heroics.
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