Happy Anniversary with WordPress.com! They say to me WordPress
You registered on WordPress.com 7 years ago. They say to me, you know,
Thanks for flying with us. Keep up the good blogging. They say congrats
You see, Dear reader that just followed me, it’s refreshing to know that someone out there on the web likes you on WordPress.com, and is following your blog and what you do has a meaning although it’s not extra, extra, but for me it’s important and it’s enough, to keep me writhing on some things of little importance like a Goldfinch.
So thank you for reading, and thank you WordPress for hosting me all these years , without you Mackeen, the Algerian Goldfinch didn’t fly elsewhere
“Free you mind, and let it soar over the common believes _ Kalimelo “
It has been a year since I wrote my last post, I didn’t touch a pen since then. Meanwhile, I took a sabbatical year, in that it was for some reasons. I lost my mother last year, and It was her anniversary a week ago, and then nothing for me had any more importance. I returned there for the funerals, the goldfinch had disappeared from the landscape longtime ago, and many more of small things with it also, that made the vista more beautiful to look at under an avalanche of sun, it’s like having bearings, and anchors for some sailor-like, to which he returns to his port-d’attache, now and then; in my early career, I was a flight-attendant for decades, you know what I mean.
It was the nostalgia of memories from childhood sightseeing, longtime beautifully grounded in your mind. For sure, there was something missing in the neighborhood, that -je-ne-sais-quoi that cognate together before, besides The red wheelbarrow and the white chicken that were always there, like you say, each time that I return home for a visit to my mother. Then, she told me then about the updates, sadly sometimes when that person had passed away, and then a moment after, the sweet little gossips of her about who get married, and so and so, of which I listen to her religiously with deft-ear, but just to please her, while she showed proudly her plants and flowers that so much depend on the red wheelbarrow, and the white chickens that gather around her feet at the sound of her voice calling them” petits, petits, gourmet, gourmet,” each time they saw her in the backyard with a bowl of crumbs in her hands .
But then, that Je-ne sais-quoi was still hanging in the background in my mind when I came back from there on my way to the buzz of working life, like a piece of a puzzle missing in a big picture, a broken pixel in screen computer, and then its presence or absence was already forgotten in the multitude of pictures floating in front of your eyes. With time, the numbers of missing pieces added to each other’s, and the picture of the landscape fast-changed to a patchwork of urban architectural design and remains of rural grooves. I stared at a vintage portico standing still denoting to something from the past characteristic to the best time of the Fahss work that will be swept by the shovel in a moment, and a pane of history with it.
Then came the pungent moment of back to reality, when I stood in front of the tomb of my mother to pay her a tribute, it was in the small cemetery of the leafy town; the cemetery was once hidden among olive-trees, bordered with Cyprus trees, and surrounded by grapes vineyards and grooves like in Napa Valley, that shrunk to a handkerchief perimeter of greenery. In a moment of silence, it was only the wind that flutes with the olive-trees small leaves like when a flock of birds took a flight from the ground just when someone approaches them. But there were no birds, they have muted from chirping, and had gone long time ago, like Mackneen the Algerian Goldfinch that once proliferated in the region; and Mother was the last elder in town of the few number elderly that were hanging around, like you say the last of the Fahss people who inhabited the flatlands and meadows, like the tribe of the last of the Mohicans.
With her, a style and a way of life meld with fairy tales, of a thousand and one-night book, ogres, and clever heroes, and idling princess on shams and ottoman living behind closed-door of sultan citadel had gone.
so much depends
a red wheel
glazed with rain
beside the white
_W. C. Williams
So just what was the deal with that red wheelbarrow and whose white chickens? and goldfinch. It has no importance now…
The poet accomplishes his design instinctively, but at the same time with knowledgeable awareness in him; knowledge has become a second instinct, and during the design of the poem, knowledge works in him as if it were nature alone. When the work is almost completed, when the inspiration has pronounced its will, then, and only then, does the knowledge become conscious knowledge once again.
—Edith Sitwell, A Poet’s Notebook
Quote of day, in response, with Courtesy to Mr. Nevala Lee
_Knowledge is limited, Imagination encircles the World. _Albert Einstein
Knowledge is not enough by itself, this is acquired through learning, it’s not innate to the mind, and perfected, although it becomes an automatism, and a second instinct for a poet, he needs Inspiration, and Imagination, rather than learned from experiences, and besides to it his muse, be it Clio, or one of the eight other muses. To be inspired, for a writer, to find le- mot-juste, for a musician the right note that puts all things together in harmony , to a symphony , and for painter, the light in a given time of the day, to fix that moment precisely on a canvas, and for them, it’s only at that instant that one’s unleashes his imagination, The poet finally comes up with a work in a few words, that we call it a poem, a unique master piece. _Kalimelo
When you get to put pen to paper, that moment, when you start writing, you are in a phase of trance or sort, as though you are just experiencing an emotional trauma at hand of a blanc page. Holding your pen at the end of your fingers, like a scalpel, to desiccate your mind thought of the moment. You are giving birth in silence to an idea that your mind got pregnant of, a thought turlupining you every when, and then, always carried on through your whole life. That project, which I was inspired by longtime ago, it was my father’s own life experiences, it was when in a moment of a complete discourage, he just experienced a failure, he was standing up in front of me. That day he declared to me in an instance, he was at the summit of his pain, then like a boxing hero putting his gloves down completely denuded from his courage, and in his struggle to mask his suffering; he shed then a tear, like it was a speck, from his tear duct, and said to me: ” if only I know how to write, I would fill a thousand books, if I could recount my torments to the mute, he muttered without a stammer, and if I tell my pain to ear of the river, it will flood to the ocean …”
“I Write Because…”:
Because, he gave me a chance to go to school. You have to understand that… The first time, it was when I went to the Medersa of the small dwellings, in the suburbs, at the out-skirts of Algiers, the place where I was living. It was back then, to the time of the French colonies, when France ruled in Algeria. Because, he never went to school, and because in this time of cholera, when you reach fourteen years old, you had to drop off school, and your were sent to the meadows shepherding of herd of sheep. Because , secondo, and three, when and just after the country got its Independence from France, my father had to paid for school, because I was fourteen years old, and too old for the age of middle-school classes, and not having enough credits and knowledge for the upper-classes; but because I was fourteen, and finally, I was considered already being a man then. And I was at an age to be capable to understand my Man, so he felt he could tell me something that he never declared intimately to anyone else.
Life would be a secret; I felt like a pact that was sealed between us, a promise that I could concrete one day, when I will be ready to finish that vow he did to himself. That moment, when it came, I felt like an uneasily Procrustean…
While doing so, I felt an uneasily procrustean : Here and there, limbs of the manuscript needed to be stretched, and elsewhere a protruding foot might be lopped off, if all the episodes were to be edited into a single, coherent, continuous work.
John Callahan, “Afterword: A Note to Scholars,” Juneteenth, by Ralph Ellison, 1999
Frist, I was goofing around, like anyone else in New York, with Daily Post Prompts, and all of nowhere, years after putting my feet on the ground, the (planchet-des-vaches), on the ground, or the plank of cows, translated: I was a flight attendant then, goofing around the world, here and there, then and all of a sudden, now I started gushing up right here, within this blog.
And_”It all started, more or less, something like this… “_Kurt Vonnegut
To be continued …if you like to read more, care to come back to my place for a little Dickens, or a Mark Twin’s?
Sometimes, you may say to yourself, “I think I over do, now,” by using the same terms over and over, people get tired of the blah, at the end _ yadayada, I know, but trying to grab some audiences, it’s hard for a blogger, everyone knows that, and everyone looks for it. Not that I need it. There are some causes, ideals, Aristotelianism, are lost in advance, I knew it the moment I started blogging. It’s not a self-flagellation either, but it was an awareness of the moment; the disappearance of a species, but the welfare of a bird, it’s the least concern today.
That is, when you feel like you have exhausted, when all the possible and imaginary means, using the Prompts of the day, quotes, poetry from poets, and writers… You’re about to throw the towel. Then, sometimes, by just listening to a song, like the one ” Drift Away” from Rod Stewart. Then, you have the declic, it puts you back on tracks
Day after day, I’m more confused
Yet I look for the light through the pourin’ rain
You know that’s a game that I hate to loose
And I’m feelin’ the strain, ain’t it a shame
Oh, give me the beat boys and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock ‘n’ roll and drift away
Oh, give me the beat boys and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock ‘n’ roll and drift away
Beginnin’ to think that I’m wastin’ time
I don’t understand the things I do
The world outside looks so unkind
Now I’m countin’ on you to carry me through*
Yet, this is it, You get then, a feeling, that you want to fling to the world, your plea,
_”Give me the beats boys, and free my soul,I wanna get lost in your conversation, and lost in translation, and drift away.”
_”Give me the courage to persevere writing, blogging, and posting, for a noble cause to save an endangered bird from disappearing.”
Because it has been five years in the making of Mackneen, The Algerian Goldfinch blog, that I’m blogging and posting, posts after posts, through the Internet, and WordPress, to make my call inviting people to join my conversation, to get the bird, tha Goldfinch, namely, free from the cage, from all the cages around the world.
Because, when you write, it’s your voice that you hear, your silent monologue settles inside your mind, you want to shout it out load what you have in your gusts, and you want to get out the hell of it those itching words that are elbowing against each other’s, who to come first to the open, to put it down to paper, at the view of the common reader, and accepting be critiqued, for you audacity, and daring to compose and post such non-sense. Like this one, such as.
It’s insane, I know, but I am not the only one, there is a lot of celebrities out there, they went, like Don Quixote De La Pampa, battling against the windmills, but more than a daydream, they make it their cause, like the French Actress Brigitte Bardot, defending the seals against their abusive massacre, and many more others, Ushuaia, We discover each day that million of species are almost disappearing from the surface of the earth.
So, I learned more, thence in my quest of sources to support my cause than, I expected, in my own beliefs, that the cause has the merits to be consistent, and true, that is not being a utopia, a euphoric chimera of the mind. When you know that the name Goldfinch is deeply anchored in the sub-conscience of the people through the ages, be it religious beliefs, like in Christian literatures or propane rites and customs and not merely folks traditions, by only checking into Wikipedia.
when you know that John Kavanagh, Keats, Dona and the list is long , to cite just few, had the privilege to be the predecessors in evoking the goldfinch in their poems, and proses, in their essays and masterpiece, than I believe that it worth borne identity of El Mackneen, the Algerian Goldfinch, even it was futile and elusive matter of blogging about.
When you get to know that a writer has a Noble Price, like Dona Tart, a novel that has a name of the goldfinch, it’s no shame to kvel well up. So, although it was just a dream at it début , yet it has been already five years that I blog under the name of Macknee, The Algerian Goldfinch, may be one day, it comes to light.
It’s time to free my mind, and uncage my imagination.
_knowledge is limited, imagination encircles the world, Einstein
It’s not the cage that encircles the idea. It’s the mind, free your mind, and let is soar above the common beliefs.
Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop
From low hung branches; little space they stop;
But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek;
Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: 90
Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings
Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
Peering at things through my window, while I was taking my breakfast, at just that moment the screen door opened and my mom threw out a basin of water, it flashed through the air and struck the ground where the light spilled throw the window. A thousand gliming goldfinches lifted from the bushes of thistles in the garden, the instant the water hit the ground, and fell back the instant forward, like an oriental silk carpet, thrown by a rugs merchant in front of you.
A charm of goldfinches, that came from nowhere, stopped by like by enchantment, and disappeared the second after, they fed their hunger, a flew a way to fell again down on the railroad paling, at a distance. You can see miles from here.
The goldfinches on the railway paling were worth looking at A man might imagine then Himself in Brazil and these birds the birds of paradise
I took my bag, and I went outside, going my way to school.
_ T’was by a lovely morning
_ When the summertime came
_ and just before that school closed
_ Going my way nice and easy, in deed
_ suddenly, I felt inside of me something bleed
_ making my day not so bright
_ a surge of tears, an urge to cry, in despair
_ I had none, something to tell, or to whom to write,
_ nor to recite, this piece of poetry, nor pair
_ that’s when sometimes you got the blues
_ and you had the heart torn away, too loose.
_ I encarved our hearts into a trunk of a tree,
_ At the fork of two roads, I lingered to think,
_ I decided, but to choose that day
_ the one not I always take,
_ I stopped by a river bank, at the school of cutting classes,
where you play at hide, and seek, by the bushes
_ where you learnt the tools of the trades,
the arts and crafts, those small things of life,
state-of-art, of everything,
_ things that people envy you for, gossip about and jibe,
_ but silently wish to do, and dare never did.
_ Sweet sixteen, smoking cigs, makes you feel not at ease,
_ just because to showing off, among friends,
and but just to please.
_ What had left, at last, of things that had to pass,
but then when there is no more of such sweet thing,
_ of see you later, I love you and for forever, alas
_ who fancy, to tell me how? That’s all was fake
_ you, who knows love, where and how to take
_ “and I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,
_ Not honey to make, nor pair, no build or sing”
_ It was all about love, and understanding.
_ Bitterly, this is it, C’est la vie, yes I learnt
_ By the road not always that people took,
_ I went to see the railroads men, and departing train.
_ with pain in my heart, and the day it mights rain
_ I will tell you such, and such where the joy
_ tears, laughter, sorrow, and pain, my friend
_ a broken heart, a wounded limb of a lit’l boy
On a milestone, by the railway I sat
I basked at the swarm of Goldfinches paling
were worth looking at,
Then all my pain in my heart I forget
An old man came to my way, then he said
Hey, little man, look at them
Aren’t they beautiful, like sunshine paling
A man might imagine then
Himself in Brasil and these birds the birds of Paradise
I don’t know Brasil, I said and where it is
And the old man , what he said and who he was
But I felt warm in heart, and cool like i was in Paradise
“In the poem The Great Hunger by Patrick Kavanagh, the goldfinch is one of the rare glimpses of beauty in the life of an elderly Irish farmer:_ the poem above, at the top of the page”
In #RememberanceDayforLostSpecies I dedicated this blog, some 5 years, in an attempt to bring to attention of readers in Algeria in particular, where the Algerian Goldfinch is endangered.
I launched an SOS , like a message in a bottle into the sea:
Save the Algerian goldfinch!
When you write, who is watching you?
It’s true, that for a poet, he has his own muse, Erato, a musician his own muse it’s Melpomene, but Calliope, the muse for a writer, she never shows up when he needs her the most, she is whimsical at times. So we are always fascinated, in our quest, by the blanc of a page, waiting for the moment when inspiration strikes, and we forget to look around, to things that we treasures for the longest, they are witnesses of our moments in life, or some we lost, that is_
“Somewhere, those poor things must still be knocking about”__Constantine Cavafy
It has been in the traditions of to many countries, and their cultures as well , for the longest as we can go back in to the past, in the history of literature, in humanities, we find that people has an intimated affection for the goldfinch, in particular, either through the religious interpretation of icons, in Arts, like in Christianity, referring to biblical scriptures, or for the profane, in the folklore, and artisanal arts and crafts, in poetry, and in writing prose.
I had a photo of a pet, a Bird, The Goldfinch, that I took while I was in Algiers, I framed it and put it on top of a corner of the TV furniture, just facing me, on the spot, usually where I use to sit to write. It had a sad look, it seemed like, it wanted to tell me something, like bagging me, for a plea, each time I look at it.
I couldn’t bring a caged bird with me, on board the airplane, 5 years ago, when I returned home because, simply it’s insane, for, imagine having a cage bird inside the cabine, or put in the belly of the plane with the luggage, for 10 to 14 hours, it’ll be dead at the arrival. Secondo, not only its prohibited and a protected species, but with all hustle of authorised documents, and vaccines, and with the flu bird, forget it. I resigned one’s mind and gave the bird as a souvenir from me to cousin, then.
So I gave up after that on the breeding thing. And the very idea to have a pet bird.
I get inspired by two WordPress prompts, “Witness, and Last Call! commenting Boot camp.”
Here, with the same post below, that I posted 4 years ago, it was my fist blog, the story is:
It all started, more or less, like this_
Dear readers, يا اللاحبا ب ، و ىا لولاد ,
Chers amis , l'heure est grave, time is running out,
El_Mackeen, The Goldfinch, the Elegant Chardoneret Parva est en voie de disparition,
the bird is endangered, and in its way of disappearance, do you know that?
Dear friends in Algeria , let's do it, let's make it happens!
Let's make the first day of spring un event, let it be the day of El Mackneen
At first glance, five years ago, it’s looked like gibberish, for anyone who has stumbled upon my blog, accidentally, or in purpose, he got there by chance, looking for some kind of, a matter of inspiration, he might said, “what is this!”, and passed on in a click, to the next blog. Continue reading Save the Algerian goldfinch!
Fly, baby, fly!
My Favorite Oject of blogging today is this: Mackneen, The Algerian Golfinch, my first blog has Five Years of existence!
The reason why I started it is, The Daily Prompt of that day was: if it was given to you to choose an exceptional topic for an anniversary day, what is It?
So, credit is where credits are due, it has been five years, that I was bringing back and forth, to attention to the reader, that many endangered species are in their way of disappearance, among them, Mackneen, The Algerian Goldfinch.
A Name, though it seems a superficial and outward matter, yet it carrieth much impression and enchantment.__Francis Bacon
So, with time, it has a name, the idea made its way through blogging, and today: Voila!
This is it: Mackeen, the Algerian Goldfinch blog has an Anniversary: thank you WordPress.com!
5 Year Anniversary Achievement
Happy Anniversary with WordPress.com!
You registered on WordPress.com 5 years ago!
Thanks for flying with us. Keep up the good blogging!
All my pleasure! Thank you too, for considering featuring my blog, actually I dedicated initially it to the cause for protecting the endangered bird; The Goldfinch, El Mackeen, from the anarchical cage breeding that It was exposed to in Algeria, it became really endangered; thanks to the Algerians Services for the protection of the environment, it’s now became a protected species and it is forbidden to capture, and caged it
Thanks extra large
So, dear reader,
You are holding my achievement in your hands,
please send me your feeds, and don’t forget to click on ” like” button, and “follow” my blog, it’s for a good cause, and a beautiful ideal