First sight|From atop

From atop of my three-apples tall
Quote; Courtesy to: Mr. Alec Nevala-Lee

 _”From atop of my three-apples tall”_Kalimelo.

I was not taller than three-apples, staked one atop of another, oh! _ I just turned seven or nine years old, then_ from the hilltop, I could see the world brand new; my first sight of it from there, standing on the hilltop, and stress-free. Thither or hither, on the other side of the hill; It was like putting a stool to glance from a window into the outside, at the peer of things.


I stood tip-toe upon a little hill
The air was cooling, and so very still
_John Keats

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.

— J. D. Salinger

But wait,  unless you don’t want to know further more and nor continue reading,

“All this happened, more or less

_Kurt Vonnegut, The Slautherhouse-five

So I confess. I am sixty-two now, and having nothing published yet_apart from, a few blogs that I posted now and then. You see, I’m not enough talented as of those   great writers cited above, I quoted, I am not sure where to start my story, neither  pretend to claim  here that I have the tenth of their art. That is, out there, many  writers would kill for a sentence like this_ “All this happened, more or less”, but it just humbled myself to get in to the gist of it,  to start, when I aim to write. So this is a bag of tales that I will unfold before your eyes.

Thanks, to Mr. Alec Nevala-Lee’s Quote, on the picture above _”Clensed by hilltop winds”

_ That is, when I read it, it  recalled instantly  to my mind, a place of my childhood, and souvenirs I treasured,  a place in which I found  dear and  cognate companionship in this wilderness, so many years back then. On the thither downhill side of life, at the age of seven or nine  years old, I was too young then to meditate; and only I was there standing still from the edge of the cliff so high that gives you a vertigo if you look down to you feet, my ears cleansed by the winds, with my little two eyes, wide-opened_”that one could hang his hat to them_Mark Twain,” to contemplate the vista, on the other side of the crests of hill, where you could see only the tops of the skyscrapers emerging from the top of the greenery, imagine the tall of the pines trees then, but you could just hear the tumult of the city, as I stood there! intrigued by the roar, and fascinated by the grand view, waiting  for the firing of the Big Gun in the not too far city of Algiers, at bird’s flight; in that time of yore, the Bang was used to announce the Iftar, to break fasting; a costume of the last century, inherited from The Janissairies , the guards of The Ottomans, rulers of Algiers of Old. It was a signal for Moselmeens to break their fasting,  on the first day of Ramadan;  then, it was to break the fast with a syrupy piece of Zalabia, an oriental pastries, (you can find it at an Indian foods store, at Jackson Heights). I was holding it with the tips of my fingers, the syrup running in my hand, waiting to eat it at the main moment of the bang. With Life yet to live, ahead of you,  our main interest was to be happy as much as we could.

The Settings:

The place, called_ Le Caillou, literally  “The stone”, in French, and “El Hajarah,” in Arabic, hence its name, people learnt by rote from generation to generation, since ancient times. It is a flat rock capping the hilltop, that people used it as watchtower for observing the birth of the new moon on Ramadan’s Eve, and for many other purposes,  like a place where to lizard  on it enjoying the lasting rays in Fall,  for picnics in Spring, and looking for freshness and some relief from the heath, in Summer nights. It ended  abruptly at the edge  of the ridge in  to a cliff, five to ten feet aplomb below. Then, at its feet there was the  courtyard of my grandparents’ adobe house with a terra-cotta tiled roof. It was a pleasure for us to lay on top of the Caillou, a sort of secondhand natural roof extension to the house, from where you can see the Milky Way, and sleep over night under the sheltering sky, waiting for a chance to see The Holy Night of Fate, the twenty-seventh night eve of Ramadan, according to the Quran, and to make a wish, a once in your life that would be exhausted. A Saint Elmo lights like  the one people seemed to  see now and then. At a distance, the horizon line on the other side hilltop was barred by a green bank of pine-trees, and only the imagistic  towering half-moon  building  of the Shell Petroleum  Cie, with its hundreds of windows touched by the lasting rays of the sunset was shining alone,  and seemed  to protruded in to the sky like two gold fingers over the flowed greenery fence. Out of curiosity,  seeing that it intrigued me, my grandpa told me that what you see beyond the forest, it is a building, a pile of houses built ones on each other’s, and at the feet of the building, there was the trove, the state of art, the city Le Paradou. I asked him  what is it, he said: ” Le Paradou, in French, it means a small paradise, and far beyond it, there is a sea down the mount: the faint roar rising, the blow of a toot, now and then, and the tumult you may sometimes hear in the evening, all that  is coming from there, and  at the foothill: Algiers; a big city, where the Big Gun will be fired, soon, ending  by then the fasting of the day, and then you can eat your Zelabiah.” I stood there absorbed  with my thoughts_I couldn’t imagine that Paradise was made of houses; the Taleb, the teacher at the madrassa told us that Paradise in the Quran  was  like  meadows, orchards with all sort of fruits, and rivers of  nectar  delightful taste to drink, running though it. There is a legend  and a costume about fasting on the month of Ramadan that still existed a longtime  ago, after the Ottomans Empire was gone, but there is no more of use of it  today.

The  legend is, The Machine Gun” Baba Merzoug“: The guardian of the Bay of Algiers; the  unique master piece of artillery in the Mediterranean Sea in the time of the Ottomans Empire ago, it measures seven meters, and weighs twelve tons, made of bronze metal, protecting Algiers_ El Mahroussa,  during more than two centuries from  enemy fleets invaders by sea, until the fall of The Capital, in the hands of French, in 1832. The canon  a buttin de guerre, is exposed till now in the Museum of War, in Brest, France. The costume, the fire of a machine gun,  to announce the end of fasting for  Moslems, which was introduced by the Turks Janissaries  in Algeria, for more than four hundred years ago, and perpetuated longtime after their depart from Algiers, and was  still in use  until the Independence of Algeria in 1962, and then was abandoned definitely and or replaced by the Adhan only, the call of the muezzin for prayer in Islam. Although we were at a threw of a stone from Algiers, The Capital of Algeria, and civilization;  with my galloping imagination, it seemed to me that it was sited on another planet, as I raised my eyes toward the sky to see the new moon peeped at sunset, like a hairbreadth  of gold, sustained in the horizon, for a few minutes before it disappeared, as the dusk begun to dress its camp

Pennies, by Rattan Amol

In turn, they gave me a copper coin, the value of fifty cents; ago the tradition was a thin sequins, a Louis-Napoleon  XVI gold coin, one of  the sequins mounted in necklace, that  grandma would had picked from her family heirloom, a  tiny jewelry box, a relic that she had treasured over the years. An aunt or any other member of the family, would had done the same with a silver coin,  to gratify the kid in recompense for his first attempt to finish proudly his day  of fasting.

My mother had made a cocktail  ready for me to take out; a sherbet: iced cubs, and cold water, with a dash of cinnamon, a cup of sugar cane, and drops of orange – blossoms water in a pitcher, that I took in a journey_or a walk, in a door-to-door, like going for trick or trade, like in Halloween, with a bucket in a hand

_ to pay a visit to our relatives in Algiers of olden, a costume of the last century, were the kids whom they were encouraged to fast for the first time in their life, then they went accompanied by a member of the family. They  went  in a walk, to visit their friends and neighbors.  Save that, I was the waiter, and  them they were my family members; my grand-parents, aunts and uncles, relatives, and also some neighbors, they have their houses at the down hill side, they gave me in turn, after pouring them the sherbet in a tea-cup that they tend to me,  in turn,  they gave me a coin the value of fifty cents; ago the tradition  was,  a Louis-Napoleon XVI coin, one  of the tin sequins mounted in necklace in gold that  grandma would had picked from a family heirloom,  a tiny jewelry box, a relic that she treasured over the years. An aunt or any member in the family or relatives would had gratified  the kid with silver  coins, for his attempt to finish the day fasting.

It was the first day of Ramadan, and my first experience in my life of fasting ; the custom was, that the Moslems teach their child fasting, and do prayers as well, at the age of seven years old, according to the Hadith, ” teach your children religion, at seven.” _ The sayings of the prophet of Islam, Mohamed. Not that the child has to fast at the age of seven, but at least to initiate them to religion, to learn how to do it,  and it is the same, I guess, in a way or another,  as people  does to teach their kids, but using a slightly  different methods, as it might exist in other religions.

There was  a stairway of stones steps that led to the hilltop, some flights away, it continued its serpentine way throughout a goat path, until to the crest. You climb in to it painstakingly; it has been made slippery by the fallen leaves, and weathered grass by the Indian Summer heath, and it worsen à-mesure as the grade became more abrupt and the steps steeped, and became distants to each other’s. After a moment of escalating it,  I heard a weaning complaint, a  ” wait for me”, and a sob coming from my  little brother following behind me, few steps away.      I turned back to see him sitting on a step stone, one hand grasping to a stone, and with the other hand his knee. “_Dum ass, hurry up!” I said, as I continued walking, then I heard another  muffled  weaning again; I turn my head to see him just still sitting at the same place, and sobbing,

turned back to him, and saw the tiny and  rosy scorch on his little knee, I said: “come on, it’s only a little scratch, don’t stay there weaning  like a baby girl, give me your hand and let’s go!” He shed a tear, and stood up  as I tended my hand to him, and we resumed  our accent. Once there , we found Grandpa sitting his bones on a small wooden stool, with a round unteethed smile on his face, like a little doughnut, and laughing to us. We  run to hug him. End of the story, more or less;  still there was twenty-eight days of Fasting of Ramadan to go… It was the beginnings  of  Ramadan, and The Revolution in Algeria, a War that long lasted and  not coming yet to an end.

A flight away


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I am an autodidact writer, and enough of an artist, to draw upon my imagination_I can't pretend here, to imitate Einstein's expression, nor to profess having enough knowledge of that sort, credit is, where credit is due, noblety obliged, nor to build equations, or quest forlost gravity, still, having this audacity to emitate Mr. Einstein one's expression is a crime of Lese-majeste, and to not being an imbued person, first, pardon my intrusive Introduction, but isn't it imitating someone, the same as, like of gardening and planting coliflowers? Maybe Orchids... Secondo, I just have borrowed his quote _"knowledge is limited, imagination encircles the world ", for the pumps and circumstance, and just for the sake blogging, put it that way down to paper, and to fancy make an old dream of mine comes true, perhaps one day, and if time permitting, a would-be a writer and having enough ingredients for writing prose and possibly poetry _Thankful always to my reader for stopping by, and To all the followers: Thank you for following my blog, regularly, and by your likes on my posts, you're encouraging me each time, to persist and strive to do better for blogging than the sensational, and to take the risk to be boring sometimes ; please send me your feeds Thanks you again extra large for your patience _Modestly speaking: _Inspirational Dr. Seuss's quote: _“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And You are the one who’ll decide where to go.” ― Dr. Seuss

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