The Unfinished Book: a story to tell, the legend of The Fahs

image When you get to  put  pen to paper, when you start writing, you are in a phase of trance, you just experience an emotional trauma at  hand of a paper back, holding your pen at the end of your fingers like a scalpel, you are giving birth in silence to an idea that you were always  carrying on through your whole life. A project that was inspired longtime ago, by my father’s life experiences, when  in a moment of un-empowerment, the day he declared me, in a moment at the summit of his pain, like putting his garments down  completely denuded from his courage, and his struggling to mask his suffering; he shed then a  tear like it was a speck, from his tear duct, and said to me:” if I know how  to write, I would fill a thousand books, if I 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 the chance to go to school, first to the Medersa of the small dwellings, in the out-skirts of Algiers, where I was living in the time of the French colonies, because he never went  to school, because in the times of this cholera, when you reach fourteen years old your were sent to Shepard of herd of sheep, because , second time, when and just after we got the Independence from France, he paid for me to go to school, because I was fourteen years old,  and too old for the age of middle-school, and having enough Knowledge for the upper-classes; but because I was fourteen, I was considered as 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.

Like a secret; I felt like a pact was sealed, that I could concrete one day, when I will be ready  to accomplish  his vow. 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), or the plank of cows, translated, I was a flight attendant goofing around the world, here and there, and all of a sudden, I started gushing here, with 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 a little Dickens, or a Mark Twin’s?