I write, because…

image 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?

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