Conchita’s

“Smell You Later.”

“There is a smell on you later, left behind as silences  settled,  and laughers still echoing, and with something in the air, that lingers longer in the house and on things long after she departed”_Kalimelo

_”Smells Like Teen Spirit”

Conchita’s, with her lightweight silhouette, like a feather sustained in the air; her image it’s still as vivid in my mind as a burnt cigar left on my skin; it was an  image of a Flamenco woman dancer, printed on the cover of a pack of my  first  fine cigars that I used to smok when I was a teen of fifteen years old, that I recall sometimes when I see the scar on the back of my hand. Her depart was such sweet sorrow of not equall that I a smashed the fine cigar on my hind. I feel the pain in my skin. It was like the first time when you fall in love with a girl ; for the first time you kissed her, you’re in wonders, you laugh then you cry just after, then you want to be together forever ; as for the first time like when you smoke your first cigarette, you cough, and with your eye-watering, you discover then that’s, what cigars and women, alike, they had something in common, that they make you  suffer at first, then you get the habits of it to live with them, and with time, that when you get comfortable in their company,  then suddenly, and as always it happens, that dolorous moment came when departing is such sweet sorrow; that is, at our expenses, thence we realize that is, women, we can’t live with them, and we can’t live without them.
But then we can quite smoking, oftentimes, but we can’t forget our first love all a one’s life time.

“Quatorze-ans, Les Gauloises Ça fait mal a l’aise.”

_*At Fourteen years-old, and cigs just make you sick, “Gauloises,”_French black tabaco cigarettes

“And I forget just why I taste                                                                                                      yeah, I guess it makes me smile
I found it hard; it’s hard to find
Oh well, whatever, never mind”
_Nirvana – Smells Like Teen Spirit Lyrics

She was a ballet-dancer, and I, a Fine-Arts  student in Paris, years later on, then I was looking for a model, wondering in La Butte-Mont-Marthre. I discovered her, Degas, and his pastels,  that so delicate, and volatile, as she was, elegant and whimsical, that I spent hours watching her performing pirouettes, pas-de-deux, and grand-equarts, so wide open, for, your eyes stayed opened that you can hung your Bêret, or “…your hat_ Mark Twain”, and holding your breath and your heart still pending to her movements, I stayed sitting there watching her, in a corner of the dancing room, a piece of charcoal in one hand, and a cigarette “Gitannes”, at the end of my finger tips, as the smoke-filled the air, and her laughers resounding in the hall; I was trying to fix  that moment on paper, and drawing thousands of thumbnail figures as she moved, in vain. That’s I sketched on, and on, on drawings sheets, listening to Charles Aznavour_” La Boehme,” once alone, when back to my tiny studio, later on.
Sometimes, I found myself staring into a blank sheet, as she moved, like in a day  – dream, à- contrejour  or standing in the loggia,  looking vaguely into the rain falling on the tilded roofs of Mont-Martre.

I love the way she wals
What the hell, rage, give in to Natural Graces_Alan Ducan

She has something in the way she moves, that Je-Ne-Sais-Quoi, I loved the way she walked, I loved the way she talked, so peculiar to Parisiennes women , that captivates, and charms you : she was a gifted performer woman, with all graces and allure, walking, and dancing , steeps skipping, and skills, tip-toeing on her ballerina shoes, a virtuosity that enthralled her audiences, sometimes to put or hold you in slavery, when she talks, and laugh, you get sustained and hooked to her lips like being hypnotized by an Indian fakir, to fall at the charm of his flûte.

image

And we had fallen  in love with each other, effortlessly, get accustomed and as usually it happens, it happened with me, comme d’ habitude . We broke up with each other, querelles d’amour sometimes, few months later, for some reason or without, perhaps for having been too much in love of  each other’s that we burned our candel too fast, from both sides . Perhaps, I was asking too much, I wanted her for myself, all by my own, I was jealous, for she hadn’t time for me, just a little, the time for a pose, and  the fact that she uniquely reserved her time, and for Art all devoted and only. Go figure

Somewhere, those poor old things still must be knocking about.__Constantine Cavafy

I had a tiny studio on La Butte-Montmartre, then, we were  all time hungry, and broke, surviving on œufs-aux-plats, d’Amour et d’eau fraîche, and  I, more waiting for her, and in a want, till, one day she never came. Tired, I went to Spain–Flamenco, wacthing Bulls-fighting, Frederico Garcia Lorca, Manitas-De-Platas, buried my chagrin d’amour in Cervejas, to conjure the spell on me. I surrendered to some réconfort in reading “The Sun Also Rises “, the book of Hemingway, in a way. Then from there, to Barcelona, with Maria Rodriguez, the Fado lamenting sodade, that it revived in me the open wound, reminding me that ” Somewhere, those poor old things still must be knocking about.” And only have dear and cognate in Porto wines on the Taj, transported by a  bitter-sweet sorrow,  but in fact it was her, a dream that I pursued  than, that It was a fascination by the quest.
Sometimes, the object of the quest is as elusive love-object, as in André Breton’s surrealist novel Nadja, in which the mysterious woman persued by the narrator is, in a way, that embodies the mysteries of Paris itself, instead, I found myself flâneur in the streets of Paris, without.

It is said that the Taj Mahal, was was built by an India prince Mogul of old times, in memory of the loss of his beloved princess, and wife. He ordered from the best architect in town to design the palace where the princess will be buried , knowing that the artist was in love with a woman, he put her in prison until she died, the time it took him to build the palace, the artist was in such a sorrowful state of mind so inconsolable that he put all his passion to finish it before she died, unfortunately, that both the prince and the artist found themselves in the same state, contemplating the most beautiful object that embodies love with, with an incommensurable pain in their hearts.

“There is a smell on you later, left as laughers and silences settled, and something in the air of subtle perfume and rare tabaco, that lingers longer in the house and on things, after she departed”_Kalimelo

Longing, un Amour sans fin, endless Love

Alas! If-i-could-turn-back-time
The other day, at a corner of  street, in Soho, a vanishing scent of musk, perfume, and tabaco that stayed in the air, au passage of mysterious stranger woman, transported me to Paris, to the clime of lilacs trees, balconies and wisterias of Montmartre; it has been longtime that I quitted smoking, the Quartiers-Latins, and its bistros,in Paris and moved to New York. They say, you rediscovered the subtleties of the olfactory senses, smells, perfumes, as you had  lost your odorant sense while you were  smoking, they say, but what do they know about lost love? Getting Sentimental

Othello , Shakespeare _”Depart  is such sweet sorrow,” perchance, you discovered that but when it’s too late.

Are you a latin lover?_Kalimelo

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When, there is nowhere to go

choose-your-adventure

When there is no place to go,
You still have in your heart,
a place where to hide,
and to treasure moments like this,
sometimes, when you get the Blues,
Moments for, when to fall in tears,
You need to be alone.”

By the numbers, Venice has more than 200 canals and 400 bridges, but it was serene scenes like this that stole our team’s hearts.

 There will be times in Venice where you’ll find yourself alone, and it will feel like the city belongs to you, that it exists solely for this particular moment. — Mickey Riad

There will be times in Venice where you’ll find yourself alone, and it will feel like the city belongs to you, that it exists solely for this particular moment.
— Mickey Riad

There will be times in Venice where you’ll find yourself alone, and it will feel like the city belongs to you, that it exists solely for this particular moment.
— Mickey Riad

Say, 200 canals; Oh! too many to  navigate, and 400 bridges to cross,
and too many, many places to wander, and get lost…

“and I am, the while, the sole, the unbusy thing
Nor honey make, nor build, nor pair, nor sing.”
_Samuel.T.Colridge

Nor things to worry about. _
But ain’t get no time to visit all,
Nor to talk about

—————-

“Take me with you
to the country of the sun,
Take me to the country of wonders.
Misery, will be more bearable under the sunshine”

 Enmenez moi, au pays du soleil,
 enmenez moi, au pays des merveilles,
 la misere serrai plus supportable au soleil
     _Charles Aznavour, a French singer

Daily Post: Refflections|Venice, Italy

http://www.pinterest.com/pin/534943261961165988/

 

“Que C’est Triste Venise
au temps des amours mortes”
_Charles Aznavour, french Singer

Golden Ages|Metaphor: Why Exaggerating Is Always the Best Answer

courtesy to:

 http://poetreecreations.org/2014/03/10/urban-breakdown/

“…a writer’s works, like the water in an artesian well, mount to a height which is, in proportion to the depth to which suffering has penetrated his soul.”
― Marcel ProustRemembrance of Things Past: Volume I – Swann’s Way & Within a Budding Grove

“The places we have known do not belong solely to the world of space in which we situate them for our greater convenience. They were only a thin slice among contiguous impressions which formed our life at that time; the memory of a certain image is but regret for a certain moment; and houses, roads, avenues are as fleeting, alas, as the years.”
― Marcel ProustSwann’s Way

“And so it is with our own past. It is a labour in vain to attempt to recapture it: all the efforts of our intellect must prove futile. The past is hidden somewhere outside the realm, beyond the reach of intellect, in some material object (in the sensation which that material object will give us) of which we have no inkling. And it depends on chance whether or not we come upon this object before we ourselves must die.”

― Marcel ProustSwann’s Way

When first I read the prompt, the bluelink_Proust,  Urban Breackdown Poetree, then it just popped up, a lot of ideas, words, and image, I was itching  with words to patch  those broken fragments that we call meanings. The Golden Ages– at the turn of the 60’s, I was not taller than three apples, It was the years of the Rock n’ Roll, the Twist dance in France, and by ricochet, Algiers which was part of the French colonies. Elvis Presley and Johnny Halliday, the French idol and singer, we danced on their rhythms smorgasbord and yeye, with a coca cola glass-bottle in one hand. Wearing a blue jeans and italian shoes and a shit à la James Dean, we tried a  Camel cigarette without filtertip, hiding in  the lavatories courtyard of the school, we were so vain to be discovered by the teacher the instant we  were coughing and gawking at each others with our eyes red and with open_we had not hat to hung on our eyes_Mark Twins. Oran, at the west of Algeria  at this time was plugged on James Brown’ Getta Up ah, and Otis Redding. Then came the beat generation years, Hippies, Rolling Stones, Beach Boys, and The Beatles  back from USSR, and going to the USA, It has been a hard daysnights  having fun. Suddenly we discovered  Vietnam, as we grown up a little bit, still no more than four apples.

Then came The Golden Ages, the Seventies_Eighties, those were on our twenties, Le Bel Age, after had been  teens forever

Those were the best days of my life

First Crush

First Crush or  “The Early Years” never die”

First crush o’ “The Early Years,” never dies

She  walked in a hurry, and passed side by side of both of us, me and him, her hair was long and dark that falling on her shoulders, like a shadow of a tree in a desert like looking for some freshness at noon, and she smiled to both of us, furtively as she continue walking and we following her behind.

We were kids of just  ten years old then,  or twelve my friend maybe, and stilI remember, that day; ‘t was a day like today, sunny and bright, like after a snowstorm, ‘t seemed like a brand-new day  just for us _at least it’s what  I believed, or maybe that was love, the first time. I grabbed a handful of snow and  threw it gently at her, mid-fearless, mid-brave, with a smile that just hidden  the swoony feeling in my guts.

She turned back, and look at him, but then at me, her eyes regard fallen oblic on my mitts wet by the snow , and then  she smiled at me, and contained her laughter within her hand to her mouth, oh! my. And I, standing shy with a penod and guilty air, I felt what a pity I was in, then suddenly, I felt my face red like a thousand suns had burned my checks, and my hearth; I would loved I could have died instantly, and would dived and hidden in the deepest of your black eyes, at that instant, to cool down the fire that she  just had started  ablaze in my heart.

I may have forgotten her name with time, and barely fathom the features of her face, but now and then, from time to time, as I cross a street,  it seems that I recognize you in the face of that beautiful woman who just  walked  to me, and passed, I looked behind over my shoulder, And  smile.

Time, and again

It reminds me a song of AbdelHaleem Hafiz, an Egyptian singer of the sixties, known also by the nickname of the Rosignol of the Middle-East