“It’s not a time to make a change
Just relax and take it easy”
Diamonds, money, and gold
Ago a kid, I was told
Are just dust on the road,
Your soul you never sold
To the devil, a king or fiend
and bold You stay,
for a dime you swoop
Sweat and tears, Down the road
Make it’s your pocket your friend
And become rich one day you hope,
It’s a better man you are now
Poor, than being a million dollars man
Without goodness in your heart
Stay clean of all vices
Be kind to your man
That’s all my advises
Find a girl, settle down
If you want you can marry
Look at the me I am old but I am happy
I had become a souvenir,
I was an edelweiss, once_
a weathered bud, for the nonce
Flattered whim between the fold
Of a yellowed diary pages_ I was told
Now I have a place where I rest.
I wished It were near to your heart
Yesterday, I was standing stress-free
Cleansed by the hilltop winds,
Reached only by, at eagle’s wings
None of a poet, did it for his killing spree
That the snows, it was my nest.
Downhill the Mount Everest,
I picked it for you, my soul-mate
What can I do now to please you_
My dear, the summit that I climbed it.
That Life is already consumed,
Strewn by miracles, on our way.
We saw the day of wonders we met,
the birds at our knees, we knelt
I put a flower in your hair
That Spring was it, in the air
Our souls were we had melt.
Still do you remember, do you?
This is it
I have read the post “Capturing the Goldfinch, by Mr. Nevala Lee, and wondered how come it slipped from my mind, to put ink to paper all the moments in my life I passed reading books, and didn’t get the idea to start writing, although sometimes, I got inspired, first by my father who was illiterate, and saying to me that if he could write, and read, he can fill a tome with his experiences in life. Then, I listen to music, of all genres, but my preference goes to opera,Puccini, and Algerian Chaabi music, whereas the lyrics in a story that moves you to the edges of your feelings to get inspired to write your own history. Capturing the Goldfinch
To begin with, start by capturing the idea, before writing a book; first, catch yourself a goldfinch , then the moment you sat, write; just write, and keep writing, while listening to the tweeting of the bird, don’t edit! just write!
“Seize the thing, and the words will follow.”_Cicero, Roman centuries”
How to catch a Goldfinch à-l’ancienne_ the olde way
First, go to the pet market, buy a caged goldfinch, preference goes to a five to ten years old one, it’s expensive, by the way, and because of the ramage; it has a long-lasting tweeting, and it serves as a bait for capturing a goldfinch. Then, plan a trip to the wild, where hiking is a must. The trick is, to capture a goldfinch you need to conceive a recipe to make a natural glue made from thistles milk that you rob with some tiny sticks, that you fix on sprigs of a thistles once in the wild, on the spot where a flock of finches drop from the tree to feed and bath and drink from a pond or a rivulet; one might stick to the tricky sticks. Why thisles? Because it’s a preferred plant for its seeds for a goldfinch, and it’s from where that it is French named. Then, It’s risky, it’s illegal, and you can pay a fine, get arrested for poaching if you don’t have authorization from The National Parks; (you can keep a bird for one year, for studies and the like, than you must return it to its environment site. Otherwise, Take with you your watercolor kit your camera, and a sketchbook if you are just a bird-watcher,like me, plus a notebook, for when you are sentences watcher like me
Then, how to write a book, a novel, one of a kind, to get inspired ; by chance I get across the book, through the Reader, when I read the post about The Goldfinch.
Literally, it’s so true, and captivating too, a page-turning, pining to seat, and all, and all. Have you ever read the book_The Goldfinch?_a novel, by Donna Tartt. I Didn’t get the chance yet to finish reading the book, to capture the moment, alas! Time flies. It’s annoying, that you keep reading after a hundred pages, pined to your seat, waiting for the writer to come to the point, but you can’t give up; and this is the secret: “The fascination by the Quest.” I wish! I could do it, at least once in my life, like Vladimir Nabokov did it, and the happy few other writers of the last century also, who had the time to run after butterflies, live their life, and write. To leave a book that others read, like” Speak, Memories.”
Hemingway, also did it, “The Sun also rises,” it makes you travel with him by car, seated as you were a discrete ghost-writer, invited for a journey from Paris to Spain through the landscapes, and you discovered surprisingly, that he stopped at inns, had the time for fishing, and to go on foot to a river faraway, and forced you to follow him, you can’t stay alone in the inn curious about what happened, with the sole idea of thinking of it, it is enough to discourage you to go buy cigarettes at the newsstand, next door, when outside is 94 F by noon. Then, to fish, to swim, to lunch, and to take a nap, it is a luxury, and a gourmet, nowadays…I don’t know if writers still do it, with a half-hour lunch break. Then, (It is in the book), the author, writer, and character, all in one personage, he walked you through pages, to beautiful Spain villages, and dusty towns, with a couple of friends, looking after corrida, toros, depaysement, a change of scenery, and love affairs, and to resume and leaves you at a cross-street lights, puzzled.
“Seize the thing, and the words will follow,”_Cicero “
“Capturing The Goldfinch”_the book, literally it’s so true, also
I know why The Caged Birds sing,
ah me, when his wing is bruised and his bosom sore
when he hit the bars, and would be free;
it is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his hearth’s deep core,
but a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings I know why the caged bird sings__Maya Angelou
I have named my blog_ Mackneen, The Algerian Goldfinch, some five years ago, and almost two years before Donna Tartt, the Author was writing her novel, it was a good omen for me, some sort, although I didn’t know the project then, but mine, it was that, I was dedicated to write a book about , a goldfinch, this small bird, symbol of freedom, dear to Algerian people, to whom and for, I pay as a tribute of the episode in their fight for their liberty from 132 years, an usurped and occupied country, until 1962 , until to be freed.
El Baji, an Algerian songwriter, wrote “El Mackneen”, his song, in prison in the later 50s, and was imprisoned for political protests, at the epoch of the French occupation of the Overseas Colonies. Unfortunately, decades later, after the Independence of Algeria, after that the joy of celebrating freedom was consumed, the breeding of the birds, and encaging of the goldfinch, became a business flourishing, so anarchical , and devastating that It put the species at risk of being an endangered bird in Algeria; so I write posts, in that regard, to bring to attention to the youths, and the audiences throughout posts to mass medias.
So, please join me by your likes and follows on my blog. I don’t expect too much popularity, but it may help to persevere it, and to strife; it’s a challenge, and time is running, although the species became protected lately, thanks to the Authorities whom they struggle restlessly to put an end to the sordid business, but still, it’s still remains endangered, and in its way to disappearance.
It was by chance that I discovered the subject, last time when I went back to Algiers, I was invited to a wedding party, and during a small talk that I had with an old friend of mine; a passionate guy about goldfinches, fishing, and Chaabi music, (a world Blues genre,) at a detour of a conversation, in wich he told me that the bird was becoming rare, and the irreversible disaster caused by Bird breeding was already consumed. And, knowing that I am native from Kaddous, Oued-Roumane, a small village in the shrubbery region in the suburbs of Algiers, and then, ago was the natural home and habitat of the goldfinch species, a small town of a hundred families, hidden among orchards, vineyards, and woodlands, just at a throw of stone, in the vicinity of Algiers, the capital of Algeria, he asked me then if by any chance I know someone, of my relatives that could have one. This is it.
For instance, the species worth ten thousands Dinars each, almost two hundred dollars, just to have an idea about the whole birdie business. Actually, it’s more than that, just have a look at YouTube.
So, please join me by your likes, and followings on my blog.
And Many Thanks
_Kalimelo June 21st, 2015 at 8:25 am Ps:Today, It’s the first day of Summer, the solstice, and the Celebration of Music, worldwide, sort of, a happy coincidence to write a post, and to listen to: El Gusto Orchestra Music Chaabi
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.
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.
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
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.
Ice cream is Proustian. One bite can send you time-traveling decades back, to a hot summer day, when you walked barefoot on shell-dappled Gulf sands, vanilla ice cream dripping over the sides of a cone and onto your fingers. Maybe it was a reward for the first time you lost a tooth, a sweet, cold dish of mint chocolate chip as balm for the pain. A bite of blackberry gelato might conjure up a stroll down a sunny Roman street with a long-lost love._Mimi Swartz
Then, I felt “natsukashii”, at the sight of the image of a glass of ice-cream before my eyes, I entered and ordered one, a bite, suddenly, euphorically nostalgic, triggered by experiencing something Tout-Aussi, common, and simply be delighted by such encounter with a rare trove at vitrine of a parlor Ice Cream, passing Whashington Square, a twist made in to the usual home-to-work itinerary, an escape on the account of everyday’s banalities. How soothing a scoop of ice cream, can be, first.
First, a word we say it to make a point, adieu! a kiss-and-go, departing, an unleashed hand and a step to a bus.Then after that or before that, there was the first cry, the first word we pronounced, the first step we walked, the first tooth, and so on; those small things of life we don’t totally or vaguely remember, that are part of souvenirs, of a parent, a freind, or something dear to use. Because we are the first child, and because our memory can’t keep; we were too small. Then, some decades later, the first thing that came to mind, the Bar-Mitzvah, or the circumcision, tonsils, a wounded knee, a cut in the palm, a first shave with bleeding cuts to the face, the fist date and a long-lost love. Things we treasure. Both nostalgic souvenirs, longtime forgotten, but the last, one of lasting memories, that still pursuits its wake with such sweet sorrow that you can’ but once grieve.
Rocky-road ice cream? God bless the broken roads. A cracked pecan better ice cream in my mouth and longway awaiting from home.
She left, a scar,
The door open,
The heart ajar,
In me with such sorrow,
a swell pain in my heart,
You feel like no tomorrow,
Love, oh! Such stupid thing, love,
Roses, letters, swan, and dove
Ah!Cupid’s Arrow, aim right to the heart
Touched in the now
Left in the-morrow.
She walked afar Down the street
She loved to say in laughter
To me that, so often,
You’re too sweet
To be forgotten,
Don’t be sad, she said
we were in an affair,
“I love thee true”*
and departed in the morrow
“_Depart is such sweet sorrow”
How do you know, O you
Where I have went through
What a pain I’ve gotten!
Alas, Did you try lovin’?
Now, that you come back to me
With your heart-broken
Don’t hit your pale forehead,
but your heart, again and again
you see, Falling in love, amie
Such, and such was the token
Never I fall in love again,
you said: I swear.
Now suffer in silence without tears
Oh! Such brave heart then, thou arth
But In such sorrow I were
Now, taste from that melancholy elixir,
Of such bittersweet zest, of hate and desire
In such stern that you can’t bear
That lonely feel, but lasts in your mouth.
Yesterday, That you loved her without fear
Because, because, such and such,
And so and so
I will not tell you this, my dear,
Today, I told you so
Now That she hangs your heart Among others,
one of her hunter trophies
you shine like a fleece in the sun, also
“Alto chi piantro almondo duras e!”
So We must meet apart – You there – I – here – With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are – and Prayer – And that White Sustenance – Despair –
“[I cannot live with You (640)],” Emily Dickinson
Now, consider those odds of Keats
"I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
“I love thee true.”
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.
"I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci
Thee hath in thrall!”
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing."_ Keats
Mon enfant, you see
My route is the Milky Way.
I'm the Time Traveler passing By,
I stopped here, par hazard I'm going there, anyway
People milking time, elsewhere I swear_ thinking I'm a cow,
tell my how.
Oh, my Child, don't cry
like that, it's make angels cry
Hiding your eyes in your hands
tel me why.
I saw your lament
From atop the firmament
Shed your tears, don't let them fall
I'll take them all, your tears,
Where there, as it' appears
In the sky like diamonds they are gem,
on the stars I put them.
Orion is my chariot.
Oh!It's Time I have to go,
keep your dream,
And make a wish, when you see a beam in your sight
As you might See me passing by, one night
Sometimes, when you get the Blues
or The Nana of yours, she is jalous.
That whe You feel lonely, to-night
and in your heart, insides, it tears
I harken to the Soul-of-my guitar,
I hugged that Old'-companion of mine
It's my Pêché-Mignion, my glass of wine
My-bread-and-butter, my Duchess
It's My guitar, my Gitane*, my muse.
Keep your laughers, and your tears,
and your sarcasm, and also please
Doesn't matters if my sorrow that's ye amuse
we had, an _ápeut-prêt, this small talk
T'was two o'clock in morning, I suppose
This kind of a language, I propose,
and a lit'le of your time, I may dispose
if you please, and I will take
I said to her: "Longtime no-see, dear"
She said: " I was just sitting here,
already set, with all my frets
Longing for your fingers,
on my neck to linger
I was all the time Resting on a chair,"
I was "Just gathering some dust_
And you were always at a hast,"
"You fled for a woman,and her hair,"
Now, that you come back to me,
with heart-broken, at last
And for my hard strings always to press_
At seventeen, I know L'Amour, ç'a blesse."
I'm longing for your caress,
I am weeping, Can't you see it?"
with some reproach in her voice,
She said: "can You believe it?"
I said: " Ain't got no choice"
"mais encore", she said
I said, "Strike a chord"
"It doesn't mean a thing," I plaid
"Seise the thing," she said,
"and let it go"
Grate the strings,
just add a touch,
some Sol La Si and the such
And Say it low
And the words will follow
And put some rhymes.
It works sometimes
Then, there you get the Blues,
And you'll be at ease"
I said: "tonight.
" I have to write,
she said:" and it's will be alright,
just get it right."
"And you are done with that beautiful mess"
__At a wee hour, I felt like my soul of a poet, and a troubadour, I ceise my companionable guitar
so I just gave it a try, and see what happens, like bonjour, it's five morning
*Gitannes, a trademark of French cigarettes, and it means also, a gypsy woman fortune-teller
while we were taking a walk to the park, a friend and me, he made a brief halt and said to me, “Your point of view…” about –Changing Moccasins — I told him, it’s like Like Changing saddles, and the most delicate moment is, that you find a relief, and a temporary comfort when you swish sides you are seating on, after hours of ride on a rocky road.
he said, “but, tell me more”
I said to him, ” all I ask from you is your attention, and to be patient with me, that’s all”
The Difference Point of View Makes
“You asked me to lend you my imagination.
Let me let you know first, my dear friend, before you ride on, that she is always at a gallop; she is still half-tamed.”
“It took me too long to get along with her and an arm. Before anything else, I had to seduce her, to cajole her dreams. We have been too often to reconcile with each other; she was always in departure, when I was just arriving.
But I arrived, with time, to capture her want; to deal with one of hers a such fancy caprice of the moment, and to pardon her also for being whimsical. Because, she was, and always in a stirring conversation with my muse, while I had to concentrate on my writing, so I am used to it now, and just let her do her busy chit-chat, while I doodled on a blank page.
You see, one day, on a trip, I saw a yogi, sitting there under a tree, and in a profound contemplation; he had a monkey too, who was busy going up and down, from the shoulder of the yogi to the ground, back and forth, while him, the yogi he was sitting, imperturbable, in plain meditation. The other day, when passing by, I found the monkey leashed to a post, and doing the same manège, whilst the yogi was sitting aside, with his tranquil thoughts. I waited patiently nearby, until he drew back from his profound lethargy. Then, when I asked him humbly why he leashed his pet, out of knowledge he told me, confessing that as he considered his companion’s own state of mind with respect and while he realized that his mind was also busy observing the monkey, so he attached the monkey to a post and left his mind occupied by the monkey doing, and went back to his meditation.
From then, I had a good lesson.
I am an autodidact writer, and enough an artist to draw upon my imagination, when unleashed, You see, you can go nowhere too far with her, maybe she can take you for a ride just down the street, but then she dis-saddled you right away when she became aware that you’re taking here somewhere too far, and don’t let you go with it; because she is my imagination.
Then, he said: ” it’s a lie”
I said: “the truth is, it depends of the point of view in which side where you stand”
I told him: ” you don’t have to believe me, but I asked you just to listen to me, remember?”
I am enough an artist to draw up on my imagination. Imagination is more important then knowledge. Knowledge is limited, imagination encircles the world.
And, again I added;
“Give me a fulcrum , and I will lift off the world”_Albert Einstein
you see, the Romain Cato made the point with characteristic brevity:
“Seize the thing, the words will follow”
“Writing: often it is the only thing between you and impossibility.”
“The Truth, is this; pointing to the sundae ice cream, it depends for from where you stand…Rhetoric, semantics, bla, bla bla, and the end, it’s all talk ”
After that we closed the chapter…we sat on a bench at the park and savored silently, a sundae ice cream
often it is the only
between you and
no woman’s love,
nothing can save
it keeps the walls
the hordes from
it blasts the
writing is the
god of all the
it knows no
it is the last