In #RememberanceDayforLostSpecies I dedicated this blog, some 5 years, in an attempt to bring to attention of readers in Algeria in particular, where the Algerian Goldfinch is endangered.
I launched an SOS , like a message in a bottle into the sea:
Save the Algerian goldfinch!
When you write, who is watching you?
It’s true, that for a poet, he has his own muse, Erato, a musician his own muse it’s Melpomene, but Calliope, the muse for a writer, she never shows up when he needs her the most, she is whimsical at times. So we are always fascinated, in our quest, by the blanc of a page, waiting for the moment when inspiration strikes, and we forget to look around, to things that we treasures for the longest, they are witnesses of our moments in life, or some we lost, that is_
“Somewhere, those poor things must still be knocking about”__Constantine Cavafy
It has been in the traditions of to many countries, and their cultures as well , for the longest as we can go back in to the past, in the history of literature, in humanities, we find that people has an intimated affection for the goldfinch, in particular, either through the religious interpretation of icons, in Arts, like in Christianity, referring to biblical scriptures, or for the profane, in the folklore, and artisanal arts and crafts, in poetry, and in writing prose.
I had a photo of a pet, a Bird, The Goldfinch, that I took while I was in Algiers, I framed it and put it on top of a corner of the TV furniture, just facing me, on the spot, usually where I use to sit to write. It had a sad look, it seemed like, it wanted to tell me something, like bagging me, for a plea, each time I look at it.
I couldn’t bring a caged bird with me, on board the airplane, 5 years ago, when I returned home because, simply it’s insane, for, imagine having a cage bird inside the cabine, or put in the belly of the plane with the luggage, for 10 to 14 hours, it’ll be dead at the arrival. Secondo, not only its prohibited and a protected species, but with all hustle of authorised documents, and vaccines, and with the flu bird, forget it. I resigned one’s mind and gave the bird as a souvenir from me to cousin, then.
So I gave up after that on the breeding thing. And the very idea to have a pet bird.
I get inspired by two WordPress prompts, “Witness, and Last Call! commenting Boot camp.”
Here, with the same post below, that I posted 4 years ago, it was my fist blog, the story is:
It all started, more or less, like this_
Dear readers, يا اللاحبا ب ، و ىا لولاد ,
Chers amis , l'heure est grave, time is running out,
El_Mackeen, The Goldfinch, the Elegant Chardoneret Parva est en voie de disparition,
the bird is endangered, and in its way of disappearance, do you know that?
Dear friends in Algeria , let's do it, let's make it happens!
Let's make the first day of spring un event, let it be the day of El Mackneen
At first glance, five years ago, it’s looked like gibberish, for anyone who has stumbled upon my blog, accidentally, or in purpose, he got there by chance, looking for some kind of, a matter of inspiration, he might said, “what is this!”, and passed on in a click, to the next blog. Continue reading Save the Algerian goldfinch!
“a dying language regressing
to your origin regressing
to the rib whittling yourself
down to a single bone to be
allowed another chance”
“Eden, nobody will be screaming
to harvest you in the new
Eden there will be birds
but no mirrors or dew
to reflect you back like a star
and force you to stare into
your own furred face and cry
there you are
_An excerpt of a poem by Isabelle Doyle, a former student at Emma Willard School.
And sill here I am.
_The Cry of birds_Grew from the ramage of birds to the hurry of wind_Hugh McCrae
Here I am, for the nonce
Here I am in a cage
My cry grew from the ramage
Of birds, To the hurry of winds
Shall I ever have a chance
To fly, fly, again, and drift away
Finally Home, I’ll cry and I’ll say
That’s, the one and only once
I need yes in deed, to be free
Thence, all I need is my wings
to spread in spree
Here I am, and always be
You put me one day in a cage
Can’t you see me today that I age?
Can’t you see me that I am bleeding?
Can’t you see me that I am weeping?
Like a violin bow, on its hair string
T’was the first day of Spring
That day going my way straight to my fate
That I used to be free before t’was too late
Then I was nattering in my joy and glee
With No motive for my killing spree
Spending my joy from tree to tree
Having no foe, nor a prey I was to be
Safe that a carol of joy betrayed me
I was caught In a dream-catcher net
It was a gloomy day, that’s Ô! My fate
Mother Nature comes to me, ready set for rejoice
Full of fun, laughing of plenty to hear my voice
For, You don’t know why I sing, ah! me
It was the first day of Spring, for me
It’s only but a prayer, from the bottom of my heart I sing
but a plea I wish you hear me, that upward to Heaven I fling
That one day you may let me free, before it was too late
No more I can fly, nor my wings I can spread
It’s only Poetry, a lady
she knows toward me, she said
I know why The Caged Birds Sing
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
Let It Be
When I find myself in times of trouble
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
And in my hour of darkness
She is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be. Let it be, let it be. Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.
That’s my carol of joy and glee
Now that’s here I am, and free
_Homage to El Baji,an Algerian singer and songwriter of Algiers of Old, Kalimelo
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
"Thirty years ago, my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report on birds written that he'd had three months to write. It was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother's shoulder, and said, 'Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.'"
“Outside, it was the 1960s, the pre-America modern history…”
I was browsing the new look of Daily Prompt, when I stumbled upon the prompt: invent a holiday, which I had skipped earlier, at the moment when it was issued. In fact, the whole blogging stuff I was doing since 3 years; it was all about, and around the mean idea: which is, how to convince people, and make them adhere to that idea: The making of the first day of Spring, a Mackeen’s Day_ like The Earth’s Day, The Tree’s Day, and all the same as there is so many others Day’s to celebrate year around; it is a so vain, and simplistic idea, at the same time, then am I so credulous to that point, to be naïve to believe in such a dream. A symbol, utopia, a sogrenue as point of view. The 21st of Marsh, First day of Spring, or the 19th which is tha day of the cease-fire, and the proclamation of independence of Algeria; the choice is yours…
So, let me explain it, little by little, first; “bird by bird”: _I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings_Maya Angelou
_El Macknenn, The Algerian Goldfinch _ The Chardonneret Parva, if you prefer, it used to be the companion of my childhood, also was the musing pet of the Algerian songwriter, “El Baji,”who wrote the song– “El Mackneen-Ezzine”– (Oh, Beautiful Goldfinch,) in prison; it was in the late 50s, during the time of war, when Algeria was a French colony.
It is considered as A hymn to Freedom, sort of, this is, for the anecdotal. At that time, there was a saying; and by analogy to it: “Sing, oh my canary, Sing!” that the Paras– the French soldiers of that times– who used to say it to the prisoner and singer, during the interrogatory process, to let him talk about, see _The Battle of Algiers, a Celebre film as a reference.
_The purpose of the blog: it touched my feelings when I saw the scene; at the beginnings, when I returned home to Algiers, Algeria, some 3 or 4 years ago. I went to the village named Oued-Roumane, to visit my parent, it is a little town in the country side of Algiers, at a throw stone from the capital, which country side exists no more today, or what remains of it by now, is no bigger than a patch of greenery on the map, in the heart of what was to be known as a large greenery band, the banlieue of Algiers of olden, the Green Belt; The Fahss, whence in time of the French Colonies, where colonies settlers had estates, wast farms, and mansions, sides by sides, to the native people’s small lots of terrains.
It was a spot on the map, at the outskirts of the Capital, in the last century, where the urban dwellers who used it as a getaway where they went in villigiatures, and for picnics, then. And now, the landscape is transformed in to highways, and in to urban buildings, and sumptuous villas; it is the price or what we call it, the toll to be pay for; Modernism obliged. But, then where the stockings hurt the feet is; the environmental habitat, Kadouss _ a small bourgade, hidden between a luscious , and exuberant greenery is the home of the species_ El Mackeen, the Goldfinch. Furthermore, it constituted its natural habitat, since there were so many watercourses, and the preferred kind of seeds, the food for the bird, that especially existed only in this area. The dark side of it is, the sewer canalization of new cities, replaced the watercourses, besides the voracious asphalt tarn that covered the roads and had eaten each inch of grass, au passage.
Then, the birding, breeding and all the pet stuff business had, by the end, finished the job, when everything taken over, in the late decades_snobbishness is contagious per se, to the ridiculous point that the species becomes endangered, and by the fact that everyone in the community, suddenly is in a want of a goldfinch, as a pet in a cage…Coco Chanel, its First Class A. Then emitting people it’s a way of life, No comment…
Chaabi,The Algerian Blues An hour of delight
This was touching, the story of El Bahri El Baji–180 lbs of Poetry, and a piece wisdom, that It’s to hard to translate in to words, but just to listen to it. I’ll do my best to translate the interview soon, I promise…
“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 Proust, Swann’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.”
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
What a coincidence! As WP has just released its new version 3.8, named ” Charlie Parker” in homage to the singer, I was reading a Quote-of-The Day from Mr. Alec Nevala-Lee post, that Jazz-man John Dankforth’s quote
“The hardest thing to do is to swing quietly and with control and restrain… I think the best Jazz in the long run is the Jazz that swing on its own”
It don’t mean a thing, just click on the link, it gonna swing, and sing with Louis and the King
What Jazz has with abstract painting in common is, that you have to master drawing first, for the doodle on a napkin, that you make when you are on the phone, or having a cup of coffee, becomes expression of your feelings, like when you run your fingers on a piano keys, or a clarinet; it’s only after hours…
I woke up at wee hours,sometimes today, to put down the idea that I was looking for late in the evening; a reminder from Weekly Post challenge urging me to post one, to commit to my goal; but I had no idea what to write, I was just updating some of my old posts, then it stroke softly my neurons while I was listening to classical music, typically the chords drift to them,” vissi d’arte, vissi d’amore–I lived for Art, I lived for love_Puccini my favorite, and it said it all; write it.
“Night-owl, and Early bird I am, to write it down, I needed an awl to carve that damn-good idea from its ore”_Ink’n Quill
Silence is at the begging of every movement, as there is no music without silence; as it is true as the curve of the bell.
_ Maurice Ravel
I would say: anything else added is of pure noise, but I refrain a second, from saying it, to let the quote speak by itself, and let you indulge the moment.
But then, when it starts, it creates momentum, then you have to finish it, to the last note; then, Silence…
If you want to listen to the sound of Silence, then just put a porcelain shellfish to your ear, that is, if you still have the child in you, and you’ll hear the waves of the ocean crushing on the seashore, at your feet _” I miss you like the ocean miss the seashore, and the desert miss the rain”_ Guns&Roses, if my memories are good, or “Dance with me, sway with me”… I still have their name on the tip of my tongue, but just can’t remember.
Speak, memories, and Silence, speak as true as the curve of the bell.
When I go home, to pay tribute to the lost one’s, each time I managed to pass first by the small cemetery of the village, the small town where I grew up, which cemetery is situated on the main street that leads to my parents house. Since fading ages, the gate was always kept open. For, each Friday, women elderly and young used to gather there, to visit the lost and beloved ones. It happened that the grave of my father was just near the to the wall entrance, so that I just have to stand by the wall for a moment to pay tribute to him and to the people who rest there in peace, without walking on the soil, for respect to them, and not to profane the holiness of the whereabouts.
After I have read the Fatihah,_the first opening Surat of the Quran, I squatted to put a flower on the grave, and poor some water in the little bowl, that someone probably my mother, had put it there at the head, and in front of it, with the geraniums that she planted aside.
Then, when you stand up in the shade of the pine trees, you listen to the sound of the wind, to the shipping of goldfinches, and sparrows, for a moment.
The last time I went by, the gate was closed, with chain and a padlock _I glanced through the gate, at a distance, as far to my father’s tomb as I could, to see that one shaft of marble was broken, to wonder:”certainly weathered by the effect of time? or _Perhaps, to prevent that the garden of their last rest from being disturb.” it was said around that there was some vandalism of some sort.
Birds chirping, Aeolus playing with the olive-tree branches, in a Greek mythology like, then Silence.
Just as I woke up this morning, I pick a glance outside and shuddered at the sole thought to this image below
then when I open the emails, I got : “What’s the difference between these two blogs?”- Add Variety with Post formats, please compare by clicking on the link below, you’ll be nicely surprise! http://dailypost.wordpress.com/ Then when I saw the blogs, Adventure in wonderland, instantly I re-blogged it, sometimes inspiration strikes before you read more, as flurries, and thoughts last only a time as a fleeting wisp. As It occurs here in New York, “On these high-latitudes…. ” more often, that it snow on each other day, so as the Presidents’ days weekend heading up, O My sweet Valentine, we only had to curl up, with a book to read, some wine to indulge and look as these following Blog Photos, thanks to: http://alisonanddon.wordpress.com/
21-26 Dec 2013. At the end of the second day of our overland journey through the High Desert and altiplano of Bolivia we were delivered to a hotel sitting on the edge of the great Salar de Uyuni (salt of Uyuni).
The hotel stands alone about 20 km outside of the town. It is made almost entirely of bricks of salt. Even some of the furniture is made of salt. It has two long wings stretching off on either side from the reception area. The rooms face the back. Facing towards the salt flats, are many small seating nooks with big windows, including a nook with hammocks. Through the windows is a view of salt going on forever, and at the edge, by chance, a herd of foraging vicuñas. It is a luxurious hotel, warm, spacious, comfortable, attractive, and certainly unique. The only thing we didn’t like was the salt…
Sorry, they just say @ WP, I run out of space, to include the others…
I got these rewards above all together; a spell, a wish, a congrats, an invitation, what else one’s can we expect better than this? To start a new year a brand new blog, and astir an Infinite conversation , no thanks, I still have the headache from last night
Get a millions likes, as “marriage is not for me” blog’s author had; with its million curses, warnings, and bataclan, no way, must be out of my mind
so, thanks for your attention, likes, and the like
You see, we can’t please everybody all times, but we can make happy some at once, just when we think about and say happy new year for the ones how can’t afford a meal, or piece of cake, right next door, or at thousands miles away.
a word: words are dangerous; it scratch the tongue of some, just to say it; like thanks, and, a smile just un-wrinkles your face, that’s all.
so, thanks, for all the above, and a special to Poetreecreations.Org people,and Ms.Kesling, GMLA for liked my [My Slougui Blog], on “Rare Blog”_ don’t look for it! someones find it_ smile! 🙂