Mackneen Day|Invent a holiday! Explain how and why everyone should celebrate.

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Invent a holiday! Explain how and why everyone should celebrate. In Algiers, Algeria in particular…Thanks for the great idea!

                                                   _DailyPrompt

Bird by bird, by Anne Lamott

"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.'"

http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/2015/12/gabriel-garcia-marquez-one-hundred-years-of-solitude-history?src=longreads&mc_cid=8bcca4b585&mc_eid=82b128761f#1

“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…

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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

Jazz-it up, write now

“It don’t mean a thing”, Just click on the link, it swing and sing with the King, Jazz it up!

Carpe Diem-Rem tene, verba sequentur

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

http://www.bing.com/search?q=miles+davis&filters=ufn%3a%22miles+davis%22+sid%3a%224f3dea89-cfe1-2b53-4be1-b8161706e6a8%22+catguid%3a%22ff27b2bd-e3ef-a4e9-b958-835bae8735f7_cfb02057%22+segment%3a%22generic.carousel%22&FORM=SNAPST

http://www.bing.com/search?q=dizzy+gillespie&filters=ufn%3a%22dizzy+gillespie%22+sid%3a%22b5ad6e74-5a69-815a-bc11-93a9699533b3%22+catguid%3a%22ff27b2bd-e3ef-a4e9-b958-835bae8735f7_cfb02057%22+segment%3a%22generic.carousel%22&FORM=SNAPST

http://www.bing.com/search?q=john+coltrane&filters=ufn%3a%22john+coltrane%22+sid%3a%22aab4ccba-8169-6290-cd3f-224057ac50d6%22+catguid%3a%22ff27b2bd-e3ef-a4e9-b958-835bae8735f7_cfb02057%22+segment%3a%22generic.carousel%22&FORM=SNAPST

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…

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Night-awl write or Early-Bird, All W’rite, I did it

The most delicate moment, just sit back and listen to this:
Read more, click on the links below

Oh! My Blog: I am Writing

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

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The Sound of Silence| The curve of the bell

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.

http://kmlkoubablog.wordpress.com/2014/02/03/tranquil-toughts/Salt Flats and Bowler Hats: Uyuni and Copacabana, Bolivia

Just as I woke up this  morning, I pick a glance outside and shuddered at the sole thought to this image below

Snow fall on Brooklyn

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/

 

Adventures in Wonderland

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…

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Rare Blog|Blogging and “The Accident of Touching”

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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! 🙂

Thanks for reading

“Top 10 Famous, Romantic Love Poems”

Time, and again_ I love to say ” I love you”, especially Today!

“Je t’ai apporté des bonbons; les fleurs, c’est perissable, mais les bonbons, C’est tellement bon” it’s from the former French singer Jack Brel

_Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, Nina Simone, Jack Brel, Adamo, Puccini and Charles Aznavour…sung it!

_I don’t have the voice of  Michael Bolton; ( I sing like  a tin-bucket falling down a stair-case), so I just whisper it through my  palm-hand to you♥

poetreecreations.wordpress.com

LOVEEEEEEEEEEE

As long as there have been poets, there have been love poems. After all, if love cannot inspire, what can? Our minds turn to love on special anniversaries, Valentine’s Day and weddings, but how to express it? We are not all blessed with the gift of poetic words. The list below may include a romantic love poems for him or a love poem for her to serve the occasion but don’t pretend it’s yours. You will look very foolish when you are found out. But love tends to do that to us anyway.

10. ‘Wild Nights’ by Emily Dickinson

Emily-Dickinson-Wild-nights-manuscript

A leading American poet (1830 – 1836), she is one of the most accessible and popular poets. This selection is not typical of her output and is surprisingly passionate for a woman of those times. Dickinson led a secluded life and it’s not certain for whom these lines were intended…

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Chaabi hours

I felt so good, sometimes ago, last summer, when browsing YouTube, I came across a video of “ El Gusto” Group Orchestra, during its passage at the RockefellerCenter, in New York, taken by aficionado of the Chaabi Music of Algiers. Which exhibition unfortunately I missed, alas! Then, after show, it’s averred to be a grandiose manifestation of a coterie of remaining talented artists , who were still alive, belonging from all of the communities that existed in Algiers before the events of 1962. Which venue reunites them to un orchestra,  thanks to a lit’le bout- de- femme, named Safinez with a tremendous talent, for a unique Concert in the history of the Chaabi music of all times. And that event will make history for the next coming generations of fans, for sure. There were a golden time for the Algerian Chaabi music, a Blues Genre in the Algerian music repertoires in the 60’s, that was just  after the Independence of Algeria.

Continue reading Chaabi hours

Quant bien même la langue me fait defaut

 Si d’aucuns s’entrouvent offusqués que l’on puisse se servir d’une langue autre que celle de Moliére pour s’ en exprimer, sachez que pour ma part, Cher Monsieur, je n’eprouve point de rancune, ni de remôrs, d’avoir tronquer ce butin de guerre si chêr à Kateb Yacine qui sût l’utiliser à bon escient, en son temps et au propre moment opportun, D’ont act, à tout seigneur tout honneur.

“Et d’autant plus que l’honneur m’est plus cher que le jour, d’autant plus que maintenant je le doit de retour” Qui de Corneille je puisse user ses vers, et de Bossuet:” D’autant plus que les choses sont de conséquence, d’autant plus que nous avons besoin.”

Il m’est apparus d’autant plus nécessaire de mettre les points sur les i s, avant que de continuer dans la langue de Fowler.

Ps: S’en fout, l’éloquence

_”Call me Ishmael,” ou bien Kalimelo