“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 published a post with a similar topic to these above, few months ago, and with the same Prompt,as it recurres like if it was, for in a same dream that we do sometimes, the one like we find ourselves in a place we had never hbeen there before, but it recalls to us that like we knew it same as it has been always our place that where we live, thence I would love to share one of those things that we keep deep in our memories, we treasure since childhood. And sometimes,the other day, although l changed my itinerary to go to work, it chanced that I passed by the same store where I had spotted it lately, the same object in à-propos; and it was still there, in display, and what a coincidence! How can small things trigger you sometimes to the core of the marrow, and in a split of an eye-blink it sent you some decades back to the days of childhood. Then,I was astonishing by such, and such of a propinquity of things can accomplish: of being in the same place, with an object long wished for at out of your reach, and at the same time, of different epochs.
I just turned seven years old then, and that year I had contracted some kind kids rush that had kept me home and from going to school. It was Chrismas Eve, an event drive was set up to distribute the gifts, and I couldn’t go to pick-up my gift, a Secret Santa wish-list; and it was a guitar that I had wished for.
So, after recovery, the day I was back to school, the teacher had kept my gift for me, it locked in the cabinet with the school supplies, I was happy then, when he give it to me, well wrapped with glossy paper-wrap, and a best-wishes card, and recovery for me, from the whole class, tapped on it.
Back home, and once I unwrapped it, I was so disappointed to discover that it wasn’t the gift that I had wished for, instead it was a banal toy, a corvette replica-car, with a static motion drives back to those times, with no batteries powered motor yet.
l never had a guitar, since. It was something , “Out of Your Reach.” Although I played guitar later on, and I could afford it, but it had never crossed my mind to have one once grown up.
What a small brown bag can carry? Apart from your regular coffee and bagel, be it, you’re a monk, a scholar, or an artist, simply don’t throw it, who knows, a humble brown bag, it may carry your thought of the moment, an idea, a draft of a future project. It’s like throwing the baby in the basin, with the waters of the bath: you’ll regret it, then it’s too late _kalimelo
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.
“Ain’t such an easy thing. To make a dream comes true, nowadays. So then if I have a hummer, after that, I did it, I can still stay a dreamer, you may say that, but I am not the only one…” I said to my muse
“Imagine All the people…Poets, and_ you know, The Beatles
“Imagine all the people…
You may say I am a dreamer,
but I am not the only one.
I hope someday, you will join us”_ John Lennon
If I have a hammer
I would be a carpenter,
I’ll build a boat,
A dream of a kid, a once I got
If I have a hammer
I would be a sailor,
and I would be an Art-painter
Then I’ll say, lo! and pray,Oh! Lord!
I have pain in my heart to soothe
I would have astrolabe,
sextant and compasses
I’ll trace my route
On maps, as hour passes
So, then I’ll throw off the bowlines, and go at sea,
and see people, and things I would never see
If I staid I would take root
But here I am, and where I stood
If I have a hammer
I would be a skipper,
I got urgent desire,
a heart on dire,
to see the seven seas_
“Les Îles Marquises, le ciel est bleu la mer est grise.
Then, I would reconcile my heart
with that old dream of mine,
that I had once ago when I was a kid of nine.
That is, it would be it, a state-of-mind, and art?
Then there, I'll stand with sheer delight
with a glass of wine in my hand
Then I can sing Brel, and draw like Gauguin
With Peace in mind, And I'll dance all night
I'll sit on the shore, at a bonfire light
That is all about; A stirring Conversation, a Tête-à-Tête, à tue-téte, with my muse, le cœur en fête, the joy at heart…if I have a million dollars…
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