I write, because…

image When you get to put pen to paper, that moment, when you start writing, you are in a phase of trance or sort, as though you are just experiencing an emotional trauma at  hand of a blanc page. Holding your pen at the end of your fingers, like a scalpel, to desiccate your mind thought of the moment. You are giving birth in silence to an idea that your mind  got pregnant of, a thought turlupining you every when, and then, always carried on through your whole life. That project, which I was inspired by longtime ago, it was my father’s own life experiences, it was when  in a moment of a complete discourage, he just experienced a failure, he was standing up in front of me. That day he declared to me in an instance, he was at the summit of his pain, then like a boxing hero putting his gloves down completely denuded from his courage, and in his struggle to mask his suffering; he shed then a  tear, like it was a speck, from his tear duct, and said to me: ” if only I know how  to write, I would fill a thousand books, if I could recount my torments to the mute, he muttered without a stammer, and if I tell my pain to ear of the river, it will flood to the ocean …”

“I Write Because…”:

Because, he gave me a chance to go to school. You have to understand that… The first time, it was when I went to the Medersa of the small dwellings, in the suburbs, at the out-skirts of Algiers, the place where I was living. It was back then, to the time of the French colonies, when France ruled in Algeria. Because, he never went  to school, and because in this time of cholera, when you reach fourteen years old, you had to drop off school, and  your were sent to the meadows shepherding of herd of sheep. Because , secondo, and three, when and just after the country got its Independence from France, my father had to paid for school, because I was fourteen years old,  and too old for the age of middle-school classes, and not having enough credits and knowledge  for the upper-classes; but because I was fourteen, and finally, I was considered already being a man then. And I was at an age to be capable to understand my Man, so he felt he could tell me something that he never declared intimately to anyone else.

Life would be a secret; I felt like a pact that was sealed between us, a promise that I could concrete one day, when I will be ready to finish that  vow he did to himself. That moment, when it came,  I felt like an uneasily Procrustean…

While doing so, I felt an uneasily procrustean   : Here and there, limbs of the manuscript needed to be stretched, and elsewhere a protruding foot might be lopped off, if all the episodes were to be edited into a single, coherent, continuous work.
John Callahan, “Afterword: A Note to Scholars,” Juneteenth, by Ralph Ellison, 1999

Frist, I was goofing around, like anyone else in New York, with Daily Post Prompts, and all of nowhere, years after putting my feet on the ground,  the (planchet-des-vaches), on the ground,  or the plank of cows, translated: I was a flight attendant then, goofing around the world, here and there, then  and all of a sudden, now I started gushing up right here, within this blog.

And_”It all started, more or less, something like this… “_Kurt Vonnegut

To be continued …if you like to read more, care to come back to my place for a little Dickens, or a Mark Twin’s?

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There You Are, And Here I Am

Source: There You Are 

“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
again.”

_An excerpt of a poem by Isabelle Doyle, a former student at Emma Willard School.

Mackneen, The Algerian Goldfinch

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

http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/I_Know_Why_the_Caged_Bird_Sings

Let It Be
Paul McCartney
Lyrics
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

“The Early Years.” Childhood-revisited, still the child within

Childhood revisitedyoung at heart always

” Every child is an artist, the challenge is to remain an artist after you grow up
_Pablo Picasso

“On the Way.”

 Bohemian Honey”

_Have you ever tasted a “Bohemian Honey”?

                                Then, listen to Gypsy King

By the way…

going my way to work,
down the road, of the street, at the fork,
I spotted this image at the vitrine of a famous store,
by a beautiful morning of May, and more
I want to share with you this moment,                                               
 a treat, and the most;                                                                                          
a souvenir of the past;
A memorabilia; a toy I lost,                                                            
Longtemps, I wept.
A dream I kept,                                                                                                        
and it lasts in my mind.                                                                                                
I find hard, and it’s hard to find
In my soul, a child within,                                                                                    
I’m and still, young at heart,                                                                        
nothing to blame, a trait of mine
and enough of an artist                                                                                              
as I always been,  and remain_
to draw upon my imagination,                                                                              
and which for a moment I stand still…                                                                                

For all those kids that have no toys
girls and boys

By the way…

_ Was is  a coffee latte, or an ice cream?
Can’t member but only indulged that moment,                                            

 by the way…

on this time of chocolate
Give a hot chocolate for the needy passer-by, going your way…

Thank you for revisiting my blog

Re: a spoon of Caviar Belugha, and The Noblest Brandy of them all

Re: https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/sliced-bread/ “What is the best thing since sliced-bread?”

_a spoon of Caviar Beluga on a slice of rye bread, a zest of lemon, with a glass of vodka, and or perhaps,  a half-a-dozen of oysters with a flute of champagne Taittinger: a diner at The Fouquet’s, Paris with my Valentine

For sure, there is some denials rising in the air; déjà, I hear someone’s saying: Oh! No, no, no! Monsieur, Je protest!(with The finger up)_a bath in a hot water tab, coffee, pousse-café_VSOP, Cigar José-Maria…

Whatever, ok I agree with you, the letters of Nobility first:

A Class BAIGNOIRE. It is all about time

The 1906 design of the watch that would later be christened the “Baignoire” demonstrated Cartier’s prowess in crafting watchmaking forms. An elegant ellipse uniquely forged in a single line, the “Baignoire” watch is the essence of Cartier style: an unmatched marriage of purity and timeless chic.

B, the bath-tub, created under Louis XIV, for Marie-Antoinette, with the cutlery, the fork to not spoil the hands then, please.

The Noblest Brandy of them all

0 Reviews Write review New York Magazine 14 Mar 1977 Search all issues
 

Cees, Caviar: Esturgeon-fish eggs, a caviar extracted from a fish that grew in the Seines River, the red, the Rusian Black Sea, and the Beluga the Iranian caviar is the best.

Cognac, Champagne, since it’s related to the same epoch of they inception: VSOP, Napoleon, á votre Santé!

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