The Brown Bag Reader: (extra)ordinary object

 

Reading by the candle

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_photo_challenge/extraordinary/

Carrying Your Ideas With You

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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

 

Gone get the milk,

“Memory on the Menu.”

@nytimesarts: Harper Lee’s ‘Go Set a Watchman’ http://t.co/yzdI1ofKlj

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“It’s always exciting when a long-forgotten manuscript is unearthed, dusted off, and at the eve of being published. But when that book is related to To Kill a Mockingbird — one of the most beloved modern classics, the BPL treasures which I return to for my readings often, and I crave to see old movies,  and rare books, also that I had borrowed from, lately — anticipation goes through the roof.”

calendar/kill-mockingbird-special

“Memory on the Menu.” Coincidence is mother of opportunities, as the saying goes.
“Speaks, memories.”_Vladimir Nabokov
So, what is the relationship between the two modern classics?One may say.
As it comes in recall, with  a prompt  at your rescue, like if it was  a Saint-Bernard doggie; then you have no choice rather than to muse on: Which memories are better  fit? – the recent and vivid ones, or those that time has covered in a sweet haze?_No doubt, both, and how whimsical it is; it triggered you to the core of the marrow, and in a split of an eye-blink, it sands you some decades back to same places of childhood, always. Isn’t it? The Early Years

Rereading again How Kill The Mocking bird, and Go set a watchman, some fifty years later, as memories mingle together with the present, and the past, standing at the edge of two abysses it’s like seeing oneself absent from the cradle in the photo, as the parents standing aside smiling at you, then where are you at that moment?like in “speak, Memories of Nabocov narrative.

“One must live his life, and only once, seize the opportunity as it comes to you, and make it happens, to see his dream comes true one day, and  make history. Your own history.”_ Kalimelo
For, having the chance to live actually in the same era as when was set up the How to kill the mocking bird story in the book, it’s a great deal now, to recall all those olden times.
Some go fishing, some go hunting, others birds watching, and seashore rattling, I belong to the tribe of old movies goers, rare books reading, and sentences watching.

In the early 60s, at the time  of the events in America, I was twelve years old then , and I was fascinated by Color movies the cinema with panoramic view, Marvel comics, and also was a Sc-fix movies-goer, how to say, it was in the brink of the ” L’Air-Du-Temps,” as it may appears to some readers a banality nowadays, but it was about to witness at a turning point of time, History on the making, you’re witnessing with eyes wide-open, that marvelous era, at things under your reach. Fifty years later, hystory is made, again and a recommencement of a fairy tale, almost a déjà-vu, the other, in the morning I was gone to get the milk, and the New York Times newspaper  because I have been used to  it, since that time of yore.

And For the anecdotal, because one day,( gone get the milk, )  I went to attend the event of the publication  “Go Set a Watchman”and I end up seeing the movie“calendar/kill-mockingbird-special” at Central  Library-Dweck

_That’s all fictional, and once more  for sure, but reality is, it’s sad today  to lean in the NYTimes, that the author died few days ago, it is like a panel of memories just want of, and my heart went on with the author.  Rest in peace Mocking bird

So, if I had a hammer…

“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

So If I had a hummer

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.

Cheers

 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…

 

That Thing Called Trust|what’s love, that gypsy wanderer |Oh!The Irony

One thought that lasts

10000 Spoons, Sometimes too soon…

10000-spoons

"It's like ten thousand spoons
when all you need is a knife
It's meeting the man of my dreams
And then meeting his beautiful wife
And isn't it ironic...don't you think
A little too ironic...and, yeah, I really do think..."_Alanis Morisette 

Oh! The Irony

So you want to know what is love

What’s love…Oh! The Ironic

Oh! Love, That gypsy wanderer

When some people talk about love,
_I don’t talk about poets, swan, and dove,
Of chimeric thoughts that hover
over a dream-catcher net, when it’s over

_But we, like ordinary people,
at wee hours, they daydream
of that day the  get caught,
like a wisp on a stream,

And Of which they never talk,
and again, she never thought
But only longing sometimes, of that night
as if they were_ him a tenebrous Latin lover
and her, Ô my fair lady of one night!
He came by, singing under her balcony,
thither, hither and yon,
Knights, castle, and beyond
have they ever met. Oh! The Irony
What’s love…that thing out of reach,
Oh! That was the only way of which_

Like a thief,  that robbed,you and left
with your valuables, walked away
then left you, with a broken heart alas!
He never came back, anyway

A Gentleman burglar, like The Saint,
You may thought… But no worry!
And it makes you sometimes  feel lonely,
With a quantum of solace, to linger
at a simple note of sorry,
left on a table, at reach of your finger

or was it simply a hungry burglar
That had eaten your diner,
one night while you went for a walk,
and of which you never talk.

For years you lived on a whisper_
a word that he uttered to you
like to a young spouse,
the day they just wed, Whose_
she has a sailor husband,
he said to her the morning he left,
and sailed away

_ and Her, she stands at the window,
peering at things, that might peep
on the offings, Him, The only, the while, the ship,
the first sole mariner coming.

Waiting for days, like a widow
the day they’ll return to the safe harbor,
Will find her there, at the moors,  like the other wives
With Anguish cutting their guts, and tore like hands cut with knives

Then, Oh Happiness
they’ll be living for a week or two
As they often do
on lobster they’ll dine,
with hot bread and wine,

On Fresh water and d’ Amour
Like always, and come toujours
and then, on left-overs, like everyone.
They go sitting there sometimes,
at the dock of the bay, wasting time.

Just having small talks, mamours and caresses,
wasting time, until the next day going at sea
Watching their hearts glowing low like embers,
Under the ashes of a bonfire, on a golden shore.
at the sole thought, of departing encore.

kissing goodbye  in such no sweet sorrow
That sailing in the morning tomorrow
When the birds will be leaving the nest

I am, sitting here, like dog on the bay,
The while, the only thing, waiting for his master to return home
Do you return home someday! my love
Oh! I am too nostalgic to remembrances,

Sorry, guys, What a mess! I’m drunk of love, I have to go anyway

 “Sittin’ here  resting my bones,

And this loneliness won’t leave me alone, yes”

“Now I’m just go sittin’ there
at the dock of the bay Watching the tide roll away, ooh Wasting time” _Otis  Redding-_(Sitting on) The Dock of the Bay, lyrics

©what’s love_Kalimelo

She's in Prison

That Thing Called Trust  I opened my heart to it, relinquishing power into your volition, touching my palm to yours  and memorizing the comfort of unrestrained connection, allowing the circle around my fear to bend  for you. I liked the way it felt, to grant you access to my sealed chest, leaving the door a little ajar, the nightlight always shining just in case you wanted to come in, even in the dark hours, in my dreams, the recesses of my head. I found faith there, faith that I was safe, that as long as I trusted without doubt this taken chance couldn’t hurt. I never expected you’d force me to flicker the light, that you’d be the one to swallow my love like whiskey, with a wince.

It’s a new week and I’m pumped to be back. I’m ready to write and so blessed to have you all here to listen. Thank you for standing by my side on this poetic journey.

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Poet n’ troubadour|Soul-of-my guitar

http://poetreecreations.org/2014/06/23/passing-time-square-promote-yourself/

Thanks to http://poetreecreations.org/author/poetreecreations/, Gillian Sim, by them I get published my poem above,

The poem must resist the intelligence, Almost successfully.

_http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wallace_Stevense

 “Companionable.”

Soul-of-My Guitar

 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 _á peut-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
_Kalimelo

*Gitannes, a trademark of French cigarettes, and it means also, a gypsy woman fortune-teller

*gitane, a gypsy woman_ Frensh Dictionaries

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/strike-a-chord/

Fellow commuter camaraderie|Why we write, are we right?|dailypost-writing-challenge-reflections

In Response to Daly Prompt: honey Vs Vinegar : in deed, it still exist this kind of humanly and intrinsic behavior. Sometimes, a common anonymous person,  that we thought as rare species, suddenly becomes the hero of the day, like the one who jumped in to the subway tracks to save a person.
http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/05/11/the-kindness-of-strangers/

Mackneen, The Algerian Goldfinch

“I hoped he liked me as well as I liked him. But I also I knew that to retain my first impression of him I must not see him again; needless to say I never did see him again. One was always making contacts  of that kind making in Spain.”

_Homage to Catalonia, George Orwell

I was driven by an envy to finish the crosswords of the day, totally immersed in my thoughts, then  I hearted a voice  of a straphangers siting  near to me; telling me:” you should try this app, It’s the same as scrabble, but a thousand times better”, and showing me in the mean time, the game in his handheld, side by side with the crosswords on the newspaper I was filling the cases, then he enchained without any waiting wisp ” do you have a smart phone?_ go to Game Center,  you should have it, and so on he…

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Fellow commuter camaraderie|Why we write,when we write, are we right?|reflections|honey-vs-vinegar

It is difficult to immerse yourself in a place when your presence there is by design impermanent.

_Living Among Strangers

“I hoped he liked me as well as I liked him. But I also I knew that to retain my first impression of him I must not see him again; needless to say I never did see him again. One was always making contacts  of that kind making in Spain.”

_Homage to Catalonia, George Orwell

I was driven by an envy to finish the crosswords challenge  of the day, totally immersed in my thoughts, when  I hearted a voice  of one of fellow straphangers,  siting  near to me; telling me:” you should try this app, It’s the same as scrabble, but a thousand times better”, and showing me in the mean time, the game in his tablet, side by side with the crosswords on the newspaper I  was filling the cases, then he enchained without any waiting wisp ” do you have a smart phone?_ go to Game Center,  you should have it, and so on he went on eulogizing. Seeing that I became  suspicious, at his question _ generally, I don’t talk to people on the principle of; Trust nobody: don’t talk to strangers, mom’s advice that I adopted since ever in my whole life. Out of civilities, I responded that it looked like a Scrabble Games, of which, promptly, his said “Yes”, and without waiting,  he show me a demo of one  of assemblies of words connected with the prompt crisscross letters on display.

But then the tune of the conversation that  had took place in the train of thoughts  had dropped a little bit, to mingle with the tumultuous  sways of the car. After a moment, getting tired of the crosswords, I folded the newspaper, and pulled my sketchbook from the my bag and returned where of my drawings  in my sketchbook–usually, I  write some of my blogs, read or draw, to keep me busy, and  not to fall asleep in the train, for most of the times, I worked night-shifts. Then again, I felt in complete osmosis with the subject of my drawings, without paying attention to the fona and flora of the subway.

For sometimes, I didn’t notice that he was observing my drawing, from a distance, from a corner of his eye, when I heard a comment: “wow! Amazing, Can I see it.” So, without hesitation, this time, I tended my sketchbook to him. Then, sort of, comradely and as a casual pact settled between us, a small talk went on, in which we exchanged our experiences on respective jobs,  that was part of one’s own skills, hobbies, and the sort. It’s averred to be that he was a professional designer, in quest of new ideas, and so on.

Suddenly, as the voice train operator announced the next stop, reminding me that it’s time for me to jump out of the train, on this I kissed good-by to the small talk, and said see yeah to the stranger commuter, who did the same sign to me with a thumb up, as the stand-clear-on closing-doors announcement bulged from the speakers, before the clapped doors shut-like in shootings  of  a film clacked; “Action, Coupez!”. End of the story. Needless to say I didn’t ask him his name. Out of respect, we hold the door for the person behind us, and we leave the seat for the elderly, per courtesy, and  by rule of conducts. But we avoid eye-contact, and address talk to people,  of natural fear from the unknown stranger; a reflex of the sub-conscience, as  it happens often, we are brain-washed every moments by the bad news in the medias. But, inadvertently it happens also, that we break the wall of silence, and say hello, to a new comer neighbour, just for the sake of human kindness, feelings of compassion, or simply to a smile to the world. It’s  Honey vs vinegar, and or salt and peppa’ of life.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/05/11/the-kindness-of-strangers/

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.

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