“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
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
I bow my hat
I know they’re old,
A Million, ye can’t sold
but, you see,
I can’t put my feet in your shoes
neither you, your head in my hat.
If we have to choose__
before I depart,
my sandals are Sparts.
My muse Clio, Erato are bare feet
You see, walking barefoot,
I’m use to it.
Never to complain,
nor it blew my toot.
On hot sand,
and rocky roads,
With a stick on my hand
the World, I roam
All where I go is home.
I care of my feet
sometimes, they bleed,
they take me where I need,
God bless the broken roads,
keep your shoes,
and I, my hat,
In the summer,
It keeps me at shade, my head
and In the rain, it stays dry, no matter what
We are both at,
you to take your hat,
and me, my shoes
At a mosque or a temple
Leave your shoes at the door
Of The Lord
It’s that simple,
And not had to choose
Kiss good-bye the old shoes
I take a walk,
“I carry them, On The souls of my shoes,
With me, thither and yon, the places I go”
say it low.
this is it
I have to leave,
We are to Live
Sometimes and die.
“You pass through places, and places pass through you, but you carry them with you on the souls of your shoes”
“We carry always with us a little of the small town we lived in on the soles of your shoes,
When we have to leave all things behind, for a tranquil life”_ Enrico Marcias
“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
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
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
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.
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.
Algeria, the birth the tragedy, and or the rebirth of the Phoenix from its aches
I haven’t read this book of Nietzsche since high-school. Then, the “noire decades” came along after the few years of bliss that followed the Independence day of Algeria. Surviving the two bloody eras, I came across the book while browsing online, then it stoke my memory, and I recalled the subject. In my opinion, the tragedy that Algeria has lived lately, in 1990’s, which we called it by the blackened Era, resembles in most of its aspects the ancient Greek tragedy, save that it started the same day, the 8th of May 1945, while the whole World was celebrating the end of war world II –WWII with the toll of 20 millions people who died for democracy– the Algerian people broke out in the street parading and charging the joy of million people around the world, they were repressed in to their blood in response to his zealous audacity for asking for the promised independence, in tribute to their combat to free France, and the help they gave to get rid of the Nazism, and Fascism in Europe. Algeria yet had to paid more for a postponed liberty, with a struggle of seven years of combat, then after having tasted the savor of freedom for a few time, yet they had to discover the other mask behind the second act of the play; Democracy has an extra price to be paid for it, also, although they were debt-free.
In the last century we we’re spoiled from our homeland in the name of freedom, see_Seven Pillars of wisdom, Lawrence of Arabia, the Arabs Revolution. I am afraid, we will be enslaved intellectually, in this new millennium, in the name of democracy, if we will not produce our own culture, and reject the fabricated one_From freedom to democracy, if we continue to indulge the imposed one, what they call it by “The Arabs Spring”. Notwithstanding that if we continue to accept dictatorship, then it is pure nihilism, and that is the masochism that we have to suffer in the meantime, but still we have the genius to get rid of it with the use of our own tools–“Le butin the guerre”– dear to Kateb Yacine, Algerian writer_”Nedjma”
In the parlance of the time, people purchased the novel “for one thing only,” and they didn’t care about its mind.
Courtezy to the Aurhor
Why El Makine? Why to fuss about, an obsession for, and all those blogging posts around?
Of all times, this little bird was a companion-pet of aficionados of all trades and crafts. As you can see in Wikipidea, and YouTube, there is a lot of video-clips on related suject to it, and one of them in particular, it shows an Arab cafe of old , in the 20’s-30’s, and if you look closer to it, just under the awnings, several cages adorned the entrance.
These Moorish cafés were a kind of, the speak-easies that existed in that time in America or the clubs, and tea houses, and lounges in London, but the only difrence, it’s by the facts that in Algiers, these places were the only ones where it was permitted for the Arabs to regroup, due to the separation between the Europeans, and the Arabs, on those times.
But this is not the topic of the moment, but what I mean, a bird in cage, it was sort of, a companion pet, exposed under the awning of a Moorish café, where it was the only place where to listen to music, the presence of a duet, a trio, or a quartet of Chaabi music were always performing on soirée constitute a substitute for the gramophone and, or a radio sets that they were at it debuts of their invention, that they were too expensive for the small people to afford them.
Beside that, it was in the habits and costumes, to find a bird in the Andaluzian style of the houses, The Riads, since in their Arab-Moorish design, and their way of life and costumes, the Arabs and the Mores, that their pets had been always existed, as a part of there life. Even though in the wild, the Bedouins had a great respect for the animals, and birds. Taken for example, the Slougui, the Algerian hound, and the falcon, El Baz; the relationship, and the care of the master for his dog is cited by the first orientalists explorers of the deserts and its cities and oases inthe last centuries in their journals, and books.
The Chaàbi Music , The Goldfinch, and thé mint, a long story of people that came to gather
The Masters of the Chaâbi-Blues music in the Jewish-Arab and Andalusian collective heritage is the pure proof of existing songs
A final word, like the saying goes; any excess is evil, that is, it becomes chaos when everyone wants to have a chardoneret just to show off, a snobishness, like everybody does.