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 paper back, holding your pen at the end of your fingers like a scalpel, you are giving birth in silence to an idea that your mind got pregnant of, and that you were always carrying on through your whole life. That project that I was inspired longtime ago, by my father’s own life experiences, it was when in a moment of un-empowerment, he was standing up in front of me, that day he declared to me, in an instant 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 struggling 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 the chance to go to school, the first time it was to the Medersa of the small dwellings, in the out-skirts of Algiers, where I was living, in the time of the French colonies, because he never went to school, because in the times of this cholera, when you reach fourteen years old your were sent to Shepard of herd of sheep, because , second time, when and just after we got the Independence from France, he paid for me to go to school, because I was fourteen years old, and too old for the age of middle-school, and having enough Knowledge for the upper-classes; but because I was fourteen, I was considered as 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 is sealed between us, a promise that I could concrete one day, when I will be ready to accomplish his vow. 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), or the plank of cows, translated: I was a flight attendant then, goofing around the world, here and there, and all of a sudden, now I started gushing up right here, with 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 a little Dickens, or a Mark Twin’s?