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?


First sight|From atop

From atop of my three-apples tall
Quote; Courtesy to: Mr. Alec Nevala-Lee

 _”From atop of my three-apples tall”_Kalimelo.

I was not taller than three-apples, staked one atop of another, oh! _ I just turned seven or nine years old, then_ from the hilltop, I could see the world brand new; my first sight of it from there, standing on the hilltop, and stress-free. Thither or hither, on the other side of the hill; It was like putting a stool to glance from a window into the outside, at the peer of things.


I stood tip-toe upon a little hill
The air was cooling, and so very still
_John Keats

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.

— J. D. Salinger

But wait,  unless you don’t want to know further more and nor continue reading,

“All this happened, more or less

_Kurt Vonnegut, The Slautherhouse-five

Continue reading First sight|From atop

On the Souls of My Shoes|re: Inspiration Call

Writer Highlight Featuring Anjell Mars-Roberts MzHotness: Shoes|re:
Response to:

Inspiration Call
· Creative Talents Unleashed’s Photos ·

Take you shoesThank you for those precious gems:

To them

I bow my hat
with respect
I know they’re old,
A Million, ye can’t sold
but, you see,
No apology,
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

Nice talk,
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 quit
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”

_Molly  Layde

“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

Sleepy Time|The nap, a lost art|The value of rest


Taking a nap afternoon, has been a tradition in most of the countries riverine to, or living around on the other banks of the Mediterranean Sea, and in Latin Americas, as well. But, it remained peculiar  to Spain were it was established as a “holy” costume  among people since dusting  centuries, it was raised to the same level of holiness as Toro corrida, Flamenco dance, the toreador El Cordobes, bullfighting in arena, torero Ole,  the collective joy  in  shared  moments of farnientes.  Dramas, passionate   crimes and feuds were committed at this singular hour; the napping time, the moment of predilection: when inspiration strikes. Painters, Picasso, Miro, Salvador Dali, Living Art, Poets and writers like Frederico Garcia Lorca, Ernest Hemingway, who wrote masterpieces  narrating the particular hour when the drama occurred: Death In The Afternoon_ https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1455.Ernest_Hemingway

Sleepy Time Napping time, it was introduced to Spain by the Moorish Moslems as part of their daily religious rituals; like ablutions before each prayer, the respect of one’s privacy, and  by the fact that their work day starts from dusk to noon: The south of Spain is known; by being arid and hot, it tends to less activities, and more to farnientes . In a given time of today’s work, it’s already equal to six, seven hours, thus the break after lunch imposes itself  de facto. In modern time, taking a nap, it is still in use, and with the same respect for the tradition, preserved intact same as times ago, that businesses close by law, between noon and two-thirty, to resume work until 5:30 PM. _The photography of the daily prompt  emphasizes well a  phenomenon that I had seen a longtime ago. Back then, as usually it was years  ago, as I used to stop somewhere, Paris, Geneva, Bamako or elsewhere. That night it was at Alicante, Spain to spend the night, a stand-by, of  the time I was a flight attendant, like bird of same feather stops for the night. I  used to go to one of the café terraces to relax, as it remains a couple of hours of day-saving at its début of establishment–before dusk to enjoy the lovely late afternoon; the hotel in which we stay for the night was a few steps away from the plaza and cafeteria terrace, there, they were hundred of townsmen, owners of businesses, and families they came gathering there, to relax and chat after work for happy hours, sipping coffee, and indulgent sorbet. The  phenomenon was queer enough by itself, at moments, as the  shout of the crowd rose so loudly, then went crescendo riffed in to the air,  to become  indistinct from the clamored  chirping of the birds that gathered also on the limbs of the trees like on predisposed design. Then, it ceased instantly, in to a sustainable silence like,  for a split of a second, to resume to its brilliant cacophony. People and Birds that seemed comfortable with it, in common accord  were both alike were indifferent to each other’s, they  had come there for the sole  purpose of this: to chat; the ones just perched on the limbs above the heads of  the lasts, the people sitting there on the chairs, under the trees. For  a person foreign to the uses and costumes of the country, who chance to come sitting there stress-free, —-not writing– and just contemplate the scene, it was naturally for him to  find it strange, that with all that tumult  clouding above and without annoyance and disturb,  that anyone  of being aghast of it, where it seemed like nobody was listening to nobody, while everybody is talking, just for the sake of it.

http://cbwentworth.wordpress.com/2014/08/20/interim/ Courtesy to C B Wentwoth

Another day, another night, this time it was ten stories atop of the bank of Niger River, sitting there in a balcony of the Hotel De L’Amitiée at Bamako, the capital of Mali, cleansed by a faint of freshness of the  air at building heights, coming for the river, a mile away.  I was watching thousands of bats, and flock of birds of the same feathers  invading the sky at dusk in a chase of insects for the last meal,  over the crests of Flamboyant trees baobabs, bananas and mango-trees, while twenty feet under, people  were  heading home after an exhausting  day of torrid  Heath, in swarm of bikes, cars and taxi-brouses–a shared car or truck for a ride by ten to twenty people– as the streetlights turned-on in the city and on the bridge, they were crossing the river in long beam of toots hanks, lights and vaporous dust . Somewhere in a distance, I silhouetted an angler on a pirogue who was  throwing his fishing net in the river. People there, mostly Moslem, they stop working at noon for lunch, pray and taking a nap, to resume work at around four o’clock, the call of the muezzin for Asser prayer time Modernism, and automation focusing on generating profit, extending out-put, had taken over traditions, rituals, and the artisanal arts and craft to becoming obsolete, they are fashioning a new way of life, and style, in a fast-paced environments, at the expenses of taking time to live, and appreciate the gift of the present moment: such as, the benefit  of taking a break. Recently some corporates  traduced  a séance of relaxation in a hub in to their office,  for their employees, besides the lunch break, to increase their attentions, during their work. Ps: just for a zest of humor: if you yawn in reading this, just take a …drink and think of it, sometimes inspiration strikes, never knows, when and where.

“Writing: often it is the only thing between you and impossibility.”

I give up on essay I made decision to write, after reading this poem, it’s inspiring
Thanks to

while we  were taking a walk  to the park, a friend and me,  he made a brief halt and said to  me, “Your point of view…” about –Changing Moccasins — I told him, it’s like Like Changing  saddles, and the most delicate moment is, that you find a relief, and a temporary comfort when you swish sides you are seating on, after hours of ride on a rocky road.

he said, “but, tell me more”

I said to him, ” all I ask from you is your attention, and to be patient with me, that’s all”

The Difference Point of View Makes

“You asked me to lend you my imagination.

Let me let you know first, my dear friend, before you ride on, that she is always at a gallop; she is still half-tamed.”

“It took me too long to get along with her and an arm. Before anything else, I had to seduce her, to cajole her dreams. We have been too often to reconcile with each other; she was always in departure, when I was just arriving.

But I arrived, with time, to capture her want; to deal with one of hers a such fancy caprice of the moment, and to pardon her also for being whimsical. Because, she was, and always in a stirring conversation with my muse, while I had to concentrate on my writing, so I am used to it now, and just let her do her busy chit-chat, while I doodled on a blank page.

You see, one day, on a trip,  I saw a yogi, sitting there under a tree, and  in a profound contemplation; he had a monkey too, who was busy going up and down, from the shoulder of the yogi to the ground, back and forth, while him, the yogi  he was sitting, imperturbable, in plain meditation. The other day, when passing by, I found the monkey leashed to a post, and doing the same manège, whilst the yogi was sitting aside,  with his tranquil thoughts. I waited patiently nearby, until he drew back from his profound lethargy. Then, when I asked him humbly why he leashed his pet, out of knowledge he told me, confessing that as he considered his companion’s  own state of mind with respect and while he realized that his mind was also busy observing the monkey, so he attached the monkey to a post and left his mind occupied by the monkey doing, and went back to his meditation.

From then, I had a good lesson.

I am an autodidact writer, and enough an artist to draw upon my imagination, when unleashed, You see, you can go nowhere too far with her, maybe she can take you for a ride just down the street, but then she dis-saddled you right away when she became aware that you’re taking here somewhere too far, and don’t let you go with it; because she is my imagination.

Then, he said: ” it’s a lie”

I said: “the truth is, it depends of the point of view in which side where you stand”

I told him: ” you don’t have to believe me, but I asked you just to listen to me, remember?”

I am enough an artist to draw up on my imagination. Imagination is more important then knowledge. Knowledge is limited, imagination encircles the world.
_Albert Einstein

And, again  I added;

“Give me a  fulcrum , and I will lift off the world”_Albert Einstein

you see, the Romain Cato made the point with characteristic brevity:

“Seize the thing, the words will follow”

“Writing: often it is the only thing between you and impossibility.”

“The Truth, is this; pointing to the sundae ice cream, it depends for from where you stand…Rhetoric, semantics, bla, bla bla, and the end, it’s all talk ”

After that we closed the chapter…we sat on a bench at  the park and savored silently, a sundae ice cream

The Daily Post

often it is the only
between you and
no drink,
no woman’s love,
no wealth
match it.
nothing can save
it keeps the walls
the hordes from
closing in.
it blasts the
writing is the
the kindliest
god of all the
writing stalks
it knows no
and writing
at itself,
at pain.
it is the last
the last
what it

Charles Bukowski, “Writing.”

View original post

The sitting it’s the thing|’T was at the Blue-Note|a Blog for no regrets



Courtesy to: fantasy sports

We met at the end of the party_Philip Larkin



T’ was at the Blue-Note,

Un soir, peut-être

A soirée too singular

The ones you never forget

she was just sitting there…

In the heat of the night

I was taking  note.

a complain moaned, from the clarinet,

Miles Davis, it was in the mood.

you never felt so good,

after that.

She, about  a vignette, she wrote,

in a sudden she left

for the piano-bar or to the waiter,

there ever we met



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.

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…

View original post 261 more words

Echoes of Sinbad the sailor: The Calling

Echoes of Sinbad the sailor: Flickr photo

“The novel speaks to us quietly and stays with us”

“You were your voice all along.”


That is all about: A Cap Jib: in the brisk

  1. a jib set on a stay to a bowsprit cap, astern.

Have you ever felt the wind on you face,
And the sun burning your skin,
the specks of sea-salt in your hair,
and it’s zesty taste, on your cracked lips

Of the Grand Large, a boat;
From the offing, she is calling, did you hear it?
It’s like a faint blow of a toot
That came from afar, miles away across the fog,

a whisper, from the deep throat of the sea
To your ear, makes you longing for lost horizons
And there, a thousand  islands waiting for you to see                                                                                           “And wish you were there, you were you voice all along”

“So throw off the bowlines, and Sail away from the safe harbor.” _Mark Twain

Why we write? when we write, are we right?

Why we write? when we write, are we right?

So I write, thus I am.
All those things apart
The Things I Carry from 2015 and my One Word for 2016

Write here, Write now

I begin with something like that…

“Call me Ishmael…” Or Call me Demosthenes, or as you like it

_  Well, I do agnise something of the sort. I confess it’s my humor, my fancy–at the forepart of the day, when the mind of your man of letters at the end of the day requires some relaxations… _Charles Lamb, Essays of Elia, 1823

Each day, when I want to start to write, I found myself that someone had already devanced me on some topics ideas, if it’s  not, that is already deja-vu, and I wanted to not fall in it. I tried to be careful, by not to plagiarize, I restrain myself  to the strict discipline of brievity, to escape the stress of the block of writing.

We borrow sometimes, words, and  expressions from people of genius, sometimes in purpose, like Joan Didion did explicitly in writing “Essays and Conversations”, and “The white Album.”

And also;

http://www.george-orwell.org/Why_I_Write/0.html_ why I Write, from George Orwell .

Words, when we utter them, it’s strikes our memory, at the very moment; they are triggers, they evoke souvenirs deeply hidden in our mind, and that what inspires us, to write prose and poetry, or to paint and draw images; to express feelings that run under the skin,   à-fleur-de-peau, à-fleur-de- L’eau, and then when reading or hearing them from others. It expel some dormant vows, longtime burrowed between the folds of the heart. Then, as they become familiar to us, like the + and – signs on jewelry medallions, hitched initials, it is a verse from a poem of Marcel Proust Poet; It said:

“you see, I love you everyday a little more; today much more  than yesterday, and a bit lesser than tomorrow. “

Originally in Frensh; “Car vois-Tu, je t’aime, aujourd-huit un peu plus qu’hier, et bien moins que demain.”

Or without knowing it, like your man of letters — I’m not saying that I’m a mailman, an honorable profession, above all, and  bien à propos, that I think  all the best, to which I postulated for a job through USPS  in the past, and that unfortunately I didn’t access to  the place. Before anything else, I must say this profession at the beginning, for its first status,  it had Mercury as the first messenger of  gods, in Greek mythology, but that had one last inconvenient also; to be killed at once for elating bad news, like Julius-Cesar  did with his messenger who was thrown to the lion– the good news is, I just used a passage from Joan Didion, and Orwell in writing my blogs, in response to the WordPress Daily prompts.

All right, that’s all, I did it, I hope that you enjoy reading it, and expect some feedbacks from you, dear reader

Once more_”Dare you come back for a little Dickens?”_Late Night Show, Letterman

Thank you

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.