Happy Anniversary with WordPress.com! They say to me WordPress
You registered on WordPress.com 7 years ago. They say to me, you know,
Thanks for flying with us. Keep up the good blogging. They say congrats
You see, Dear reader that just followed me, it’s refreshing to know that someone out there on the web likes you on WordPress.com, and is following your blog and what you do has a meaning although it’s not extra, extra, but for me it’s important and it’s enough, to keep me writhing on some things of little importance like a Goldfinch.
So thank you for reading, and thank you WordPress for hosting me all these years , without you Mackeen, the Algerian Goldfinch didn’t fly elsewhere
“Free you mind, and let it soar over the common believes _ Kalimelo “
It has been a year since I wrote my last post, I didn’t touch a pen since then. Meanwhile, I took a sabbatical year, in that it was for some reasons. I lost my mother last year, and It was her anniversary a week ago, and then nothing for me had any more importance. I returned there for the funerals, the goldfinch had disappeared from the landscape longtime ago, and many more of small things with it also, that made the vista more beautiful to look at under an avalanche of sun, it’s like having bearings, and anchors for some sailor-like, to which he returns to his port-d’attache, now and then; in my early career, I was a flight-attendant for decades, you know what I mean.
It was the nostalgia of memories from childhood sightseeing, longtime beautifully grounded in your mind. For sure, there was something missing in the neighborhood, that -je-ne-sais-quoi that cognate together before, besides The red wheelbarrow and the white chicken that were always there, like you say, each time that I return home for a visit to my mother. Then, she told me then about the updates, sadly sometimes when that person had passed away, and then a moment after, the sweet little gossips of her about who get married, and so and so, of which I listen to her religiously with deft-ear, but just to please her, while she showed proudly her plants and flowers that so much depend on the red wheelbarrow, and the white chickens that gather around her feet at the sound of her voice calling them” petits, petits, gourmet, gourmet,” each time they saw her in the backyard with a bowl of crumbs in her hands .
But then, that Je-ne sais-quoi was still hanging in the background in my mind when I came back from there on my way to the buzz of working life, like a piece of a puzzle missing in a big picture, a broken pixel in screen computer, and then its presence or absence was already forgotten in the multitude of pictures floating in front of your eyes. With time, the numbers of missing pieces added to each other’s, and the picture of the landscape fast-changed to a patchwork of urban architectural design and remains of rural grooves. I stared at a vintage portico standing still denoting to something from the past characteristic to the best time of the Fahss work that will be swept by the shovel in a moment, and a pane of history with it.
Then came the pungent moment of back to reality, when I stood in front of the tomb of my mother to pay her a tribute, it was in the small cemetery of the leafy town; the cemetery was once hidden among olive-trees, bordered with Cyprus trees, and surrounded by grapes vineyards and grooves like in Napa Valley, that shrunk to a handkerchief perimeter of greenery. In a moment of silence, it was only the wind that flutes with the olive-trees small leaves like when a flock of birds took a flight from the ground just when someone approaches them. But there were no birds, they have muted from chirping, and had gone long time ago, like Mackneen the Algerian Goldfinch that once proliferated in the region; and Mother was the last elder in town of the few number elderly that were hanging around, like you say the last of the Fahss people who inhabited the flatlands and meadows, like the tribe of the last of the Mohicans.
With her, a style and a way of life meld with fairy tales, of a thousand and one-night book, ogres, and clever heroes, and idling princess on shams and ottoman living behind closed-door of sultan citadel had gone.
so much depends
a red wheel
glazed with rain
beside the white
_W. C. Williams
So just what was the deal with that red wheelbarrow and whose white chickens? and goldfinch. It has no importance now…
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?
In #RememberanceDayforLostSpecies I dedicated this blog, some 5 years, in an attempt to bring to attention of readers in Algeria in particular, where the Algerian Goldfinch is endangered.
I launched an SOS , like a message in a bottle into the sea:
Save the Algerian goldfinch!
When you write, who is watching you?
It’s true, that for a poet, he has his own muse, Erato, a musician his own muse it’s Melpomene, but Calliope, the muse for a writer, she never shows up when he needs her the most, she is whimsical at times. So we are always fascinated, in our quest, by the blanc of a page, waiting for the moment when inspiration strikes, and we forget to look around, to things that we treasures for the longest, they are witnesses of our moments in life, or some we lost, that is_
“Somewhere, those poor things must still be knocking about”__Constantine Cavafy
It has been in the traditions of to many countries, and their cultures as well , for the longest as we can go back in to the past, in the history of literature, in humanities, we find that people has an intimated affection for the goldfinch, in particular, either through the religious interpretation of icons, in Arts, like in Christianity, referring to biblical scriptures, or for the profane, in the folklore, and artisanal arts and crafts, in poetry, and in writing prose.
I had a photo of a pet, a Bird, The Goldfinch, that I took while I was in Algiers, I framed it and put it on top of a corner of the TV furniture, just facing me, on the spot, usually where I use to sit to write. It had a sad look, it seemed like, it wanted to tell me something, like bagging me, for a plea, each time I look at it.
I couldn’t bring a caged bird with me, on board the airplane, 5 years ago, when I returned home because, simply it’s insane, for, imagine having a cage bird inside the cabine, or put in the belly of the plane with the luggage, for 10 to 14 hours, it’ll be dead at the arrival. Secondo, not only its prohibited and a protected species, but with all hustle of authorised documents, and vaccines, and with the flu bird, forget it. I resigned one’s mind and gave the bird as a souvenir from me to cousin, then.
So I gave up after that on the breeding thing. And the very idea to have a pet bird.
I get inspired by two WordPress prompts, “Witness, and Last Call! commenting Boot camp.”
Here, with the same post below, that I posted 4 years ago, it was my fist blog, the story is:
It all started, more or less, like this_
Dear readers, يا اللاحبا ب ، و ىا لولاد ,
Chers amis , l'heure est grave, time is running out,
El_Mackeen, The Goldfinch, the Elegant Chardoneret Parva est en voie de disparition,
the bird is endangered, and in its way of disappearance, do you know that?
Dear friends in Algeria , let's do it, let's make it happens!
Let's make the first day of spring un event, let it be the day of El Mackneen
At first glance, five years ago, it’s looked like gibberish, for anyone who has stumbled upon my blog, accidentally, or in purpose, he got there by chance, looking for some kind of, a matter of inspiration, he might said, “what is this!”, and passed on in a click, to the next blog. Continue reading Save the Algerian goldfinch!
“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
_An excerpt of a poem by Isabelle Doyle, a former student at Emma Willard School.
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
Let It Be
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
“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
Chocolate, it can be said, is not merely a candy, but a powerful love potion whose reputation for inspiring amative feelings is universally known. – Anahad O’Connor, Never Shower in a Thunderstorm, 2007
Oh! My Sweet Nothin’
Will you be My Vatentine_
Now I am more amative to say
you see, that is I love you everyday
Today a lot more than yesterday
And a little less than tomorrow
I brought you my heart of chocolate
It’s bittersweet usually, I know
it’s not merely a candy also
But today it’s a lit’le silky smooth
Ain’t nothing about to blow a tout
Don’t treat it in shaft
I came right to your door
with a dozen of roses and flowers
A bottle of champagne and more
Say “yes”to me, if It’s not too late
Tonight I am talking out
You see, je t’aime encore
I had become a souvenir,
I was an edelweiss, once_
a weathered bud, for the nonce
Flattered whim between the fold
Of a yellowed diary pages_ I was told
Now I have a place where I rest.
I wished It were near to your heart
Yesterday, I was standing stress-free
Cleansed by the hilltop winds,
Reached only by, at eagle’s wings
None of a poet, did it for his killing spree
That the snows, it was my nest.
Downhill the Mount Everest,
I picked it for you, my soul-mate
What can I do now to please you_
My dear, the summit that I climbed it.
That Life is already consumed,
Strewn by miracles, on our way.
We saw the day of wonders we met,
the birds at our knees, we knelt
I put a flower in your hair
That Spring was it, in the air
Our souls were we had melt.
Still do you remember, do you?
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
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