“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
http://melkouba.wordpress.com/2014/04/28/point-of-view/

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

Writing
often it is the only
thing
between you and
impossibility.
no drink,
no woman’s love,
no wealth
can
match it.
nothing can save
you
except
writing.
it keeps the walls
from
failing.
the hordes from
closing in.
it blasts the
darkness.
writing is the
ultimate
psychiatrist,
the kindliest
god of all the
gods.
writing stalks
death.
it knows no
quit.
and writing
laughs
at itself,
at pain.
it is the last
expectation,
the last
explanation.
that’s
what it
is.

Charles Bukowski, “Writing.”

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Tow Readers

Image
Courtesy to
http://stevemccurry.wordpress.com/2014/04/24/to-read-is-to-fly

The Two readers

The two of them, they are both mind-readers, as you see them seated side by side, totally absorbed on their readings, and deep meditation. And the two are storytellers also. At hours, both of them, they can tell you something you want to know more about it, each one on his own way. Both are mediums, in a singular  way or some sort, but they  read something, before telling you a story.

That is, before to write, you have to read, and then when you are writing, you are talking to someone; your reader.

To read is to fly, and that is, it’s  just  so true, that when I saw the photos seen above, and in scrolling the Blog, it flew me back to the 60’s, to those years of Golden; the Retro Era: Decades before, it was it was Rag Time, Swing, Blues then, now  it’s the Rock N’ Roll Time, and the Beat Generation. I had  then just turn twelve years old, an age, it was the same age  as of  the youth of the  post-Independence of Algeria,  the  Algerian state,  which it happened that it just comes to live, with its kinder no-worries in mind youth at that age of ours, sweet sixteen and having plenty of years to live, ahead of us, life yet to be grab as it comes  and to  just enjoy the happiness, rediscovered  after having lived “the hell at 10 years old.”

If you look at both  the Magician Zoltar glass-paneled box, aside the seat where the Writer is sitting on, the shoe-shining seat-booth; those sets  belong to that retro era, how dear they are to the boomers generation, for remembrance, born at that epoch, and now is looking for it’s lost bearings among the  tumult of modernism

It was the time of tender and sweet Thursdays-afternoons, we had reassess in that time. The elders, the generation  above, preceding the age of our, them they had their ballrooms, with Mambo, Cha-cha-cha, and passo-dobble, Twist and Rock n’ Roll; ours has dances(parties) after-noon, in your house; with your parents consents

Nonetheless, we used to go to the movie theaters,  besides the day when we didn’t party. Which  movie theaters, were most of them located in Algiers-Center, the Capital, like to say, Times-Square, in New  York.

At the end of the lines transportation,  Place Audin, where the bus-stops, we stepped out from the shuttle that we took to get there. Going downstairs, there  is a criss-cross underground passages for pedestrians,  with shops, cafeterias, and a shoes-repair shop, and an automate fate-reader at its entrance. Before further do, I had to confess to you, reader, that I was credulous enough to believe in magic, at that age, and with a 5 cents, you can get a fate reader card from the automate fortune-teller deck, Zoltan, inside the glass-paneled box,  that you  followed the hands gestures, in visu, the process of reading in the crystal ball, and the delivery of your card through a process  worth of a fine clock mechanism, to finish out of the slot in your hand. Until that day,  where the charm was broken, when I saw a  handyman, opening a panel on one side of the booth , and putting a large stack of  printed fate cards in a deck-like of  playing cards casino. Suddenly, The magic was gone, then. I think,  from that day I ceased to believe in tooth-fairies, and something of cool skepticism belief had slipped inside me since then, the spell was broken. Tell no one, trust nobody in New York, like the saying goes, or elsewhere something the same.

Could  you believe it? if the fortune-teller told me that you’ll cross the seven seas, and one day you could  read this blog on your reader(tablet)… May be I could dream of it only at that time, by then, it was still the time of Flash Gordon, and Superboy, Sputnik, Spaceman, on black-white TV, and 2015 was away too far in the future. Then, It was permitted to have a daydream.

To Read is to Fly: Reading, Around the World

 

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/reason-to-believe/

Now, you know what means” Iqu’ra’!_ Read, in Arabic; the very first word revealed in the Quran; which is, “read, recite, say” _ As, all the debris that we call meanings are not  enough concise to explain the word Iqu’ra’, but just to look at “To read is to fly”, and you understand what it means, thank you  Mr. Steve M Curie, for those inestimable photos, and the judicious choice of the quotes accompanying them

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

Chaabi hours

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.

Continue reading Chaabi hours

Quant bien même la langue me fait defaut

 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.

Ps: S’en fout, l’éloquence

_”Call me Ishmael,” ou bien Kalimelo

The birth of the tragedy|Do you have a Dream?

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”