Daydream: El Capitan, Yosemite|It’s Refreshing

Fascination with the quest, Vis – Re-steeping, a daydream, Yosemite

Virtually, I was riveted to my couch with my laptop on my lap like everyone, surfing the web, back and forth, between editing old posts, drafts and WP daily prompts assignments and open interactive graphics, and following http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2015/01/14/sports/the-dawn-wall-up-close.html

Then, I got  e-mails from both

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/re-springing-your-step/

and #Daydream: El Capitan, Yosemite,

Almost, the event, as it moved slowly to its end; two-quite guys Pursuing the Impossible, and Coming Out on Top, although it may be unclear  for some people,  a particular memory, a feeling, and mood  is stirred in you, and you begin to think about it; to that old dream still dear to your heart and that we procrastinated so often, at some personal quest or achievement you did, anonymously, far of the limelight,  and spotlights, thoughtfully I got it,

“The modern mode of traveling…” Apart from such an assertion or such a result, I, myself, am a little  aware of the pace. But seated on the old mail-couch, we needed no evidence out of ourselves, to indicate the velocity. On this system, the word was not Magna Loquimur,  as upon railways, but “Vivimus”. Yes, “Vivimus”; we do not make verbal ostentatious of our grandeurs, we realize our grandeur  in act, and in the very experience of life.”

~ The English Mail-Couch, and Joan Of Arc_Thomas De Quincy, page 42.

I sprung from my couch after a long weekend fascinated with the quest, still  we that thoughts astir in my mind, took a cup of coffee, after that I wrote this post.

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re:To the Time Traveler Passing By

To the Time Traveler Passing By. To Night

Mon enfant, you see
My route is the Milky Way.
I'm the Time Traveler passing By,
I stopped here, par hazard I'm going there, anyway
People milking time, elsewhere I swear_ thinking I'm a cow,
tell my how.
Oh, my Child, don't cry 
like that, it's make angels cry
Hiding your eyes in your  hands
tel me why.
I saw your lament
From atop the firmament
Shed your tears, don't let them fall
I'll take them  all, your tears,
Where there, as it' appears
In the sky like diamonds they are gem, 
on the stars I put them. 
Orion is my chariot.
Oh!It's Time I have to go, 
keep your dream, 
And make a wish, when you see a beam in your sight
As you might See me passing by, one night

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

http://writing201july2014.wordpress.com/2014/08/15/not-writing/

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.

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.”

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/author/michelleweber/

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

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

Daily Post: Refflections|Venice, Italy

http://www.pinterest.com/pin/534943261961165988/

 

“Que C’est Triste Venise
au temps des amours mortes”
_Charles Aznavour, french Singer

Golden Ages|Metaphor: Why Exaggerating Is Always the Best Answer

courtesy to:

 http://poetreecreations.org/2014/03/10/urban-breakdown/

“…a writer’s works, like the water in an artesian well, mount to a height which is, in proportion to the depth to which suffering has penetrated his soul.”
― Marcel ProustRemembrance of Things Past: Volume I – Swann’s Way & Within a Budding Grove

“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 ProustSwann’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.”

― Marcel ProustSwann’s Way

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

Those were the best days of my life

Night-awl write or Early-Bird, All W’rite, I did it

The most delicate moment, just sit back and listen to this:
Read more, click on the links below

Oh! My Blog: I am Writing

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

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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

http://kmlkoubablog.wordpress.com/2014/02/03/tranquil-toughts/Salt Flats and Bowler Hats: Uyuni and Copacabana, Bolivia

Just as I woke up this  morning, I pick a glance outside and shuddered at the sole thought to this image below

Snow fall on Brooklyn

then  when I open the emails, I got : “What’s the difference between these two blogs?”- Add Variety with Post formats, please compare by clicking on the link below, you’ll be nicely surprise! http://dailypost.wordpress.com/ Then  when I saw the blogs, Adventure in wonderland, instantly I re-blogged it,  sometimes inspiration strikes before you read more, as flurries, and thoughts last only a time as a fleeting wisp. As It occurs  here in New York, “On these high-latitudes…. ” more often, that it snow  on each other day, so as the Presidents’ days weekend heading up, O My sweet Valentine, we only had to curl up, with a book to read, some wine to indulge and look as these following Blog Photos, thanks to: http://alisonanddon.wordpress.com/

 

Adventures in Wonderland

21-26 Dec 2013. At the end of the second day of our overland journey through the High Desert and altiplano of Bolivia we were delivered to a hotel sitting on the edge of the great Salar de Uyuni (salt of Uyuni).

The hotel stands alone about 20 km outside of the town. It is made almost entirely of bricks of salt. Even some of the furniture is made of salt. It has two long wings stretching off on either side from the reception area. The rooms face the back. Facing towards the salt flats, are many small seating nooks with big windows, including a nook with hammocks. Through the windows is a view of salt going on forever, and at the edge, by chance, a herd of foraging vicuñas. It is a luxurious hotel, warm, spacious, comfortable, attractive, and certainly unique. The only thing we didn’t like was the salt…

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