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?

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Uncaged

 

Free your mind, and let it soar above the common beliefs
Free your mind, and let it soar above the common belief

Sometimes, you  may say to yourself, “I think I over do, now,” by using the same terms over and over,  people get tired of the blah, at the end _ yadayada, I know, but trying to grab some audiences, it’s hard for a blogger, everyone knows that, and everyone looks for it. Not that I need it. There are some causes, ideals, Aristotelianism, are lost in advance, I knew it the moment I started blogging. It’s not a self-flagellation either, but it was an awareness of the moment; the disappearance  of a species, but  the welfare of a bird, it’s the least concern today.

That is, when you feel like you have exhausted, when all the possible and imaginary means, using the Prompts of the day, quotes, poetry from poets, and writers… You’re about to throw the towel. Then, sometimes, by  just listening to a song, like  the one ” Drift Away” from Rod Stewart. Then, you have the declic, it puts you back on tracks

Day after day, I’m more confused
Yet I look for the light through the pourin’ rain
You know that’s a game that I hate to loose
And I’m feelin’ the strain, ain’t it a shame
Oh, give me the beat boys and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock ‘n’ roll and drift away
Oh, give me the beat boys and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock ‘n’ roll and drift away
Beginnin’ to think that I’m wastin’ time
I don’t understand the things I do
The world outside looks so unkind
Now I’m countin’ on you to carry me through*

Yet,  this is it, You get then, a feeling, that you want to fling to the world, your plea,
_”Give me the beats boys, and free my soul,I wanna get lost in your conversation, and lost in translation, and drift away.”
_”Give me the courage to persevere writing, blogging, and posting, for a noble cause to save an endangered bird from disappearing.”
Because it has been five years in the making of Mackneen, The Algerian Goldfinch blog, that I’m blogging and posting, posts after posts, through the Internet, and WordPress, to make my call inviting people to join my conversation, to get the bird, tha Goldfinch, namely, free from the cage, from all the cages around the world.
Because, when you write, it’s your voice that you hear, your silent monologue settles inside your mind, you want to shout it out load what you have in your gusts, and you want to get out the hell of it those itching words that are elbowing against each other’s, who to come first to the open, to  put it down to paper, at the view of the common reader, and accepting be critiqued, for you audacity, and daring to compose and post such non-sense. Like this one, such as.

It’s insane, I know, but I am not the only one, there is a lot of celebrities out there, they went, like Don Quixote De La Pampa, battling against the windmills, but more than a daydream, they make it their cause, like the French Actress Brigitte Bardot, defending the seals against their abusive massacre, and many more others, Ushuaia, We discover each day that million of species are  almost disappearing from the surface of the earth.

So, I learned more, thence in my quest of sources to support my cause than, I expected, in my own beliefs, that the cause has the merits to be consistent, and true, that is not being a utopia, a euphoric chimera of the mind. When you know that the name Goldfinch is deeply anchored in the sub-conscience of the people through the ages, be it religious beliefs, like in Christian  literatures or propane rites and customs and not merely folks traditions, by only checking into Wikipedia.

when you know that John Kavanagh, Keats, Dona and the list is long , to cite just few, had  the privilege to be the predecessors in evoking the goldfinch in their poems, and proses, in their essays and masterpiece, than I believe that it worth borne identity of El Mackneen, the Algerian Goldfinch, even it was futile and elusive matter of blogging about.

When you get to know that a writer has a Noble Price, like  Dona Tart, a novel that has a name of the goldfinch, it’s no shame to kvel well up. So, although it was just a dream at it début , yet  it has been already five years that I  blog under the name of Macknee, The Algerian Goldfinch, may be one day, it comes to light.

It’s time to free my mind, and uncage my imagination.

image

_knowledge is limited, imagination encircles the world, Einstein

It’s not the cage that encircles the idea. It’s the mind, free your mind, and let is soar above the common beliefs.

Thank you for reading

 

*Read more: Dobie Gray – Drift Away Lyrics | MetroLyrics

 

There You Are, And Here I Am

Source: There You Are 

“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
again.”

_An excerpt of a poem by Isabelle Doyle, a former student at Emma Willard School.

Mackneen, The Algerian Goldfinch

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

http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/I_Know_Why_the_Caged_Bird_Sings

Let It Be
Paul McCartney
Lyrics
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

The Brown Bag Reader: (extra)ordinary object

 

Reading by the candle

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_photo_challenge/extraordinary/

Carrying Your Ideas With You

image

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

 

So, if I had a hammer…

“Ain’t such an easy thing. To make a dream comes true, nowadays. So then if I have a hummer,  after that, I did it, I  can still stay a dreamer, you may say that, but I am not the only one…” I said to my muse

“Imagine All the people…Poets, and_ you know, The Beatles

“Imagine all the people…
You may say I am a dreamer,
but I am not the only one.
I hope someday, you will join us”_ John Lennon

So If I had a hummer

If I have a hammer
I would be a carpenter,
I’ll build a boat,
A dream of a kid, a once I got

If I have a hammer
I would be a sailor,
and I would be an Art-painter
Then I’ll say, lo! and pray,Oh! Lord!

I have pain in my heart to soothe
I would have astrolabe,
sextant and compasses
I’ll trace my route
On maps, as hour passes

So, then I’ll throw off the bowlines, and go at sea,
and see people, and things I would never see
If I staid I would take root
But here I am, and where I stood

If I have a hammer
I would be a skipper,
I got urgent desire,
a heart on dire,

to see the seven seas_
“Les Îles Marquises, le ciel est bleu la mer est grise.

Cheers

 Then, I would reconcile my heart 
 with that old dream of mine,
 that I had once ago when I was a kid of nine.
 That is, it would be it, a state-of-mind, and art?
 Then there, I'll stand with sheer delight 
 with a glass of wine in my hand 
 Then I can sing Brel, and draw like Gauguin
 With Peace in mind, And I'll dance all night
 I'll sit on the shore, at a bonfire light

That is all about; A stirring Conversation, a Tête-à-Tête, à tue-téte,   with my muse,  le cœur en fête, the joy at heart…if I have a million dollars…

 

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.

Going your way dots by the dots

I was thinking about  how to  write a post in response to the prompt ; I got already the first sentence in the pull up quote below: then, it’s when inspiration stroke”…like the way points on a dot- to-dot drawing.” Been afflated by those words, after that everything fallen in its slot,  I  went back to an old post–First Sight|From Atop,  “Cleansed by the hilltop winds, I stand in meditation, alone and stress-free.” To puffing it, it was unnecessary…

“I feel that there is one cliché that sums up my position so admirably that it would be pure egotism to attempt a more interesting periphrasis.”
— Deborah Meyler, The Bookstore , 2013

_From the New York Times

"I think everyone has their own Dawn Wall secret to complete one day, and may be they can put this project on their context."

http://www.nytimes.com/2015/01/15/sports/el-capitans-dawn-wall-climbers-reach-top.html?src=me

The climb was divided into 31 pitches, or sections, like the way points on a dot to dot drawing.

El Capitan is the height of three Empire States Buildings staked atop of one another, but with many fewer, and smaller things to hold on to on the way up.

“From the outside it was starting to look like a Hemingway novel, or an unresolvable quest.” Said Gadd, who had known Caldwell for many years.”

When I read the article in  NYTimes in the train< Going your way> fascinated by their quest, Its only then I realized  that I have to join the dots! this is it! Voila!

I told you so

/Fearless fantasies 

 The Khashmiri Song
BY LAURENCE HOPE

Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar,
 Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell?
Whom do you lead on Rapture's roadway, far,
 Before you agonise them in farewell?
 
Oh, pale dispensers of my Joys and Pains,
 Holding the doors of Heaven and of Hell,
How the hot blood rushed wildly through the veins,
 Beneath your touch, until you waved farewell.
 
Pale hands, pink tipped, like Lotus buds that float
 On those cool waters where we used to dwell,
I would have rather felt you round my throat,
 Crushing out life, than waving me farewell!

Source: India's Love Lyrics (Dodd Mead & Company, 1906)

So we must meet apart –
You there – I – here –
With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are – and Prayer –
And that White Sustenance –
Despair –

_“[I cannot live with You (640)],” Emily Dickson

I told you so 
To Night

She left, with just the door ajar
And I – The heart broken, with a scar
profoundly open – behind
In me with such sorrow,
a swell pain in my heart, tonight
You feel like no tomorrow,
Poetry prose and the such you write
Love, oh! Such stupid thing, love,
Roses, letters, promises, swan, and dove
Ah! That Cupid’s Arrow,
aimed right to the heart
Touched in the now, tonight
Left in the-morrow.

She walked afar down the street
She there – I – staying here – tonight
Staring at her with my eyes wide open
She loved to say in laughter
To me that night , and  so often,
You’re too sweet to be forgotten,
Don’t be sad, she said
we still are in love affair, tonight

She said, she said
“I love you, true” tonight
and she left in the tomorrow’s
Who said is true morose
“_Depart, such sweet sorrow” is

Isn’t Hamlet, Othello…Shakespeare
How do you know, O you fool
Where I have been in despair
What a pain I’ve gotten!
Alas, Did you try lovin’?

Now, that you come back to me
With your heart-broken tonight
Don’t hit your pale forehead,
but your heart, again and again
you see, Falling in love, indeed
Such, and such was the token

Never I fall in love again, tonight
you said: I swear.
Now suffer in silence without tears
Oh! Such brave heart then, thou arth
But yesterday In such sorrow I were

Now, taste from that melancholy elixir,
Of such bittersweet zest, of hate and desire
In such stern that you can’t bear
That lonely feel, but lasts in your mouth.
Yesterday, That you loved her without fear

Because, because, such and such,
And so and so
Because You-want-to-know
what-love-it-is, tonight
I will not tell you this, my dear,
Today I told you so
Now That she hangs your heart among others,
You are the one of her so many hunter trophie
you shine like a fleece in the sun, also
“Alto chi piantro almondo duras e!” Tonight

“Because you see, amie
I can’t live with you…
And I can’t live without you”
_Kalimelo

Now, consider those odds of Keats

La Belle Dame Sans Merci
* “I love thee true.”_Keats

"I met a lady in the meads,
 Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
 Her hair was long, her foot was light,
 And her eyes were wild.
 I made a garland for her head,
 And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
 She looked at me as she did love,
 And made sweet moan.
 I set her on my pacing steed,
 And nothing else saw all day long,
 For sidelong would she bend, and sing
 A faery’s song. 
 She found me roots of relish sweet,
 And honey wild, and manna-dew,
 And sure in language strange she said—
 “I love thee true.”
 She took me to her elfin grot,
 And there she wept and sighed full sore,
 And there I shut her wild eyes
 With kisses four.
 And there she lullèd me asleep,
 And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—
 The latest dream I ever dreamt
 On the cold hill side.
 
"I saw pale kings and princes too,
 Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
 They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci
 Thee hath in thrall!”
 
 I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
 With horrid warning gapèd wide,
 And I awoke and found me here,
 On the cold hill’s side.
 
 And this is why I sojourn here,
 Alone and palely loitering,
 Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
 And no birds sing."_ Keats

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.

_Kalimelo

I stood tip-toe upon a little hill
The air was cooling, and so very still
_John Keats
http://www.bartleby.com/126/2.html

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

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