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

 

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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

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.

__Kalimelo®

“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

Poet n’ troubadour|Soul-of-my guitar

http://poetreecreations.org/2014/06/23/passing-time-square-promote-yourself/

Thanks to http://poetreecreations.org/author/poetreecreations/, Gillian Sim, by them I get published my poem above,

The poem must resist the intelligence, Almost successfully.

_http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wallace_Stevense

 “Companionable.”

Soul-of-My Guitar

 Sometimes, when you get the Blues
 or The Nana of yours, she is jalous.
 That whe You feel lonely, to-night
 and in your heart, insides, it tears

 I harken to the Soul-of-my guitar,
 I hugged that Old'-companion of mine

 It's my Pêché-Mignion, my glass of wine
 My-bread-and-butter, my Duchess
 It's My guitar, my Gitane*, my muse.
 
 Keep your laughers, and your tears,
 and your sarcasm, and also please
 Doesn't matters if my sorrow that's ye amuse

 we had, an _á peut-prêt, this small talk
 T'was two o'clock in morning, I suppose
 This kind of a language, I propose,
 and a lit'le of your time, I may dispose
 if you please, and I will take
 
 I said to her: "Longtime no-see, dear"
 She said: " I was just  sitting here,
 already set, with all my frets
 Longing for your fingers,
 on my neck to linger
 I was all the time Resting on a chair,"
 I was "Just gathering some dust_
 And you were always  at a hast,"
 "You fled for a woman,and her hair,"
 Now, that you come back to me,
 with heart-broken, at last
 And for my hard strings always to press_
 At seventeen, I know L'Amour, ç'a blesse."
 I'm longing for your caress,
 I am weeping, Can't you see it?"
 with some reproach in her voice,
 She said: "can You believe it?"
 I said: " Ain't  got no choice"
 "mais encore", she said
 I said, "Strike a chord"
 "It doesn't mean a thing," I plaid
 "Seise the thing,"  she said,
 "and let it go"
 Grate the strings,
 just add a touch,
 some Sol La Si and the such
 And Say it low
 And the words will follow
 And put some rhymes.
 It works sometimes
 Then, there you get the Blues,
 And you'll be at ease"
 I said: "tonight.
 " I have to write,
 she  said:" and it's will be alright,
 just get it right."
 "And you are done with that beautiful mess"
 
__At a wee hour, I felt like my soul of a poet, and a troubadour, I ceise my companionable guitar 
so  I just gave it a try, and see what happens, like bonjour, it's five morning
_Kalimelo

*Gitannes, a trademark of French cigarettes, and it means also, a gypsy woman fortune-teller

*gitane, a gypsy woman_ Frensh Dictionaries

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/strike-a-chord/

Remembrance – Promote Yourself

Gimme Shelter,

just an Ounce of Home

suffices me

The frog riding the plantain leaf sways_Kikaku,Haiku
A sudden shower
drums down upon my head

poetreecreations.wordpress.com

rainy day
I still remember, the feel of raindrops on my skin
The dripping of droplets, the splashing of water on the streets.
Building paper boats, racing them in the water flow
Hustling on the muddy streets, jumping in the puddles.
Now I sit in my porch, witness the beauty
Water surging down the leaves, the waving of the trees.
I wish dancing in the rain, soaking the joy
Carefree of the world, apathy of the judgement.
But I am sluggish and I renounce
I stifle my acts, I strangle my passions.
Always on the quiver, forsake my longings
Because I am no more myself but a version of a person others want me to be.
Fatima Mudhesh

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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.

So too many quotes…

So too many quotes, too many, many
So too many,and mine any,

too many quotes, to nest

that nowhere to hung my quote,
just pin-it, to Pin-tø-rest

                 _ a Poet-try

Mackneen Day|Invent a holiday! Explain how and why everyone should celebrate.

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Invent a holiday! Explain how and why everyone should celebrate. In Algiers, Algeria in particular…Thanks for the great idea!

                                                   _DailyPrompt

Bird by bird, by Anne Lamott

"Thirty years ago, my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report on birds written that he'd had three months to write. It was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my  brother's shoulder, and said, 'Bird by bird, buddy.  Just take it bird by bird.'"

http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/2015/12/gabriel-garcia-marquez-one-hundred-years-of-solitude-history?src=longreads&mc_cid=8bcca4b585&mc_eid=82b128761f#1

“Outside, it was the 1960s, the pre-America modern history…”

I was browsing the new look of Daily Prompt, when I stumbled upon the prompt: invent a holiday, which I  had skipped earlier, at the moment when it was issued. In fact, the whole blogging stuff I was doing since 3 years;  it was  all about, and  around  the mean idea: which is, how to convince people, and make them adhere to that idea: The making of the first day of Spring, a Mackeen’s Day_ like The Earth’s Day, The Tree’s Day, and all the same as there is so many others Day’s to celebrate year around;  it is a so vain, and simplistic idea, at the same time, then am I so credulous to that point, to be naïve  to believe in such a dream. A symbol, utopia, a sogrenue as  point of view. The 21st of Marsh, First day of Spring, or the 19th which is tha day of the cease-fire, and the proclamation of independence of Algeria; the choice is yours…

So, let me explain it, little by little, first;  “bird by bird”: _I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings_Maya Angelou

_El Macknenn, The Algerian Goldfinch _ The Chardonneret Parva, if you prefer, it used to be the companion of my childhood, also was the musing pet of the Algerian songwriter, “El Baji,”who wrote the song– “El Mackneen-Ezzine”– (Oh, Beautiful Goldfinch,) in prison; it was in the late 50s, during the time of war, when Algeria was a French colony.

It is considered as A hymn to Freedom, sort of, this is, for the anecdotal.                 At that time, there was a saying; and by analogy to it: “Sing, oh my canary, Sing!” that the Paras– the French soldiers of that times– who used to say it to the prisoner and singer, during the interrogatory  process, to let him talk about, see _The Battle of Algiers, a Celebre film as a reference.

_The purpose of the blog: it touched my feelings when I saw the scene; at the beginnings, when I returned home to Algiers, Algeria,  some 3 or 4 years ago. I went  to the village named Oued-Roumane, to visit my parent, it is a  little town  in the country side of Algiers, at a throw stone from the capital, which country side exists no more today, or what remains of it by now,  is no bigger than  a patch of greenery on the map, in the heart of what was to be known as a large greenery band, the banlieue of Algiers of olden, the Green Belt; The Fahss, whence in time of the French Colonies, where colonies settlers had estates, wast farms, and mansions, sides by sides, to the native people’s small lots of terrains.

It was a spot on the map, at the outskirts of the Capital, in the last century, where the urban dwellers who used it as a getaway where they went in villigiatures, and for picnics, then. And now, the landscape is transformed in to highways, and in to urban buildings,  and sumptuous villas; it is the price or what we call it, the toll to be pay for; Modernism obliged. But, then where the stockings hurt the feet is;  the  environmental habitat, Kadouss _ a small bourgade, hidden between a luscious , and exuberant greenery is the home of  the species_ El Mackeen, the Goldfinch. Furthermore,  it  constituted its natural habitat, since there were so  many watercourses, and the preferred kind of  seeds, the  food for the bird, that especially existed only in this area. The dark side of it is, the  sewer canalization  of new cities, replaced  the watercourses, besides the voracious  asphalt tarn that covered the roads and had eaten each inch of grass, au passage.

Then, the birding, breeding and all the pet stuff business  had, by the end, finished the job, when  everything taken over,  in the late decades_snobbishness is contagious  per se,  to the ridiculous point that the species becomes endangered, and by the fact that everyone in the community, suddenly is  in a want of  a goldfinch, as a pet in a cage…Coco Chanel, its First Class A. Then emitting people  it’s  a way of life, No comment…

Chaabi,The Algerian Blues An hour of delight

This was touching,  the story of El Bahri El Baji–180 lbs of Poetry, and a piece wisdom, that It’s to hard to translate in to words, but just to listen to it. I’ll do my best to translate the interview soon, I promise…

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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