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 “
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.
_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.
[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]
BY E. E. CUMMINGS
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
You know, the melody is so strong there’s nothing you have to do with it. If you tried to play bebop on it, you’d wind up being a hip cornbagrown same thing, I have to do now is make things connect, make them mean something in what I play around it.
—Miles Davis, on “Concierto de Aranjuez” from Sketches of Spain
Because you want to know
How much I love you, so_
That’s, I learnt it by heart and not by rote
Your name, down a parchment I wrote
That never whithered away
My name, on the sands of the beach you wrote
Was washed by the sea salt rolling in
Then again watching the tide rolling away
I Carry It in with me, wherever I go
and by rote I learnt through
the whispers into the ears of the wind
your name I carry it in my mind
Hither and thither, whether l am calling you
and the mountains echoe
On the string, encores et encore
the violin worn out its bow
That’s I miss you too
Like the ocean miss the shore
It recalls into memory
Where it lives
And my mind never leaves
This piece of poetry.
I wrote it longtime ago
on the sands of the road
at an age I were worry free.
Now that’s gone with the wind
I say it low
It’s here the deeper in my heart
Where jadis It took its roots
As a young love going its way
grown up and spree
To the moon making its route
I carry your heart, I carry it in
In my heart, at the soul of my soul,
A branded name like a tattoo
I show it to the world
How much I love you too
I carry it in my way
to the light, a thousand suns,
You are the sky, where it lays
Settled on a rainbow
For, a star had made my day
the night It came to my window,
and since then, it never dies
I made you a soul of my Soul
The day of wonders, we met.
Near the fire we set
Outside, it was nice and cool
Snow falling on pine tree
The moment, when I wrote
This piece of poetry
I kept it silent until now
That you listen to me
Stay with me, Sway with me
Something is the air, This melody
while the violin gently weeps
On the string_ I tell you how
It worn its hair, the bow.
When The wind will sing it for you
Speak, Memories in deed
It’s how for you I kept
And I didn’t say a word
And longtime wept
I didn’t declare to the world
Because you want to know
How much love I love you
For, now your eyes only can read
Conchita’s, with her lightweight silhouette, like a feather sustained in the air; her image it’s still as vivid in my mind as a burnt cigar left on my skin; it was an image of a Flamenco woman dancer, printed on the cover of a pack of my first fine cigars that I used to smok when I was a teen of fifteen years old, that I recall sometimes when I see the scar on the back of my hand. Her depart was such sweet sorrow of not equall that I a smashed the fine cigar on my hind. I feel the pain in my skin. It was like the first time when you fall in love with a girl ; for the first time you kissed her, you’re in wonders, you laugh then you cry just after, then you want to be together forever ; as for the first time like when you smoke your first cigarette, you cough, and with your eye-watering, you discover then that’s, what cigars and women, alike, they had something in common, that they make you suffer at first, then you get the habits of it to live with them, and with time, that when you get comfortable in their company, then suddenly, and as always it happens, that dolorous moment came when departing is such sweet sorrow; that is, at our expenses, thence we realize that is, women, we can’t live with them, and we can’t live without them.
But then we can quite smoking, oftentimes, but we can’t forget our first love all a one’s life time.
“Quatorze-ans, Les Gauloises Ça fait mal a l’aise.”
_*At Fourteen years-old, and cigs just make you sick, “Gauloises,”_French black tabaco cigarettes
“And I forget just why I taste yeah, I guess it makes me smile
I found it hard; it’s hard to find
Oh well, whatever, never mind”
_Nirvana – Smells Like Teen Spirit Lyrics
She was a ballet-dancer, and I, a Fine-Arts student in Paris, years later on, then I was looking for a model, wondering in La Butte-Mont-Marthre. I discovered her, Degas, and his pastels, that so delicate, and volatile, as she was, elegant and whimsical, that I spent hours watching her performing pirouettes, pas-de-deux, and grand-equarts, so wide open, for, your eyes stayed opened that you can hung your Bêret, or “…your hat_ Mark Twain”, and holding your breath and your heart still pending to her movements, I stayed sitting there watching her, in a corner of the dancing room, a piece of charcoal in one hand, and a cigarette “Gitannes”, at the end of my finger tips, as the smoke-filled the air, and her laughers resounding in the hall; I was trying to fix that moment on paper, and drawing thousands of thumbnail figures as she moved, in vain. That’s I sketched on, and on, on drawings sheets, listening to Charles Aznavour_” La Boehme,” once alone, when back to my tiny studio, later on.
Sometimes, I found myself staring into a blank sheet, as she moved, like in a day – dream, à- contrejour or standing in the loggia, looking vaguely into the rain falling on the tilded roofs of Mont-Martre.
She has something in the way she moves, that Je-Ne-Sais-Quoi, I loved the way she walked, I loved the way she talked, so peculiar to Parisiennes women , that captivates, and charms you : she was a gifted performer woman, with all graces and allure, walking, and dancing , steeps skipping, and skills, tip-toeing on her ballerina shoes, a virtuosity that enthralled her audiences, sometimes to put or hold you in slavery, when she talks, and laugh, you get sustained and hooked to her lips like being hypnotized by an Indian fakir, to fall at the charm of his flûte.
And we had fallen in love with each other, effortlessly, get accustomed and as usually it happens, it happened with me, comme d’ habitude . We broke up with each other, querelles d’amour sometimes, few months later, for some reason or without, perhaps for having been too much in love of each other’s that we burned our candel too fast, from both sides . Perhaps, I was asking too much, I wanted her for myself, all by my own, I was jealous, for she hadn’t time for me, just a little, the time for a pose, and the fact that she uniquely reserved her time, and for Art all devoted and only. Go figure
Somewhere, those poor old things still must be knocking about.__Constantine Cavafy
I had a tiny studio on La Butte-Montmartre, then, we were all time hungry, and broke, surviving on œufs-aux-plats, d’Amour et d’eau fraîche, and I, more waiting for her, and in a want, till, one day she never came. Tired, I went to Spain–Flamenco, wacthing Bulls-fighting, Frederico Garcia Lorca, Manitas-De-Platas, buried my chagrin d’amour in Cervejas, to conjure the spell on me. I surrendered to some réconfort in reading “The Sun Also Rises “, the book of Hemingway, in a way. Then from there, to Barcelona, with Maria Rodriguez, the Fado lamenting sodade, that it revived in me the open wound, reminding me that ” Somewhere, those poor old things still must be knocking about.” And only have dear and cognate in Porto wines on the Taj, transported by a bitter-sweet sorrow, but in fact it was her, a dream that I pursued than, that It was a fascination by the quest.
Sometimes, the object of the quest is as elusive love-object, as in André Breton’s surrealist novel Nadja, in which the mysterious woman persued by the narrator is, in a way, that embodies the mysteries of Paris itself, instead, I found myself flâneur in the streets of Paris, without.
It is said that the Taj Mahal, was was built by an India prince Mogul of old times, in memory of the loss of his beloved princess, and wife. He ordered from the best architect in town to design the palace where the princess will be buried , knowing that the artist was in love with a woman, he put her in prison until she died, the time it took him to build the palace, the artist was in such a sorrowful state of mind so inconsolable that he put all his passion to finish it before she died, unfortunately, that both the prince and the artist found themselves in the same state, contemplating the most beautiful object that embodies love with, with an incommensurable pain in their hearts.
“There is a smell on you later, left as laughers and silences settled, and something in the air of subtle perfume and rare tabaco, that lingers longer in the house and on things, after she departed”_Kalimelo
The other day, at a corner of street, in Soho, a vanishing scent of musk, perfume, and tabaco that stayed in the air, au passage of mysterious stranger woman, transported me to Paris, to the clime of lilacs trees, balconies and wisterias of Montmartre; it has been longtime that I quitted smoking, the Quartiers-Latins, and its bistros,in Paris and moved to New York. They say, you rediscovered the subtleties of the olfactory senses, smells, perfumes, as you had lost your odorant sense while you were smoking, they say, but what do they know about lost love? Getting Sentimental
Othello , Shakespeare _”Depart is such sweet sorrow,” perchance, you discovered that but when it’s too late.
There are days, you wake up “de-Bon-Pied,” with some eagerness in mind-reading sort of, a sense of where you are, solely being ready for doing something special that day; and an incline to wearing one of your preferences of cloths, like an intuition for perchance to meet someone you hadn’t seen for years. Then, I have a preset idea like, an omen, or a predilection, for listening Bach, or reading a book of a particular author. Thence, a book I took with me, The Art of the Personal Essay, to read while commuting. Once in the train, and was reading up to end of a passage from George Orwell,” Such, Such were the Joy,” the book struck my marrow to the core, suddenly, it triggered a déclic in my mind, in a snap, it sent me time traveling decades way back, to find yourself seating on a crowded wooden school bench, looking to brunettes, black hairs, and stressed blonde classmates, tablier-aprons, and flannel short pants dressed, with the catchy smell of ink tickling my nostrils and with soaked fingers.
Hours, and days, spent in classes without heating, or sweating on exams, at 94F outside, miles going by the way, back and forth, to school on foot, “Qu’IL Neige, Ou Qui’Il Vent,” be it snows or it pours, by the way.
How many shoes, and most of the time on plastic sandals, how many back of shorts worn on the benches of the school, and riding crops and square rulers, broken on strokes upon small hands.
By the way, I chanced to go to two different schools, one modern, the Public School, where you learn writing, reading arithmetics, History, Geography, and wonders, the other, the traditional, the Old Arabic Medersa, sitting on mats of tresses riding crops, where you learnt the Quran, by rote, some Arabic grammar and verbs to conjugate, gibberish words for poetry, the Arabian Nights, and dreams about lukums, Sindbad and seven seas, with same trait of reeds crops, broken but this time, on the soles of my feet, which ways you learn Humanity walking, a sense of evolution, and knowledge, and that was it.
The other day, forty years later, back to Earth, I found myself, seating on the bleachers of the Liacouras center, in the afternoon commencement of the students graduation, in Philie.
“Summa, Magna, Cum Laude” _Honors Latin Words spilled from the mouth of the dean presenting the graduates students, the center echoing with hoorays, and resounded in my ears, as the caterpillars like procession line of honored graduate students, a congressional gathering of monks passing one such as unthreaded dreads from a rosary by one before the dean to get hooded, and went away, to next student, “Summa, Magna, Cum Laude, ” repeated Four hundred, thousands zillion, hooray.
Images of past, and present-futur extrapolated, mingled in one tense, before your eyes, the goose pumps rising at peel of skin, emotions stuck to the throat, a bunch of roses, you hug your kid, a photo shot and you shed a tear, as such, such are the joys, you that burst in tears in your insides within, silently.
_a spoon of Caviar Beluga on a slice of rye bread, a zest of lemon, with a glass of vodka, and or perhaps, a half-a-dozen of oysters with a flute of champagne Taittinger: a diner at The Fouquet’s, Paris with my Valentine
For sure, there is some denials rising in the air; déjà, I hear someone’s saying: Oh! No, no, no! Monsieur, Je protest!(with The finger up)_a bath in a hot water tab, coffee, pousse-café_VSOP, Cigar José-Maria…
Whatever, ok I agree with you, the letters of Nobility first:
A Class BAIGNOIRE. It is all about time
The 1906 design of the watch that would later be christened the “Baignoire” demonstrated Cartier’s prowess in crafting watchmaking forms. An elegant ellipse uniquely forged in a single line, the “Baignoire” watch is the essence of Cartier style: an unmatched marriage of purity and timeless chic.
B, the bath-tub, created under Louis XIV, for Marie-Antoinette, with the cutlery, the fork to not spoil the hands then, please.
"It's like ten thousand spoons
when all you need is a knife
It's meeting the man of my dreams
And then meeting his beautiful wife
And isn't it ironic...don't you think
A little too ironic...and, yeah, I really do think..."_Alanis Morisette
When some people talk about love,
_I don’t talk about poets, swan, and dove,
Of chimeric thoughts that hover
over a dream-catcher net, when it’s over
_But we, like ordinary people,
at wee hours, they daydream
of that day the get caught,
like a wisp on a stream,
And Of which they never talk,
and again, she never thought
But only longing sometimes, of that night
as if they were_ him a tenebrous Latin lover
and her, Ô my fair lady of one night!
He came by, singing under her balcony,
thither, hither and yon,
Knights, castle, and beyond
have they ever met. Oh! The Irony
What’s love…that thing out of reach,
Oh! That was the only way of which_
Like a thief, that robbed,you and left
with your valuables, walked away
then left you, with a broken heart alas!
He never came back, anyway
A Gentleman burglar, like The Saint,
You may thought… But no worry!
And it makes you sometimes feel lonely,
With a quantum of solace, to linger
at a simple note of sorry,
left on a table, at reach of your finger
or was it simply a hungry burglar
That had eaten your diner,
one night while you went for a walk,
and of which you never talk.
For years you lived on a whisper_
a word that he uttered to you
like to a young spouse,
the day they just wed, Whose_
she has a sailor husband,
he said to her the morning he left,
and sailed away
_ and Her, she stands at the window,
peering at things, that might peep
on the offings, Him, The only, the while, the ship,
the first sole mariner coming.
Waiting for days, like a widow
the day they’ll return to the safe harbor,
Will find her there, at the moors, like the other wives
With Anguish cutting their guts, and tore like hands cut with knives
Then, Oh Happiness
they’ll be living for a week or two
As they often do
on lobster they’ll dine,
with hot bread and wine,
On Fresh water and d’ Amour
Like always, and come toujours
and then, on left-overs, like everyone.
They go sitting there sometimes,
at the dock of the bay, wasting time.
Just having small talks, mamours and caresses,
wasting time, until the next day going at sea
Watching their hearts glowing low like embers,
Under the ashes of a bonfire, on a golden shore.
at the sole thought, of departing encore.
kissing goodbye in such no sweet sorrow
That sailing in the morning tomorrow
When the birds will be leaving the nest
I am, sitting here, like dog on the bay,
The while, the only thing, waiting for his master to return home
Do you return home someday! my love
Oh! I am too nostalgic to remembrances,
Sorry, guys, What a mess! I’m drunk of love, I have to go anyway
“Sittin’ here resting my bones,
And this loneliness won’t leave me alone, yes”
“Now I’m just go sittin’ there
at the dock of the bay Watching the tide roll away, ooh Wasting time” _Otis Redding-_(Sitting on) The Dock of the Bay, lyrics
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
I bow my hat
I know they’re old,
A Million, ye can’t sold
but, you see,
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
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 have to leave,
We are to Live
Sometimes and die.
“You pass through places, and places pass through you, but you carry them with you on the souls of your shoes”
“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
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.
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.