The Autodidact|act II

Money for nothing 

Today I went back to an old Post that I wrote a decade ago. I went resourcing me the same sense of freshness, the spontaneity of the first glance, the regard of a child, à la prima in painting artist touch, and blasting the cobwebs off the rafters, dusting the debris that we called them meanings.

All children are artists. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up. ”
“An idea is a point of departure and no more. As soon as you elaborate it, it becomes transformed by thought. ”_Picasso

I had, in a daydream like, an encounter with an archdruid.
Imagine that, like if it was a reconforting answer addressed to you personally, after having been waiting for it so long, has scratched my itch for word-wilding without willful exercise in preciosity, when a muse came to  inspire you. A silent plea, I flung to the Heavens, but a prayer, then an answer came just like that, on time, at last, after having had all time rejects, after rejects_ and that someone finally is telling you; like that in the poem:

Your story isn’t calm.
The road has been chaotic at times,
Filed with detours, and rains,
and loss so sudden, and soon.
Sometimes the bliss was so elevated
Your heart could hardly hold it.
Sometimes it was maddening to have,
And then to lose it. You learn soon enough
that it is hardly ever goes as planned–
gently, easy and smooth.
But that my friend,
is what makes fascinating
You have something to tell.
Something you walked through.
Something valid.
Something courageous,
Something true.
You’re made of stories
Within stories, even
more stories. Those
quiet depths of you.

_Victoria Erickson

Before that, I was reading a blog of Longreads, it was about an interview with the author Katherine Heiny,
Taking-the-slow-road

Then, I came accros a poem of Victoria Erickson, on Pinterest, I read it. So, I let  my gaze wandering through the board, untill I got a glimpse of something  what I was looking for and that was burgeoning in my mind for quite some time to  until lately. So, to stay in the clime of thoughts, it is something that looks frutescent down the road, and that’s the thing with a quick jesting you excuviat to the open, like a bird taking his first flight from the nest in which it was nestled under for the longest, while the mother bird was absent for some errands, seeds and worms .

So, I just wanted to give it a try, and see what happens…

If I was given a chance to visit a place, it would be Greece_ “La Grèce me blesse,” the amphitheaters… and all the drama that took place in there, or it would be the Pantheon, in Paris, it’s where they sleep for the eternal rest, all those writers, poets, artists, and all the honored academicians, personalities entitled to that degree of reconnaissance for the posterity. But that place is too quite for inspiration, or imagine, to hear their tumultuous fights and oratory jolts, so I prefer just to return to my muse to get inspired.

I wouldn’t imagine being stories-teller, one day, I didn’t take it seriously thence. Perhaps as a hobby, more or less than a vocational occupation. Of all the trades, and surely it was the easiest one to fail in, anyway. There was no further success in the future of being a writer on those times of Old Algiers.

Back then, I preferred reading to writing, and it was_”my violin of Ingres”_my passion, so to  speak, as my favorite pastime went for drawing then since the early childhood; it’s my father who initiated me to it. And I read a lot of books also, the illustrated books, science-fiction, and the like, you can’t imagine the amount that I red, one can fill shelves of a communal library, (my father owned a bookstore, back then ) so you can imagine that, and besides, having at reach of hands all the books you can read, you never get bored. People was more readers then, and were more often movies goers all times too. There was only one program TV, and mostly was black and white,  by the way, when the night came, and one once got home, the broadcast was more or less four to  five hours a day, and it started at 5/6 o’clock in the afternoon, and that ended with the last news journal, at 10:30.

Basically, that’s it, it is was an entertainment for the working class_Metro, work, eat and sleep cycle. Nonetheless, for the élite one, or the riches class; they have men’s clubs,  and tea rooms for ladies, for playing bridge, and aristocratic activities, but by snobbism, to only sit and watch  TV, it was none of it, they have plenty of time to spare idly talking about everything and none.

So, back to earth now, after reading the poem of Victoria Erickson, _”taking the slow road”, a few days lately, it came from reading as I said, I get enticed by writing, slow motion, little by little. I finally grabbed my courage, with both hands, and dodged it. It’s not that I’m afraid of writing nor by the criticism, but mostly by choice. And again, a maladive instinct for being ridiculous, since, some professionals activities were ill regarded Then. So, taking the risk, I said to myself, just sit down and gave it a try, and see what happens, you have nothing to lose after all,  just a few dollars, a lot of scribbles, blank pages thrown in the waste bin. But then, if it doesn’t work, before  tossing them away, make sure I haven’t thrown the baby–(you dream  would be-writer) — with the waters of the bath.

Paolo Coscelo wrote the Alchemist, 13 years ago, a million books best-seller now. The story, it starts with a dream, so believe in your dream, that’s all.

The story started something like this; ” one day…” or one night?…I don’t remember_ I have read the book 13 years ago, since then, you know. If you haven’t read the book:_ A shepherd fell asleep, he made a dream; an encounter with a strange character; the master of the world told, he told him something like, one has to make his one’s own history, or the sort. When he woke up, he found himself with a solemn urge for peregrinations, that he must pursue  his dream in order to get rich ; if he want to be married one day to the girl he loves. He had to make a choice; if he stayed around  and became a seller of popcorn  with his a cart instead of conducting  a herd to pastures, it’s more a respectable profession than a shepherd, and the father of the girl will look at him with more respect, he would travel also, not a lot, but he will see people, villages, and even could go to the city, but at the end of the day he would be back home to find the girl he love. She would be waiting for him, had cooked diner for him, they would sleep under the roof of a warm house, a small one for the beginning, then they  will move to a bigger one, for that he need money, and while he was thinking about it, thence he fell asleep… His journey started in Spain, crossed the sea, Rabat where he got his job, then followed the caravans route across the Sahara desert and after a multitude of rellantendo, and peripeteias, he  finally reached Fayum, an oasis in the south of Egypt, to finish in to a monastery, the end of the trip.  Then, back home.

This a dream, it’s in a book, that came true. For a writer, it was the hit. A jackpot, to win the Lotto, for the common of us. What about yours; mine, it was…   

“It takes a volcano to write like this: “You know what living means? Tits out, tits in the rain”; “I could do it. I could walk into the sea. / I have a rental car. It’s blue and low on fuel.”_ Michael Robins, on select poems Diane Seuss                                                            To be continued…