I write, because…

Often I am permitted  to return to a Meadow

_Jack Duncan

Often I am returning to write
I write because,
It’s just for those
Whom dare to come back
for a little Dickens
Now and thence to say hi
Like jack Letterman said
On One late night show
To visit my blog how
And drop by a little like
Often I am returning to see
How it’s look like
With my broken English
the poetry I wrote for those
with a broken heart
God bless the broken road
And the one not taken
So I am writing often
Only with words that heart
Can understand but eyes not see
A language you speak
A little help you seek
An old friend you find
Open your mind and
The words will flow
a rainbow you can see
It as the tips of my fingers flow
The work state of mind
The heart warm of mine
In those times of cold
Those words I was told
When I was three-Apples tall
Now that I am old
Words that I can recall
Often I am permitted
Returning to that old Meadow
When speaks memories
It’s like opening a window
Come see, my Old Amie
Her shadow sways near to me

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How I write

I am an autodidact writer, and enough an artist to draw upon my imagination of a child within, that is, I still keep my dream alive, malgré-tout. I lose contact with my muse for, sometimes_work, daily train-train, and necessary household duties obliged, then it’s timeout for hobbies, and the like. But, _”chase the natural, it comes back in gallops,”like the French adage said, isn’t it? Then, here I am on the road, on stage, to write; it’s a one-stand alone, in a one- man-show,  facing a blanc page.

Courtezy Lynette Noni

So I never consider a blanc page as a void, but a space to my passerby thoughts, so I frame it the moment it shows up, whether I was doodling on a scrap of paper, or a Sketchbook. A blanc page is your best confident friend, like a book is your companion. A blanc page never complains about how you trait it, and always gives you back what you put on it, and then you’re left by your own critics with your thoughts. “Seize the thing, and the words will flow, ” Cicero said, and draw a ligne to, fix the moment when you see a glimpse of a picture , of an idea in front of you, like Cézane,  That’s all!

The rest is superfluous, besides , of what is the next idea in contrast, what are negative spaces next to positive space, light and shadows, chiaroscuro, and prose and poetry. All what left aside is pure artistic literature.

So, writing is never depressing, facing a blanc lets me draw imaginary lines in a frame, a widow to a universe beyond reality, to contemplate, like in a daydream, a perspective, to a fleeting wisp that resizes itself an instant, before being carried away by the flow of things that cross my mind, in a wisp of a frown: what are you thinking then, and what are you thinking now?

Am I there yet

I make up my mind , it’s only with heart’s-ease, but after “seven years of reflections,”  I stopped writing about Goldfinch, and as the adage says, that I said to myself:

_”Finally, it is time I think, to leave the everlasting meanders of an essay, to consider consecrating one’s mind to a narrative worth writing.”like, say, ” If I knew my mind, I would not make essays. I would make decisions.”_Montaigne

That is, after reading a passage from the book ” Good prose” of Tracy Kidder and Richard Todd, where it shows a tentative writing a story about building a house by carpenter; simply put, it shows how a persistent idea of writing a narrative story that doesn’t work, finally  it was abandoned, after too much time spent on writing and rewriting it.” It isn’t always a bad sign when a potential story doesn’t talk well”.

I came to the evidence that all the work was like, say, “juvenilia writing is worth keeping and consulting for its honesty and its exuberance as mush for historical usefulness.”_  Ian Crouch.

Peace in mind, I was a writer in his debut…”not a schlockmeister looking for a quick buck.”–Dan Brown, The Da Vinci Code

On my own words

Do you breed  rare words, and sentences?

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/2016/02/17/collecting-words-and-sentences/

Good sentences are well-bred, often when they are pregnant with the right word_ le-mot-just, dear to Gustave Flaubert. The major soucis  of a writer is to find it. They have a pedigree,  like a pure specimen,  they distinguish themselves from the herd, because of the beauty that emanates from their imposing presence,  and the gracefulness in their structure, arise to perfection ; we discern them, instantly  .

I am an autodidact writer, and enough of an artist to observe to things , it became a second habit like , a 6th sense, a fascination by quest in  taking pleasure to look after  singular and exceptional  sentences,  well crafted with simple words and concise meanings. There are people some who collect  memorabilia, curios, and rare objects, and the like, someone’s, who they are birds watchers, other people are beaches raking, and riverbeds dragging, for gold ore deposits, and precious stones, but for my part, I’m a guard, a sentinel of a tribe called the pursuers   of quest for  good prose. I treasure words, to compose some sentences  of a kind that’s, one might stop at it, and says “wow” after reading it, that would be  embodied in a short phrase, and in their comments   They say on_”oh! That one, she comes from a fine breed, of a mare and a stallion, ” speaking of horses, or ” hum…” like  degustating a bit of fromage, a chocolate,  a sentence made of rare words, like when some connoisseurs tasting of rare wines, triple-distillation whiskeys, champagne and fine arts.

Sometimes I feel, that my blog is  like a shop of curios and that I am standing at the door a groggery, awaiting for a rare passer-by, some time, to stop by and look at it, then after a lengthily gaze, posed back it on its dusty place, and continues his wandering. It’s like when reading a quote from Mark Twain:

Quotes
P. Dusenheimer, standing in the door of his uninviting groggery, when the trains stopped for water, never received from the traveling public any patronage except facetious remarks upon his personal appearance.
– Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner, The Gilded Age, 1873

Then,You have this kind of feeling, of déjà-vu scene

So, pardon for the appearances, that might cause you a yawn, when reading my blog, so just smile, it’s a sugar in the raw, as sea salt is in vogue, today. I continue refining it meanwhile, I promise that’s when you  stop by the next time, it’ll be stirred off from all the debris, and shining with the haze that we call meanings; In the perspectives of going viral

It has been four years since I started blogging around with my Mackeen,The Algeria Goldfinch a Primary Blog at WordPress , I had carried it in cage since 4 years already,  like Chris Gardner (Will Smith) in The pursuit of Happiness movie, carrying with him his invention case wherever he goes, while struggling to build a future for himself and his 5 years-old son. Save, that (my son) is at the same time, my blog which is, a lost cause that I have struggled for to bringing to attention of the Algerian public the endangered national bird, the Chardonneret Parva_ the Goldfinch and the precarious environmental habitat in which it lives, by protecting both. So, until it goes viral, (the blog, I mean ) I continue to post ever since in a while as time permits, and trying not to be boring, with respect for the reader, and just gathering little by little, some likes and followers here and there,  with my other published blogs.

So as, one day I’ll be dancing in the street, and patting my shoulder, like when Chris Gardner hit the jackpot, by making a deal of half-million dollars, I only hope for get that mush of likes and followers, that’s what means going viral to me. Until then…Still we can always dream.

It’s all in the sharing, that’s all

Thanks for reading

The Autodidact|act II

Money for nothing 

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, when a muse came to  inspire you.  A silent plea, I flung to Heaven, 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:

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 boards for sometimes, 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 .

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

So, If I was given a chance to visit a place, it would be Greece, the amphitheaters… or it would be the Pantheon, in Paris, there, it’s where they sleep for the eternal rest, all those writers, poets, artists, and all the admited academicians, personalities entitled of that honorable degree of reconnaissance for posterity. But that place is too quite for inspiration, 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 no more,  or only than as a vocational occupation. Of all the trades, 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 Alger.

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, and since the early childhood, it’s my father who initiated me to it. And I read a lot of books also, the illustrated books, the amount that one can fill shelves of a communal library, (my father owned a bookstore, back then ) so you can imagine that , and besides that , having at reach of hands all the books you can read, you never get bored. People was more readers then, and were movies goers all times too. There was only one program TV, by the way, when the night came, and a body once get home, it was black and white, and the broadcast was more or less for 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 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 mensclub,  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.

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…

                                                                                 To be continued…

http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/5997/the-art-of-nonfiction-no-3-john-mcphee?src=longreads

I have read  the book, “A Sense of  where you are”, an example manifest of  presence  of the author, and the effect of his presence, his voice, totally in view to the reader, while his personality remaining indistinct. Here is an excerpt of it, where McPhee,  in a brief scene , that he wrote in book-lengthy   profile of the famous   baseball player Bill Bradley, that is,  before the star became senator. McPhee is watching The Star practice , and then Bradley misses a shot: …the ball curled around the rim and failed to go in…

"What happened then?" I asked him.                                                                                                                  " I didn't kick high enough," he said.                                                                                                               
 "Do you   always  know exactly why you've missed a shot?"                                                                       " Yes," he said, ...missing another one.                                                                                                                    "What happened that time?"                                                                                                                               "I was talking to you. I didn't concentrate. The secrecy of shooting is concentration."

Mr. McPhee wrote it in the first person, in a casual and natural tone, to make the reader see it in the characteristically  way he wrote the story, he wanted the reader to be present,  not as sitting back only but like a confident, some sort.

Encounters with the Archdruid“_John McPhee’s, another book, l have read lately_I never get tired of reading those excerpts of the author encounters, and interviews_also; it  shows a pattern of extreme complexity, the way it was written, and, with more explicitly,  in a passage where he concluded, after a peripheral itinerary, back and forth, like flash-back with different sittings, between the past and the present:
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2013/01/14/130114fa_fact_mcphee?currentPage=all
The story is told in three parts, initially, it is an extended profile of the most prominent personalities of that time, between the different antagonists of the story,  dam builder, environmentalists, and people who represent the forces  of environment destruction, that is to draw them  in to a debate, where the writer  was a pursuit for of a series interviews through different, places and times, until the moment, it took place in a raft trip down the Colorado River. Then the writer takes the reader in aparte _ when he pull aside, in a confidence, a confessional tone, to tell him: after he took the initiative, to embark you  in a journey, of less than few minutes where you got almost wet: the high-speed of the river, with the slow motion of the raft:

What seemed  unimaginable beside the river in the canyon was that all that wild water had been processed , like pork slurry in a hot-dog plant, upstream in the lightless penstock of a dam.

The  last I discovered is this article below: see  link

“At one point I said, Mr. Shawn, you have this whole enterprise going, a magazine is printing this weekend, and you’re the editor of it, and you sit here talking about these commas and semicolons with me—how can you possibly do it?”

I stay speechless, as if I was standing , in the presence of  the writer  in person , when you hear  his voice through reading the books, and finally this item above.

Modestly speaking, did you hear me? when I say:

” thank you for reading”

Soul-of-my guitar

I learnt from thee, passer-by
To recite yours of Poetry
Those verses, I made them my song,
Poems, like leaves fallen from a tree,

A tide, rolling away on the street
The passing of Autumn, dyeing his body_
A girl with a tattoo, a dragonfly
Drift away, walking her dog at her feet.

Mid-haiku, and half-quatrain,
Be it a sunny day or it rain
Night and day, Time flies
A Daydream, tell me where it lays

I, like a cicada, had
It sung all day long
Resting on a limb of a tree
Passer-by, sing with me

may I sing it all the summer long
Sway with me, Stay with me along
That’s for, O you passer-by,
Make a Bow take your hat
Will you please
Drop some coins in my hat

At Mid-day or rush-hour
Take the A or the Q-train,
stopping by, for a second,
At thirty-fourth or 42nd
The streets , I make them our
Home, Be it snow or it rains

Oh! How foolish, you are
You throw, dimes and dollars,
on the ground at my feet,
while the soul of my guitar
Burns low like cigar
Makes your hearth, beat
That’s a kvel of delight

I don’t need the spotlights
I don’t need the limelight
I don’t need all the above
All I need is love

Can’t you see me,
that I am bleeding
Can’t you see me
That I am weeping

Can’t you hear me
It’s here in my heart deep
It’s in my insides-within
Still my guitar gently weeps

Can’t you see those, at noon
My tears like diamonds,
on a starry night.
Rise your eyes, as you might

The moon you can see
Reflecting its own eye
In The offing,
depart is such a sailing
Tequila at sunrise, and I
Sorry, I drink Poesy

Ô you Time Passer-by
Whisper my song to the wind,
It’s like a summer love
It will rest on a catcher net
Like a butterfly On a stay
A fleeting wisp in a rivulet

So, will you please
Gimme back my dream,
And take that of yours
I need my hearth to rest

Please Take me home
Take me home, it’s enough for me,
Of all the broken roads, and tours
To the other bout of the World

I, a troubadour
Finally have a shore to hug,
a safe harbor that’s all I need
To rest my bones, on a dock at last.

Take me to the mountain,
A water, to drink It
Take me to the river
I would like to see my face in it,

I need to see
Once more with my eyes
If the river is still a river
Still Running thought it,

If the mountain still a mountain
The Ozark’s to climb it

The south stars in the sky,
Orion, Betelgeuse, and Rigel,
An old omen to quell,
Say, The Milky Way
the sky is the limit,
you can tell
I’m sailing Anyway

So, O you passer-by
Passing Time Square
Look what they have done to my song.
Take it from my tongue,
Mame, Look where it lays,
At Broadway
They ditch it

Dreaming by the Pond

Maybe, a frog
Had jump in that old pond;
Splash! Then silence again,
the moon rising.
Ps: you just missed the frog
Great shot! nostalgia… A Japanese Haiku

Laura Macky Photography

The night I shot “Rising Gold”, the picture of the moon, I took this of Weeping Willows.  We have several of them here near the lake outside our back deck and they really are beautiful.  Standing there waiting for the moon to rise over the pines, I turned around 360 degrees to see what else could be captured.  The willows have such a dreamy quality to me, so that’s what I tried to convey here.  I wish there had been a duck in the pond but sometimes we just take what we can get.willow-web

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A friend asked me| your point of view

What The Difference Point of View Makes: Friends, and Foes…

“Imaginary Friend.”

I have a friend of mines, we know each other’s from childhood, that is, I hadn’t seen him since high-school, since then we lost touch; sometimes just after graduating. We used to walk a lot, in a group, wherever we go to see a movie or just to sit in a café, or to the park. And we had always conversations, usually after a movie or any things that bring to our attention, sometimes stirring conversations, never too serious  but often we terminated that by a good barrel of laughs. But there is one of them that I missed a lot, the most, he was my buddy, we always stick around with each other a little longer after the group had left and went home, to continue our small talk to a late hour.

Then, I recalled a situation in which we held, some sort of, a deft dialog: we were sitting in a café, having  coffees or tea, an empty brown bag creased on a table neglatedly facing us, among other things. Then, the shape it took gave an undefined image, and here it went; we started arguing about what one could see through the image, so that I interpreted it, I said that is was a brown bag reader.

So it all followed like this, more or less:

What you see is what you get
What you see is what you get

“You asked me to lend you my imagination.”

“Let me let you know first, my dear friend, it’s like a half-tamed stallion, before you ride on, that she is always at a gallop, still half-tamed. It took me too long to get along with her.”

“So” he said. “So, I said, Before anything, I had to seduce her, to cajole her dreams. We have been too often to reconcile with each other; she was always in departure, when I was just arriving. But little by little, I arrived, with time, to capture her want; to deal with one of hers a such fancy caprice of the moment, and to pardon her for being whimsical. Because, she was always in a stirring conversation with my muse, while I had to focus on my writing, so I am used to it now, and let her do her busy chit-chat, while I doodled on a blank page.”

“Wow wow, wow, tell me more,” he said.

“One day, ( I was a flight-attendant, then in my early career, ) in a trip I saw a yogi, sitting always at the same place, in a profound contemplation; he had a monkey who was busy going up and down, from the shoulder of the yogi to the ground, back and forth, while he was sitting, imperturbable in plain meditation.”

“The other day, when passing by, I found the monkey leashed to a post, and doing the same manège, whilst the yogi was sitting aside, paisibly immersed with his tranquil thoughts. I waited patiently nearby, until he drew back from his profound lethargy. Then, when I asked him humbly why he leashed the money to the post, out of knowledge he told me, confessing that he considered his companion’s  own state of mind with respect, and when he realized that his mind was also busy observing the monkey, and that distracted him from meditating, so he attached the monkey to a post and left his mind occupied by the monkey doing, and went back to his meditation. From then, I had a good lesson. Mind mine own business.”

” Ha, ha, Now, I understand, you have really a galloping imagination.”

I am an autodidact writer, and enough an artist to draw upon my imagination, when unleashed, You see, you can’t  go nowhere too far with her, maybe she can take you for a ride just down the street, but then she dis-saddled you right away when she became aware that you’re taking here somewhere too far, and don’t let you go with it; because she is my imagination.

Then, he said, it’s a lie, the truth is, “it depends of the point of view in which side where you stand”

I told him: ” you don’t have to believe me, but I asked you just to listen to me.”

I am enough an artist to draw up on my imagination. Imagination is more important then knowledge. Knowledge is limited, imagination encircles the world.
_Albert Einstein

And, again  I added;

“Give me a  fulcrum , and I will lift off the world”_Phitaghoras

After that we closed the chapter…we sat on a bunch and savored a sundae ice cream silently.