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,

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…


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:
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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The Autodidact|Act I

 “Seize the thing, the words will follow”_Cicero

The fascination of the Blanc page
For me, It has been always like that with me,  that I have some fear in the guts, just to approach the idea of writing, that is it was just only in the Mind,  that is when  to apprehend the idea of writing, the first time, I think. That is, at least, as it happened to me, or as it could happen the same to any writer; the fascination of the Blanc page, that is, in his or her beginnings as being a writer. Because, It’s not an easy affair. One has no idea what to write about. Then, you must have the guts when you start writing. Because it will happen often… And after I  had found the first sentence written, the question is, then what next? The next great idea, to get the hell out of the it.

All the trades have their tools. One must learn how to use them, such as  if  he wants  to be an artisan, of one the arts and crafts if any. It starts all with having  passion for something, in our life. Then, the writer has none of them , apart from having a pen and paper, and all the abstract thing it happens is in his mind. A painter has to go outdoor to look for what inspires him in Dame Nature, it’s like to a model that poses for him in his studio, for some fine expression in her traits or  to look around for  the things that trigger his memories, or for the instant glimpse until that’s when inspiration strikes.

A poet has his own muse, Clio, the others sisters of her, the nine,  Erato, etc… The Muses, in Greek mythology are the goddesses of inspiration of literature, science, and arts. They were considered the source of knowledge embodied in poetry, lyrics and poems, related orally for centuries since ancient times

That is, it all started burgeoning in my mind like that:

An imaginary dialog, or the sort settled  in my mind, as my eyes stopped looking to things though the apartment and outside the window pane , wandering without seeing them to halt on a sepia photo hanging on the wall. Thence, in a blur sweet haze it sent me back to an encounter with a familiar personae of my childhood, as it followed something like that, on the occurrence,  of my Grandfather, an illustre  character, a walking tempest  as he speaks his mind; imperial in his attitude, the patriarch at his sovereign presence:
“My grandfather had a very agrestic upbringing; his schoolteacher was a horse._The Reader Digest”

At the question, one day, he asked me what would it to be my expectations, in the future:
“A writer...” I said. " What! a writer! " He replied."You must be tripping. It is the same thing as of being an artist-painter or the sort, intelligent personae ; of all the trades: It is not worth it to make it one's job for a leaving; it will not feed its one's man and people neither. Period. "...
"_Look to all those artists, writers, painters, and fortune tellers; before getting famous, most of them starved to death before to get known, to get a praise, or if it always happens they got finally a post-mortem recognition, finally."

” Whistle Dixie’s…” He said, and on that he concluded, he stood up  and went on fulminating, on his way to the garden in backyard through the door, and still humming into his beard, once there. That day I was ten years old  I went to visit him, up through a goat path to the top hill, where the house of my grandparents dominated the valley,  over there, in Algiers, some five decades ago. It was what we call the ” Wuthering  Heights.”Our house,  We were situated downhill. That day I started writing. A letter, first. He asked for me to write him a letter to my uncle, the cadet of his sons, went abroad for the military. I couldn’t imagine writing this post then with all the technology of now. Since, those were the days of the Bic pen dominance,  and the fountain-ink pen and quill disputed the sovereignty on the mailing letter with letterhead, and In writing on ledgers and to official correspondences. Save that I used a ruled page teared from my school notebook; we still using inkwell and nibs for handwriting.

A parent, or someone, a friend or a relatively known by you, that he may say that to you, totidem verbis,  if by chance he asked you what do you do for a living, and if  he is closer to you enough and to the point of being familiar with you, that he can allot to himself the privilege  to launch this bittersweet jest in your face. Because, a writer is a solitary individual, ghost-writer, alone by himself, while other people are part in the herd, of a crew, a band, or a quipped group.

That is, not to say; a “scribouillard,”_ a script, in French, by all means, aka, a public writer; the one that we usually find siting with his typewriter, at the door of a public office administration in Algiers of old; to whom people often it is  relaid on him and referred to, to fill their indispensable forms, disputes  and demands.

Then, the person who’s  talking to you is really  in admire with you, that is, if you are a really a writer, a renowned one. For, the little few writers of that epoch were already known,  Alberto  Moravia, Sartre, Albert Camus, André Gide, and Paul Bowles, to name just a few.

Most of the authors and writers consent to say that, about their works on writing. Especially when it comes to that, the main character of the narrative is the one who is involved in the process of writing, besides, he is not that a literate or just to say, he is, ultimately, an autodidact like you and me.

Then, that one it’s you. Moreover, I suppose that it was the same for you; when for the first time, you “give it try” to write a book. Thence, you may say, it is like to put a saddle on the wind; you sit down with pen to paper, thinking about where to start, while your sight drifting away to tarry on some fugaciousness of the moment. “Too such as a fleeting wisp, as it resumes itself” then pursuing its way, just like a dandelion seed get caught in wind-catchers then went by. Yet, as you just say it loudly of “it’s such a singular evening…” Then a thought comes around perchance, to refine itself; as you are mused by the singularity of the word that you just put down on that blank page, a while ago.

On the other hand, it is like the “taming of the shrew”, as soon as a word is uttered, a bunch of meanings dressed up in adjectives, and epithets  to claim their obedience, roots and limbs come in unison together, aft and front, to an accolade. This led me to consider revising the idea on writing. It is like learning on the job-while-you-earn-process that some businesses propose often to the postulants,when you are looking for a job. Then, when you choose to make it for the living, you have to go down the mine. That is, a double-trouble challenges awaiting, a sure way to fail, anyway, but then just give it a try. Just as you start over and over, do not think about it, and keep on going, and do not look down, for vertigo is just right there at your feet, and only you have is to continue to juggle with words. Writing is a craft they say, first that you learn the skills. Then, with time, it becomes a habit; it is like the Natives Indians, well-known for they work at dazzling heights, on scaffolding, and walking on edge-beams and girders. It became for them a natural gait–a second nature–in that, as it is so easy for them, just as like for you as walking on the sidewalk of the street, or riding a bike, you do not think where to put feet and about your equilibrium at the same time as you ride. That is, letting the words fill in their slots naturally. We usually do not discuss semantics when we have something to say it straightforward; to make your point or something else like that. For that, the tools of the trade, you will be learning them in the same way that you had to repair your first flat tire of you bike in the middle of nowhere: if you remember, DIY, period. Then, I still recall a verse of Alfred de Musset: “C’est d’immiter quelqu’un que de planter des choux”, since the time ago when I was in a French elementary school, which means— is it in imitating someone, the same as in planting cauliflowers the same as gardening, isn’t it? _Gardening is a craft also, and it is like to have the “the green hand”, the same as to find the right word with the right meaning, ultimately << trouver-le mot-juste>> the dear saying to Flaubert, it is a talent that we perfect over  time.

Second thing: to not plagiarize someone else work, and of being honest toward oneself, and toward the other and knowing one’s own limits is your duty. Besides, it is the law. First thing, which I did, is was to throw away anything that I  did not created by my  own, which did not come from my proper thinking, or that did not fit in, or set in one’s values, and common sense. We all starts by imitating someone in our life, in our early work of any kind and style, same as anyone else did, be it an artist, a star, and even a clown–who is also an artist, in that, even if he fails to imitate, he continues to make people laugh; a tour-de-force, which is a prowess, and success in itself. Then, we have to find our own way and style. We had often seen people following others steps, imitating them in their gestures and manners, and mimic even their tics, to the point of being ludicrous.

Therefore, and to avoid the pitfalls, the best thing to do is to always put forth the job on the loom, to spin the reels until being satisfied with the work. Then, to know the moment when to stop, when more is less; like an artist always knows; if you look carefully to an art made by a great artist like Cezanne, you can see through it some traces of the sketches done before and left without paint on it. You can see through, stokes loaded with just the right amount of paint put on a flower, a fruit or a lace. That daub has all the colors of a rainbow, which makes that a work of art, a unique masterpiece in the world. That is, a book is like a canvas, it tells a story that goes through pages, in a design that resumes and concludes to a big picture within, a way that makes of it a bestseller’s work.

A life story, a pretext to hold the reader attention, like you drew  abreast to someone we pretend to stumble, or something in the way you talk. Because , to write is to talk to someone you don’t know. Writers and artists alike, are constantly in a quest of inspiration, and might sometimes as well, come to face “the syndrome of the blank page,” from now and then, especially when experiencing success, after having striven along the path of errs and tries, they appreciate then that tantalizing moment of triumph when inspiration strikes. The muse has a particular incline for poets since Aesop, perhaps because they spend the clearest moments of their time playing with rimes, and the darkest of it in teasing her, that for she inured to visit them more often, it has a whim that change depending of the mood of the poet. A character and a cave… a writing that I had started sometimes ago…no, not that sort of stories of what you might think, then you are mistaken; it is not a Dracula-vampire like story, and nor a Gothic novel, about knights and epics. That was, a certain essay among others assignments that we have to write about in the time I was in H.S. longtime ago. Which subject I still remember: what is the difference between a persona and a character?  Moreover, there were a trick that lies in the word persona. In the late 60’s, _on those days of yore, it was not yet the digital age, but still in its early infancy, it was more a handwriting literary epoch as now, and by then the  computer as Gadget   would pass unnoticed, it was still part of sciences-fictions, and part on the brink of actuality, a something in between. A computer was as big as a three stories building, and rather, a Olivetti Marguerite typewriter would make better sensation, but by then we could not afford it. Notwithstanding, that sort of thing you cannot imagine that someone-a boy carrying one around with him. Besides that, it was reserved only to corporate, businesses, and official administrations, and more particularly; it was a writers’ appendice. So then, the writing was done by hand, not to say that we were only students yet. Nevertheless, it was demanded to us to develop a story about a fictive person that we might know and imagine a story with a character resembling to that person.

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 to say, ” If  I knew my mind, I would not make essays. I would make decisions.”

Montaigne established the form when he said That . Then, I was constantly driven to that goal;  finding the Idea, the content in its pure extract after three-time distillation, like when to savor a sip of a good whiskey, a vintage wine, or  glass of champagne, salute! Have you ever read “A Room of one’s own”, the book of V. W.? Then, you may say, what is the relationship between this and that? She said so, also, in her book—“a woman must have money and a room if she has to write a fiction.” Another book, from another author in a place–from the pages of Pride and Prejudice: “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife,” _From J.A.

In my opinion, it is stands also for a single woman, as to man if I would say.

Night-owl, I wrote it and or Early-Bird, All’right, I did it

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I woke up early at a wee hour, today, with in mind to put down the idea that I was looking for in late the evening, thinking that I would find it, when I’ll wake up  afresh, as a good night sleep is a mother of conseil, like the saying  goes, and as often it works;  the cause of it, a friendly reminder from Weekly Wp challenge, urging me to post one, to commit to my weekly goal; but I had no idea, I was wondering  what to write; it  just sucked me as I was updating some of my old posts, a working habit_taking advice from a French classical poet, Nicolas Boileau that he said:

“Polissez-le sans cesse, et le repolissez,”

a quote, I treasured since High-school, that my teacher loved to repeat when passing in the rows of students, in classes for homework  review. We might freely translate as ” Polish it without cease of strife, and  then polish it again,” advice since Greek and Romain times, then experienced  writers used to urge their disciple to practice, longtime before ” wax on wax off “_ Myagi the master’s advice to” Karate Kid,” in the movie.

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;  I find this gem in the book (Charles Lamb _The Evolution of Elia, ) by George L. Barnett, chapter Five, page 127_The  Craftsman. In  a footnote to”Oxford  in Vacation,” the essay  in the London Magazine ” Fine things in their Ore”,  in the passage below, write it down for the pleasure to read it

“How it staggered me to see the fine things in  their ore!  interlined, corrected as if their words were mortal, alterable, displaceable at pleasure! As if they might have been otherwise, and just as good! As if inspirations were made up  of parts, and those fluctuating,  successive , indifferent! I will never go into the work shop  of any great artist again, nor desire a sight of his  picture, till it  is fairly off the easel; no, not if Raphael were to be alive again, and painting another Galatea.”

For those  who read for pleasure only, this may be a valid approach of my own;

“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