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?

The Autodidact|act II

Money for nothing 

I had,in a daydream like, an encounter with an archdruid.
The poet said to me:
_Immagine it’s , like if it was a reconforting answer addressed to you personally, for having been waiting so long for the muse to speak to me. A silent plea I flung to Heaven, but a prayer, then it came just like that, on time, for when you waited long for the least, after having all time a reject_someone that’s 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,about an interview with the author Katherine Heiny,
Taking-the-slow-road Then, I came accros a poem of Victoria Erickson on Pinterest, so I left my gaze wandering through the boards sometimes untill I got a glimpse of something burgeoning in my mind for quite some time later on, so to stay in the clime of thoughts, something that looks frutescent down the road, that’s with a kick you excuviat to the open, like a bird taking his first flight from wich it was nestled under.

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 the Pantheon, in Paris, there it’s where they sleep for the eternity, all the writers, the poets, artists, and all the admited accadimician personalities to that honorable degree of reconnaissance. But that place is to quite to hear their flights and joultes, so I just returned to my muse to get inspired.

Me, personally I  wouldn’t imagine  be writing stories, one day, I didn’t take it seriously. Perhaps as a vacation hobby mostly more or less, than 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 “my violin of Ingres”_my passion, went for drawing, since the early childhood. And I read a lot of books, the amount that one can fill the shelves of a communal library, (my father owned a bookstore, so you can imagine, and besides having at reach of my hand all the books you can read, people was more reader, and movies goers, the only TV program was black and white, and the broadcast was for more or less for five hours a day, and it started at 5/6 o’clock in the afternoon, and ended by the last newscasts at 10:30. Logically, that is was for the working class more than that for the élite or the bourgeoise class; the have salons and tea room, for playing bridge, and aristocratic activities, by snobbish to only sit and watch the TV. Than, after reading the poem of Victoria Erickson, “taking the slow road”, some decades later, and a few days lately, from reading I get enticed by writing little by little. I finally grabbed my courage, with both hands, and dodged it. It’s not that I’m afraid of writing or 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. I said to myself, see what happens, you have nothing to lose after all,  just a few dollars, a lot of scribbles, blank pages, 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…

Soul-of-my guitar

I learnt from thee, passer-by
To recite yours of Poetry
Those verses, I made them a 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, paint’d on a dragonfly
Drift away, walking a 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 the summer along
Sway with me, Stay with me
That’s for, O you passer-by,
Make a Bow with your hat

At Mid-day or rush-hour
Take the A or the Q-trains,
stopping by,  for a second,
At thirty-fourth or forty-second
The street, I make home our
Be it snow or it rains

Oh! How foolish, thou arth
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
In 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

It’s here, it’s deep
In my insides-within
Still my guitar gently weeps

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

can you see the moon
Reflecting its eye in it
The offing, or a ship at sea,
Tequila at sunrise
Sorry, I drink Poesie

Ô you Time Passer-by
Whisper my song to the ears of the wind,
It’s like a dream,
ice cream in a gleam

It will rest
on a dream-catcher’s net
A dandelion On a stay
A fleeting wisp, at ease

So, will you please
Gimme back my dream,
And take with you, yours
I need my hearth to rest
Take me home

Take me home, it’s enough for me,
Of all the broken roads, and tour
Ends of the World I roam troubadour
Finally A shore  to hug,
a safe harbor that’s all I need
To rest my bones, on a dock of the bay at last.

Take me to the mountain,
A water, to drink from a fountain
Take me to the river
I would like to see my face in it,
Once more with my eyes
If the river is still a river
Still Running thought it,
If the mountain still, a mountain
The Ozarks to climb it
To see the southern stars in the sky,
Orion, Betelgeuse, and Rigel,
An old wish I hold to quell,
The Milky way, At my eye
the sky is the limit, I 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,
Look where it lays,
At Broadway
They ditch it

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.

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

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muse

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.