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All I needed was a blog

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As I begin a novel I remind myself as ever of Camus’s admonition that the purpose of a writer is to keep civilization from destroying itself. And even while thinking, well, fat chance! I find courage, reach for the heights, and if the rock keeps rolling down again so it does. What the hell, start again. Rewrite. Be of good cheer. Smile on, Sisyphus! _Faye Weldon, Writer

When I opened my Blog this morning, what a surprise! look a this award below:

6 Year Anniversary Achievement
Happy Anniversary with WordPress.com!
You registered on WordPress.com 6 years ago.
Thanks for flying with us. Keep up the good blogging.
Isn’t refreshing?
So, thank you WordPress team fist, for hosting my blog gracefully for the longest and for all your support during this wonderful journey of writing. And  thank you dear reader, the loyal, and the passer-by as well for stopping by.
I smiled at the sole quote above from the writer Faye Weldon that came well àpropos in an email to me, as well, for from WPress team.
 I had no fat chance, ever 6 years ago. i just started a blog, with a vain idea.
It happened that I wrote sometimes a couple of months ago a post, blogging about the writer Albert Camus”s admonition that purpose the writer to keep civilization from lost of its memories, remember the time back to Neolithic era, when writing was not yet created, only left with some carved painting on stones and caves (The Grote of Lascaux) and the punishment of Sisyphus by the Gods of Olympus, the rolling rock, and the encouraging  the team to me, to keep on writing.
At the beginning, it was a chimeric idea that came from a Daily prompt: Imagine an a special holiday, and it was the first day of spring, and as I just came back from Algiers, Algeria, I had in my mind a thought about the goldfinch_it’s a national pet out there, don’t be surprised. The thing is, it became an endangered species, and although it is protected, thanks to the environmental authorities, it is still targeted and captured by aficionados and smugglers.
So, I just hold on that thought, and  post my first blog in gibberish languages some sort, in the hope to grab the attention of a passer-by reader hopefully from Algiers.
Recently, I saw on YouTube that young people out there started by launching individually a campaign to free the caged  bird, I felt that somehow, and somewhere I wasn’t so vain.
That we come to think about a main subject, at the same time, in any part of the world, of common issues. Sisyphus, is still calling, although from a vale that had no echo. we just keep blogging,  right? write…

A source please, I thirst for writing

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The Myth of Sisyphus, and me

I write from memory most of the time. So, because only now and then, that as memory speaks, when the source is withered, the rivulet is tarried, we realize that is, in reality; we gather our thoughts, to scoop a handful of water from the brackish pond  along the bedrock of the river, as I stood there for a moment. To a wisp that gathered and resumed itself to continue its route, to that singular instant of our life, so, I  got Hiraeth, it’s a feeling what you call it, a rush, I felt the Blues, the last time I went there.
image
The landscape of the country side had changed dramatically since then. Ago  there was a stretch of land, bosky woods, gardens, and meads, that run along the range. The scenery became  a parched bedrocks   where ago It was rivulets, the rushing waters from the spring , and shady and leafy trails, I found it had been compound   in to a magma of concrete, pods and Iron rods pointing to the sky, and dusty roads strewn with potholes that continue anywhere the asphalt had stopped without, which  lead to a labyrinth of unfinished walls, higher enough to cast shadows on other walls, that the sun could never throw it ray beam  again across the streets, and terraces, and to closed doors behind furtive shadows with oblic regard. Instead of what I had expected to find: where  are they? Those fig-trees, pomegranates, ( for instance, the small town bore its name from the proliferating trees, and fruit), vineyards and orchards, with syrupy figs, and grapes on the vines, dangling at reach of hands, and awaiting harvest,  gazebos, and wisterias  casting on the limestone wall of the houses painted in white, with the terra cotta tiled roofs, the  frutescent fragrant bushes, of lavenders, and daisies, skirted on each side of  a vicinal road,  that lead you to the blue  entry door to the house.

 

I used to wander,  a flaneur , through the laced roads that leads you hill and dale, to villages with evocative names of old Franch colonies. On each side  of the road, rows of pine trees, eucalyptus trees , and tall reed  along the rivulets that hide behind, oranges tree fields, orchards, and vineyards, so it was like rolling on a runner with perspectives that faded off to vanishing point straight ahead, to infinite View blue sky, until you reach suddenly a fork of roads, with similar rows of trees, at each sides, until it bifurcated to a small village entrance, and into its public place, where in these times of yore, dancing balls and parties where thrown each Sundays, and sweet Thursdays. Sometimes, it you take the seashore bus, it continued its way going downhill to clear up to a wide  view with sea beaches on the side, and vineyards that went grappling to the hilltops.

All that  had disappeared or in instance of escaping completely from the landscape. That what left me Sodade

Why I write? The rage at heart,  It was by accident that I came across a book from the author Albert Camus, The Myth of Sissyphus in English, at the Library, the last time I had returned some borrowed books. It’s not that, by being nostalgic upbringing the past, while I had read only The Stranger, and The Plague, it was an assignment then. And it was the near past, in the mid-60s, not that long after the accident the author died in. Therefore I had never read it before, save the passage, The Myth of Sisyphus ; it was Ok, and in the Air-du-temps, to talk about it, to have an apperception about it, to demonstrate  that you have an interesting intellectual style  and to bring the subject in a mondain conversation, the existentialism era was still in it the best of it times. Algiers was the Mecca for all the revolutionary adepts of the motto changing the world. So, the world never change since then, and all the adepts passed their way, and faded from memory. So it was by curiosity now, that I reread  it after that half a century or so had passed , to see as everywhere in the world is the same, that had endured the effects of time, wich is the natural progression and processing moment of erosion and rebuild, life and birth of all living beings and usage of things.

So, after having read the book, apart from the philosophical passages, the  most beautiful thing I have read is, Return to Tipasa, and Summer in Algiers, were it was, like anchors dropped to the port d’attache, to tie the bowlines with the seashore to be moored, for having to live again, moments by moments, and words for words, à-mesure  of the turning pages, it’s a delicate balance between the instants in wich the author discribs the scenes of where he evolved, and the pleasure to rediscover the place you already know  surely  what you have left  was the first and the same  sensations as the author had, body and soul, the changing of colors during the day, the light and the darkening of the tan of bodies the juxtaposition of one’s own experience with the shared the moments of delight and sadness and solitary confinement for a writer and to prove solidarity with him in that singular and personal attachment to both motherland.

“It took me years to take my place among the ten thousand things again. To be the woman my mother raised. To remember how she said honey and picture her particular gaze. I would suffer. I would suffer. I would want things to be different than they were. The wanting was a wilderness and I had to find my way out of the woods. It took me four years, seven months, and three days to do it. I didn’t know where I was going until I got there.

It was a place called the Bridge of the Gods.”

What I’m Digging Right Now

The place of mine, it is called Oued-Rouman

That’s why I write. Writing is my drink, and the glass is emptied now, so it’s time to fill it up to the rim, time and again

And, yes  it is like Sisyphus, condemned by the gods of Olympia, to roll the rock to the top of the mountain, then let it roll back to the feet of hill, and push it again and again, to the top and watch it rolls down hill, then to go after back and forth, without state of mind, in resilience, to not offend the gods again

A sailor|if I have a hammer|prompts of the day

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Echoes of Sinbad the sailor: Flickr photo of the day

If I have a hammer
I would be a carpenter,
and I would be an Art-painter
I'll build a boat,and I'll trace route
If I have a hammer
I would be a sailor,
I'll say then lo,
and I'll pray,Oh! Lord! 
I have pain in my heart to sooth

I would have astrolabe, Sextan,and compasses 
maps, and routes I'll  draw, as hour passes
So, I'll throw off the bowlines behind, and go asea,
and see people, and things I would never see
I would be a skipper, I got
urgent desire, a heart on dire to see the seven seas_
"Les Îles Marquises,
le ciel est bleu la mer est grise."
Then, I would reconcile my heart
with  that old dream of mine,
I had once ago, when I was a kid of nine.
That's would be it, a state-of-mind, and art?

Then, I'll  say cheers to all the tears, and all the fears, 
and all the dreams, loves and friends left, behind.
That, shall I have  a toast with a glass of wine

Then, I can sing Brel,
and I  draw like Gauguin 
With peace in mind

https://kmlkoubablog.wordpress.com/2014/04/25/just-to-make-this-dock-my-home/

 

Daily Prompt: Pour Some Sugar on Me|Salt n’ Peppa’

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What is your favorite sweet thing to eat? Bread pudding? Chocolate chip oatmeal cookies? A smooth and creamy piece of cheesecake? 

Pour-some-sugar-on-me

I have posted this post some months ago, and I renew it here, in this time of chocolate, so indulge moderately

When I read The Daily Prompt: Pour Some Sugar on  me, I was going to write about the sweets topics and all the above: Mille-Feuilles, a French pastries , and petite salties, petits-fours gourmets I am found of, then I saw the featured image by stu_spivack in a second,  I recalled Nina Simone’s “I Want a Little Sugar in My Bowl” song,

What It Was Like to Hear Nina Simone Live

I want a little sugar in my bowl

I want a little sweetness down in my soul

I could stand some lovin’, oh so bad

I feel so funny, I feel so sad

I said to myself : forget about the food,  I couldn’t help but  just post this video as is, http://www.last.fm/music/Nina+Simone/_/I+Want+a+Little+Sugar+in+My+Bowl http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=rqU9LKA83Yc http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RLyk7Jst9Bk&list=RDrqU9LKA83Yc

A little treat for myself, it’s mon Peché-Mignion, that’s  what I wanted to share with you, first,  so I grabbed a Mille-Feuilles, an Eclair-aux-chocolat, at a French bakery at the corner of the street,  and some petit-salés, with a bottle of champagne Moêt et Chandon, (these are traits from France,) where she lived for many years, and I sat back and listened to Nina Simone, but  you don’t have to, so listen you proper music if you don’t like Jazz, and please indulge delightfully.

But then I got that bitter-sweet taste heft in the palate, when I got to read the Longreads post: What it was like to hear Nina Simone Live?

http://blog.longreads.com/2014/08/06/what-it-was-like-to-hear-nina-simone-live/   http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2014/08/11/raised-voice?src=longreads

But wait! There is more to it, I just read this http://nyti.ms/1FsNLNj that I want to share it with you, for the time being too, it’s on Tweeter, I feel not so funny, but so sad

PENNED BY GUL

To share the ink of my thoughts, hope is the image I want to paint.

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