My Second-hand Blog: a “Companionable Blog, in the raw, for name sake…|Threshold

My Second-hand Blog: “My Companionable muse”

Wild Blogs…

Some people affectionate collectibles, memorabilia,  and so on, like dusty bottles of rare wines, books, and olds vinyls: I treasure good sentences, and to write them, post wild blogs, to find a place among others, in a vast flocks of variegated feather , discretely, far from the spot-lights, in the family of things…per chance.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
– Mary Oliver, Wild Geese

“Second-hand books are wild books, homeless books; they have come together in vast flocks of variegated feather, and have a charm which the domesticated volumes of the library lack.”~Virginia Woolf

You can find them on display at books stands booths  cheap-board shelves, at St Michel, Rive-Gauche, in Paris, that is, if you travel too far, or just around the corner, at Old Stand bookstall in NYC; for a dollar each, you can take with you all the books you like to read.

Outside book stand, NY

Sometimes Inspiration stoke inexplicably, and at a moment we expected the less, for when, and where? Only God knows.

At five o’clock in the morning, like the other day, when  it came along, as I woke up early, in a Sunday morning. Or, a paradox! while I was waiting at the train Station. Then,  Suddenly, a shriek came out from above in the sky; it stirred  me out of my early bird torpor, as a flock of seagulls that soared high–the stations are in the open in Downtown Brooklyn, or  the other day, it was right on the middle of the street, in Manhattan; go figure– they were looking for some food, perhaps, then all at once, they came to a stall flight that where, for a moment, sometimes stopped to hover and glide, then dropped down from the sky, like dead leaves, and settled on a handful of seeds spred along on the curbside of the track.

And in a eye-blink, as the train arrived, she and I as we embarked, it took the train of thoughts, I mean Clio, the muse, Erato, Melete, or call it whatever, they are nine sisters, anyway, call it inspiration, and with for sole luggage It had; two quotes: one of them, on the above, the second_”A Room of one’s own,” from the same author, since I  have it already pen on hand, the only thing I was looking for is a place where to sit in to write it down. Since, with a packed train, I couldn’t write while stand up. There was no time to at home either, I arrived late, and so too tired, with the usual train-train; Work, metro, and sleep, and it’s not only distracting, disgusting,  but also time-consuming.

The Beauty, in my mind–she was attractive, and beautifully crafted, so taking advice from the quote of  Mr. W. Somerset Maugham as for granted, and  seeing that, in perspective to seduce her, I let my mind embark with her, ( in the train of thought.

“To acquire the habit of reading is to build for yourself a refuge from almost all of life’s miseries” – W. Somerset Maugham (1874-1975)

Thanks to Mrs. Davas, my fifth grader teacher who was always teasing me, and assigning books for me to read, instead of comics _ an escape I found since then;  “it’s  between the  pages of a book, there is a lovely place where to be”, (and usually, it is where I were hiding, head and nose, often)_ see my other blogs; (On writing: the autodidact, and the lone Writer,) and you’ll  know the story aforehand, if you please, I can  assure you before, that it’s not a self-promotion, but only to have an idea, for why  I write,  and it’s boring also: I guaranty it

The habit, a hunger for reading that I have for the longest, and an addiction some sort, the smell of parched paper, and old English leather of the cover, which I  didn’t cure from it, since then.

I was siting comfortably at booth couch-table, at Grand Central, thinking vaguely, about all, and nothing; at 62 years old, nothing I had written of consistent;  neither for the posterity nor the failure, have no worries, but just few blogs that I have put somewhere on the web, that some followers must have stumble upon by accident, and of which a few of them, honored writers, and poets, might see; and thanks to them extra-large, au passage, once more for being stopping by, and by visiting my blogs; they are so many; second-hand blogs, all wild, the ones  like the others, or just been tamed, some homeless, one that I found one night outside, with a broken wing, at the threshold of my door, by chance, and  one  that I fostered for some time until it healed, then left it took his flight.

Some_”they have come together in a vast flock of variegated feather”- others alone, like The Little Dude at the still of my window.

I can’t pretend to be a writer yet, but caress the dream to  published a book, some day soon.

Wild Books...image


So thanks for reading, it is 2:30 AM, and  it’s  too late to continue; have to hit the pillow, work tomorrow
If by chance you pass by the raw bar, at Grand Central, one of the other day, and you may see me there, say hi, I’ll know that you are my reader, come have a drink; writing is my drink

I’ll be  very pleased
see you then