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

http://kmlkoubablog.wordpress.com/2013/11/21/a-lone-writer/

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

Kalimelo

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

http://writingismydrink.com/

I’ll be  very pleased
see you then

http://www.amazon.com/Writing-Is-My-Drink-Writers/dp/1451665091/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1365611509&sr=8-1&keywords=writing+is+my+drink

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High Tide

You asked who I’m…

Who I am? A way deep question, as deep diving in to the blue Mediterranean Sea, indeed.

“Look back into your childhood and think of the nonsense you used to believe and the trivialities which make you suffer.” _ George Orwell

Suppose you sense an opportunity beyond the word “About.” You go read the thesaurus dictionary list of synonyms: “About, around , to go about, to bring about, to seek the means”

“Is this the Unabridged Webster’s Dictionary in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?

On the origins on Writing My Second-Hand Book

la librairie.

 

I had not clue at the moment went I wrote it, but with some distance, I think now, it was done in the same way of taking the slow road, and on the road not taken, so I just took my pen, and put to paper, like a pilgrim grabs his stick, and begins taking his slow road to Makkah.

http://blog.longreads.com/2015/02/03/taking-the-slow-road-an-interview-with-author-katherine-heiny/

"That was the kind of boutique-stores that existed in Algiers, in the 60's, and 70's, and of which some few of them still remain standing untill now, I think, it still exists despise the ferocious modern urbanization that is ravaging all the landscape, with its nostalgia whereabouts, and the few dear things to our memories, and the like au passage."

“I grew up in a back-shope room at the rear of a bookstore, like this one in the photo above , in Hydra, Algiers_ Algeria, not Algiers, of New Orléans, though, there is a trove of a bunch of similarities in the French quarters of architectural style that you can find out there too, and where it is facile to be tinged by its temperament, by its singular perspectives and warm local colors, and a panoply of subtitle fragrancies, and to fall at the same time of instant fascination, incidentally in love with it; it’s default to any charming, and captivating site dear to any artist-painter, and or a writer, in quest of depaysement, and sourcing.”

And to stay in the main clime of thoughts; Hydra, a chic small town perched on the hilltops of the pine-trees crests, in the surrounding heights, and that’s soars at the aplomb of Algiers, the Capital of Algeria, the Casbah, and the port, at the foothill of the mountain; hence its similarity of names with Hydra, which was given by the French architects after the Isle of Hydra, a Greek Island of the Peloponnesus.

Thence, it became famous after the filming of ” The Boy On The Dolphin”, starring the lovely actress Sofia Loren, in 1957.

That is, and it’s not bizarre to wonder, if we know in advance, that French had the habit of giving the same names of existing cities of the metropolitan  area of the mother country in France, on the opposite bank of the Mediterranean, to the newly built small towns of the colonies at that epoch, on the other south side seashore, with evocative names, like La Madrague, Le Lido, on the French Rivera etc…if it was by nostalgia, or by lack of inspiration.

All the same, La Madrague, a small fishermen harbor near Canes in France, is known for the shooting of the filming, with actor starring Roger Vadim, and the lovely French actress starring Brigitte Bardot in ” Et Dieu Creat La Femme (And God create Woman). After that event, the film-maker Claude Autan-Lara fall in love with the scenery, the whole crew moved from Paris to St Troppez, took hold on the small fishermen harbor, and to settle there for life.

 

“dolphins banners and the sound of canons. The sea once so bitter to your soul bore the many-coloured and glittering ships it swayed, rolled and tossed them, all blue with white wings, once so bitter to your soul now full of colours in the sun.~Hydra by G Seferis”

Back then to the sixties, my father owned a bookstore, which it happened to be situated on the main street, just across of it, where my school was. So that for me, I didn’t have to travel too far to go to school then, and had just to cross the street, and to step in to the class-room; and I was lucky too, by having a whole library of my own with garnished bookshelves under my reach. Which is, with such a variety of great readings opportunity, it had given me a taste of travel, beyond the lines pick ups of a bookstore.

So, and it isn’t strange for you to comprehend, that I still recall Homer’s Iliad, and Odessa verses, and to have memorized the French Larousse Dictionary, with the red pages Latin lexicon in the middle, with the History annex section, at the back of the tome; because it was a tome. That for, when we had overcome beforehand as kids, and already learned the entire holy Quran by rote, at the age of twelve, a book with its more than a billion words, six thousand four hundreds verses, all of that constrained in sixty-two chapters; thus it becomes for me a habit; and with a little practice, in memorizing instantly any scriptures with its smallest details.
Still, that it hadn’t made a nerd of me.

“pin 2nd Image below
“Lovely Sophia Loren in Hydra, during the filming of “Boy on a Dolphin” ~ 1957″

 

 

 

In Hydra island, Greece

Hydra, in Algiers, Algeria that is which’s not to be mistaken with Hydra the Greek Island of the Eagan Sea a small town, that is situated ten miles away both from the tiny harbor La Madrague, one of the many fishermen villages, on the seashore, and Algiers the capital Algeria.

–It is curious to see how many often the names of the cities are resembling to others, in facts; Algiers is both the name of a city, the capital of Algeria, and Algiers, in New Orléans, and Hydra, La Madrague, Etc, etc..

Hydra, although it is high-perched on the crests surrounding Algiers, with its sumptuous villas, with pools, and tennis courts, and even a couple of soccer stadiums and has tennis yards, people out there was showing also an expend of bourgeoisie, in the same way, other people they adopted style of life as their fellows Parisians, in the metropolitan motherland.
From the first sunny days of May, announcing the approach of the Summer Time, and while people were showing some skin at these first brightening days; and because summer lasts from May to October in North-Africa, ” I had, as often I had on those days, as the wish is a father of thought,” as I saw them boys and girls sporting tennis shorts, skirts, and wearing swing gears, I glanced to them through the glass-paneled door of the bookstall, then I shuddered and returned my eyes to my reading, and to the cosy interior of the boutique freshness. Preferring even the turning of pages to the return of balls, and the lasting tie – breaks afternoons on tennis courts.
Thirty to forty years later, I want to tale a story, more than that of an essay. People usually used to write a book, and I am itching for word, or words to write, while the train of thoughts is still humming in my mind, and it took me an unabridged dictionary, to find what I was looking for a meaning of a word or words, to explain something that we call a blog, while it’s already in the books, but I was damned if I could find it.

You see, you may say:

” Nice try”, and or where is the catch?”
_I would say:” You are using the wrong dictionary” _see JSomers’Blog
_”Then, again…” You said.
I said, from a quote:

“Writing criticism is to writing fiction, and to poetry, as Hugging the Shore is to sailing in the open sea. At sea, we have that beautiful blandness all around, a cold bright wind, and the occasional thrill of gleaming dolphin-back or the synchronized leap of silverfish; hugging the shore, one can always come about and draw even closer to the land with another nine-point quotation.” _ John Updike.

And finally , I tell you this:

“So throw off the bowlines, and sail away from the safe harbor.”_Mark Twain

That is, “It was Already in the books, while it was still in the sky” _John Updike dare

We invent nothing, but we can only mime some gestures of real beauty in Nature.

Now, I dare you,

-“Care you come back for a little Dickens?”

Thank you for swinging by

Lost Booksellers of New York

I am glad I got to glimpse the legendary booksellers from this splendid generation. They were beginning to thin out even as I arrived. The Argosy Book Store and the Strand are still operating, but most of the rest are gone, felled not by the Internet, but merely by scoundrel time. Here is a brief honor roll of bookshops now vanished: the Seven Gables Bookshop; House of Books Ltd.; Scribner’s; the Gotham Book Mart; the Carnegie Book Shop; Dauber & Pine; the Eberstadt Brothers; University Place Book Shop; Ursus Books; House of El Dieff; and Parnassus Books.

I was only in this Elysium for two days in 1965, but I was drawn back many, many times since and still go back, though now I feel as if I am visiting a city of ghosts.
By LARRY McMURTRY

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/05/11/opinion/sunday/lost-booksellers-of-new-york.html?ref=opinion

photo (22)

Charles Scribner’s Sons bookstore on Fifth Avenue in April 1984._Jim Wilson/The New York Times

“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 … BOOKSHOP WINDOW, Bloomsbury Street by Garry Knight (Photographer. LONDON, ENGLAND).


By LARRY McMURTRY ♦ Literary merchants reigned once upon a time, but not happily ever after.

IN the fall of 1965, I arrived in New York City, flush with somebody else’s oil money, to purchase books for a bookshop I was managing in Houston.


I am glad I got to glimpse the legendary booksellers from this splendid generation. They were beginning to thin out even as I arrived. The Argosy Book Store and the Strand are still operating, but most of the rest are gone, felled not by the Internet, but merely by scoundrel time. Here is a brief honor roll of bookshops now vanished: the Seven Gables Bookshop; House of Books Ltd.; Scribner’s; the Gotham Book Mart; the Carnegie Book Shop; Dauber & Pine; the Eberstadt Brothers; University Place Book Shop; Ursus Books; House of El Dieff; and Parnassus Books.

I was only in this Elysium for two days in 1965, but I was drawn back many, many times since and still go back, though now I feel as if I am visiting a city of ghosts.


I was reading the Sunday Times: Opinion, until the last two lines above, then inspiration when it stroke; “I was only in this Elysium for two days in 1965…and still go back, though now I feel as if  I am visiting a city of  ghost.”  then, when I remembered the quote that Italo Calvino said:

The more enlightened our houses are, the more their walls ooze ghosts.

Suddenly, all the Prompts that I was writing about, and from which I got sometime inspired, they came to my mind like heaps of pieces of  puzzles that got scattered around, then by something vacuumed and assembled in  such kaleidoscopic images; to  wonder about those lost book stores of New york’s past, not so far  long; they where like the pigeons-tower houses adobe of olden,  for  flock of wild books, that came from far away back  home. They carried in them dreams, stories, joys, and tears,  news and truths not always good to be said. Homeless books, dog-eared, had been witnesses of too many past owners handling, but still with the charm resisting the patina of time.

“The novel speaks to us quietly, and stays with us,_” where you read  on paper or on-screen, the act of reading creates the same connection_ by, Michelle W. Daily Prompts

Those lost booksellers were hosts of millions bees, hives that harbors wanted rare guests, now no more than parts of memories. Ghosts-books that still hunting some Victorians libraries.

For, the love of books…

credit: “love Don’t live here anymore…” – © 2009 Robb North – made available under Attribution 2.0 Generic