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» Giotto's pastels
» Mab
» Preludes to Lutin
versione italiana
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PROLOGO
When the wickedness of the human beings reaches stars, just
strange beings arrive, mirages that guide little prechosen ones to become
warriors, invisible knights that favor the triumphal return of
nature and art, delicious chaos. The invisible knights act in the
darkness of the lunar thought, of the innocent crime, performed for
legitimate defense. They defend all that, changing shape according
to the historical ages, has to be preserved in eternal.
Therefore it was,
it is, it will be.
This is what erroneously the terrestrial students
define like epochal turn and the religious like
apocalyptic period. Who writes to you is without doubt under the
powerful magic of a ghost that acts in thousand ways under many
features.
This is what remains of the remote past.
Bizantina
The night helps to learn that we can share the dreams only
with unknown people missing god only knows where in this
planet a lot inhabited.
We all wait for a father who is not, contained
in an harem turned annoying , equal, mechanical repetition of
forbidden and banal photos, corporal humors, with an emotional,
illogical, discomposing, devastating, vitiated tension. I would
definitively want to change into some new shape-substance, dip into
the empty future, knowing that every thing will stop in a spell
similar to an unloaded clock. I imagine that I will return in my
ancient lands of east, after having many experiences everywhere. I do not
know if I will still have memory, and if it will be tied to pain I
will not want to remember anything. I will enter in the fixed time to
come with patient magic, without more fear than to lose all that for
illusory chimera only belonged to me in a day of the past. A substitute
of false beauty.
I will be without goal, fixed points, nothing, the
fear of the place from which we come and to which we return. Finally
I will not anymore wait for a father who never has been. I will meet
the wandering spirits like me. I will love them. We will belong
ourselves.
Question mark and answer
When ended the time of Willie Bardo, the time in which the artist
beyond declaiming or painting found in that the purest shape of
the true power? Now we are in the void, perhaps a new
type of empty birth, while the millenium dies. But this does not want
to say nothing. Speech that comes in the wind and with it it stops.
I live in Greeks' Street, because beauty cannot exis without a
deeply mysterious distance and individual much aristocrat, where
had not been still divided broke up, neither the being, nor the
truth. The only new synthesis dispersed, but possible on the
existence is this. All the rest is fragmented madness, chimera,
dream, nightmare without search.
The adventure
It's the usual world with all its new apparatuses, untiring mechanisms
that have to never rest, unless for being repaired. They speak
through the human thoughts that pass in the air. Every new system of
human intersections duplicates all what is past, in a vaguely
different shape from the previous one, than differs very little
to disappear then too into a tide of similitudes. I take with me
the blue and brown note-book of a friend died about the first years of the past
century. They say he has been the one who killed the ancient
way of thinking, while I am convinced that he has red-establish its
base rules, the inner purity.
In the saddlebag of the aedo I do not have jewels, but simple pens and
sheets of paper, and sometimes use a pencil with the angels, sign
of writing of temporary words, perhaps to cancel. These words of
bard go to end in the air like images, and they seize them in the
world perchance, striking the magical keys that connect to me. The
magical keys are stroken by a child in Texas, a child in Canada, a
girl of the college in Bahamas, a Japanese boy in English, and
many children of east with their incredible hyeroglyphic. South Africa,
Finland, California, Thailand, the turn of the planet in eight
seconds.
My origin is unfortunate, Italian. Of a past civilization only the
feracious brand of the worst religion remains, single exaltation of
the pain of the human world. Nothing by now binds me to Italy
but the ancient language, the one coming from
Dante to Gabriel and to the pratense. I will always speak and write in
Italian, a little for laziness, but above all because it is the only tie of blood
I have strongly with the earth, the sky, the sea, the mountain,
the animals. Nostalgic, suffering eye on the glorious past.
These words soaked in the blood of the betrayal I carry to the
children of the planet, redeemed by being me Aedo, eternal and like them,
like the beauty, the unconscious freedom of fantasy without
frontiers, the purity the curiosity corporal. Which things remain
of an ancient country under the weight of the future that follows closely?
The street sweepers more and more lounger that have no will to
carry away detritus. And the refrains of the masons on the roofs.
I lightened my saddlebag so much full of sad story. Hundreds of
humans beings narrated their troubles to me, paid me for this, like always did
from the times of the times with their wise men, variously named
in every century. In the future I imagine only the control of the
law, but for the public order, not on the mind and the body, that
will be both more free to ramble in the loves of nature and
instinct and fantasy.
The room of Pan
I would recover you in the darkness, only at the touch of my hands
that know you well. I would discover this river of feelings
at the limit in a light, nearly imperceptible touch, like dancing
in tip of feet, God of dead infancy. You hold me
without abandonment since when I was born. I am your son the one
bearer of everything and nothing. I am marked from invading
causality. As soon as been born I watched the games of my parents
without seeing, since my look exceeded their amiable appearances and it
was put down mysteriously on you upstairs in my room. I answered to the
games of who was amused with me, but with distraction and sudden giggles
that were not due to the affective effusions of the
alive ones in my comparisons, but to colors, colors in the room,
breaths than the others could not hear. They saw only my small plump
hands strecht out or enclosed to fist.
Was I greater then or now that I have fear to exit from my transparent
covering, from the ratio that I do not know what is, fearing the true
games, the ones heavily immortal, the same in every age? They spread
me in a warm blanket to wait for growing up to become
like that disowned gentleman who left to me his feminine,
childish and inflammable, while from China he journeyed towards
the dusk. I never grew up, indecipherable father,
fortunately. I ramble for the roads of the planet earth to search for the
missing pleasure, escaped from the control of the pain, pleasure
scattered like the seeds or invisible atoms. I use the
special ipsilon of the dowsers.
Ars Antiqua
I flew to the borders of the next century. There will be only
music and some word, many literary languages, the essential colors of
the life and beautiful corporal espressions in means to the usual
nastinesses, the storm at the doors of the disowned sky, many supervisors
and free violence. What remains in the future? I begin to narrate you
how the old world ended, or at least what I saw in first person,
the curious episodes that in late evening I annotated on the
note-book of the present of that time, that seemed had to be eternal.
One of the most serious problems was the shit, yes, it was.
The human beings began to freely shit everywhere, above all in the alleys
and the secluded places. Therefore, beyond the heavy problem of
the homely refusals, moreover so plentiful being jumped to the first
place in the electoral interests of the politicians, the one of the
shit to clear with enormous shovels and gathering machines he
jumped to the first places of the interests. They cannot circulate anymore but
with against-smell masks and personal shovels, a little
larger than the ones used in order to collect the shit of the small dog
from the lawn. The misery advanced and burnt the thought, or tried
with violence of constrain it into the places of the shit, reserving of
devastate beauty and poetry. In order to clean up the dirty parts of
the body the books were used, pages and pages of every type of
publications, because they could be broken off with facility and
consumed for the use.
The newspapers couldn't be sold anymore, although some ugly girls with
scooters or bikes with three wheels to make people laugh, went around.
Resumed ancient ways of being and acting, like the
one to love only one person, the one to dance sacred musics, or the one
to declaim poetical verses with loud voice without shame. When this
happened the beauty had windward over the human wretchedness. It
emanated an energy that ignited ancient lamps, vitalized hearts
remained noble and fugitives in the shitty times. The last pictures
of the painters were just packed. They had made of them an enormous
artistical grave in a palace under the Pincio, watched from a
blind dog and another Scottish shepherd.
There was an old teacher of design that lived from always
within, entrusting thiefs and possible murders, and from there
didn't move like Cerberus as sentry of its loved infernal cavern and
they dreamed up that she was one of the last alive persons to have
seen the reincarnations of great wizards like the one of Oz or the
one of the Round Table, but she denied, because she had fear that would
have come to capture her with the carriage of the crazy ones and
they would have locked up her, into lunatic asylum. Were pictures made
with the earth that would be durations in eternal, while others
bleached hopeless going lost the original attempt of
their creator. Of the painting would be remained very little and
it was the first of the arts to disappear with the sculpture. Their
traces would have been dispersed in other noble handicrafts and
virtual so would have been a pictorial fragment implosion
and outbreak, a great universal distribution of colors and images.
The old lady cried disconsolate, and wanted to die with her friend,
a great architect forced by now to plan only great vespasians and
enormous publics baths or to move immense warehouses of shit to the
land of the elephants. They said not to understand more the world
and therefore, why remain there? But then they did not ever kill theirselves,
indeed, they had terror of diseases and death.
The electronic book
They will pay day after day in the incoming years all the
depreciation they so long nourished towards science. Then only the
laughs of the children around will remain, and they will be
barks, high complain, madness everywhere, planetary hells. Consisting
mine part writer continues to play in eternal, like the child
I was in the ancient times. It is nothing but writing, powder of life,
screw intercepted for an extemporaneous smile, because I am not
here now, but in the next future. Every hour I play to the future,
extracting small fragments of truth, arbitrarily and with fantasy,
attributing to every small part of the matter, abstruse property,
easy interpretable in fabulous way.
A good reason in order to make this is to gain the present trouble and
the pain in every existence, even though happy, perfect. Figure there, where exemplifications and difficulty subsist. The
electronic book is an ensemble of ancient proverbs and sophisticated formulas
and mathematical techniques than in the substance are perfectly
assimilable together. Which thing is in fact more ancient than
the future? The more graceful things are the useless errors of
translation, erasures, suppositions, suffering, the material fixations
similar to those mental ones, the useless words and actions, the
invocate deaths, the rejected deaths, the solitudine, the
bitter and sibilline phrases like I was searching a wise man and I
met a snake.
Or what I left in my shoulders? Diluve and desert, and
principles like the life is a game. I would want that the
electronic book take me without suffering, without paying a too high
price, without stupid twists of head, nausea for the travel
or the speed of the change, like when we move with the
machine for a full road of curves, I would want that it carried me
beyond the columns of Hercules. My destiny is not to have company,
neither of being a moth with the look down from a hill to
decreasing of the evening. And I do not have more memory, I have lost
it in the road, because I made too many jumps in ahead and I was never
able to stop. The behavior of my mind is captured by
the sloping light of the sunset and by the stupid, glad musics
of the tourists in love.
It is like if me the valves are burnt little to little and a tape turned to
reverse and pits dragged in a disowned world, like under
hypnosis. I am losing fundamental pieces of me, in this genetic
mutation of cells, hats, thin particles of skin in its most hidden parts.
Which thing is and why I must be used as guinea-pig for this
experiment? And already I feel myself freed in the space and temporal
launch. I am important, before I did not know it or I did not
have the power to be. Suddenly I do not perceive
anything, but I know that it is an extemporaneous phenomenon. I am
making some screen tests of detachment from the matter, I hear the noises
but they are autistic in the perfection of the absence, of the fatigue
for too much pain.
Epicurus had compassion for me, he joint sudden in aid of me. I
ask to him: "In which section of the time are the others? Why they
say that a mind polishes and determined like the one of the follower
of Epicurus, Lucretius, wrote in the intervals of a funk madness,
drawn after drunk a love potion? It can be true ".
Lucrezio was deceived, sure, taken traitorously, because the bright
lucidity of the writing quite was widened from an ignoble envious
gesture. It illuminated impossible and ignote truths, because if the truth
must be known... The insane trap did not help for its purpose,
maybe neither to upset the serenity, the epicurean
happiness of that immense spirit, more than a little time not
unfruitful, dense of changes.
Little pain, if Lucrezio thought to resolve all the pains of the
world, sign of intimate peacefullness, like the one of Willie
the Bard, with the saddlebags full full of writings. Lucrezio was too
much in ahead even to look round. And a magical potion let me out
from the pain, like descendant of the ancient Latin, goddess of the
next future. Now I am grate to the closing within my mind of the
magical filter that gave me back, under the shape of a false
disease, the smouldering ardors of the adolescence and its sconfinate
concupiscences. I was suddenly thrown into a
chasm of fantasy, full of every kind of ambiguity to decipher and
to discard, in order to go back to the truth of the colors of the
rainbow, one of the things for which it can be written gentle of
abstruse exact sciences. As precision game, because there are many
precise aspects in the beauty, like in forming a sublime essence of
scent, or composing verses, or graceful notes.
There was a time in which I believed that the beauty was perfect and
boring, but I am not therefore. It is in perennial motion between its
failures, just like science, and with it today it meets in a
magical and universal embrace. I nourished also an irrational fear on
the possible aim of the words, swallowed from hush. I believed that a
beautiful day they could end, like would have happened, to the way how to deal
them. Really, I had one simple intuition about the
change of transmission of the written words. The natural end of the
printed publication book. Another tormenting tic was the one on the
words already used many times from others, that created in me some
embarrassment while I remained hermit within their enclosure.
I
lost my words, forced prisoner for fiction. Now I changed ideas a little
since I write on the great and new electronic book, above all
about the word written and spoken that persists plentifully
magical, dense of every kind of power, also under hieroglyphic
shape.
On the genetic mutation I have thought to the suggestions of some
religious men, about the possible approaches to the died spirits, but I don't
believe. I simply live the past like varnish sketch in the wall, with
the door in the future. Therefore there is not reincarnation, but
only one wandering projection towards a easier entrance, an index, one
arrow designed for being used easy within the new electronic book.
It is amazingly synchronized with the real one, much more than
whichever other previous transformation, because the real encounters are
brought back in screen much more than every confession or
conversation spoken and not. Of an encounter between a writer and
a reader there is only the real between human and human, not existence
of an imaginary, dense relationship of problems unsolvable, thanks
God. Most real, escaping, only.
The writer is never and he knows it very well. The reader is
present in his more total freedom, without conditionings that are not
its most immediate ones, a true reader. I am happy to begin,
approximately about the half of my life, this wonderful distance. Strange
half journey, I am to begin a fabulous enterprise, comparable to
the one to wait with patience for the giant daisies in the
little garden of the child I was bloom, in the beginning of
the way. Infancy and half journey cheerful warbling,
in the manner of Leonardo.
Morgana and Merlino
About the last life of which we have news, Merlino magician of court
had become a realistic painter on the tracks of the immense Turner.
Butf forehead to the ocean he slept, ate or made love.
Truly he painted free, or in cages with a hole for
escape, absorb, or in the erotica fight, pigeons watched from a potbellied and
fat siamese cat. Forgetful of his glorious past, he nourished
one strongly nostalgic emotion everytime he scanned the heap of
water that bathed his coast and the one of the ancient native land,
that laziness and new pleasures prevented him to catch up and to
visit. Such lack Merlino acutely perceived in his art pasting
no more magical potions, but colors, lime and chalk, not spying anymore
feats of kings, but beautiful women and animals.
It was like if every picture he painted, was always incomplete,
lacking mysteriously essential something. The painter was been
born in earth of Castile and lived in the present happy groom of an
ancient nymph in Galicia, father loving of a beautiful and blond child
like his mother. In the good season they were sitting besides the ocean,
waiting for the sunset that never came, and in the winter
they went for the mountain forests searching for mushrooms and other wonders of
the nature. Every year Merlino performed a travel around the
world, not knowing what to search, with that dissatisfaction on
that made him to paint and to dream of being able one day to express
his strange failures. Generally he came back unsatisfied to his candid
house still more than before and his painting was filled up of new
colors, it grew in quality and he worked uninterruptedly from the
morning to the evening, furiously churned.
It was towards the medium age that he decided to return to Rome, place
of the juvenile studies, of the first strange ideas, of the mental games on
the life and the humans, over, upstairs, from Janiculum to Pincio. He
remembered the shot of the gun in the midday and the conversations
with the Jesuit friend, the crazy Italian painters, the beauty of
those incandescent sunsets, while he burnt inside of every possible
juvenile desire. In a more sultry of the others afternoon, it went up over
Piazza del Popolo and fell asleep on a wall to the
shadow, close to a round little fountain with a small and graceful
chest. And he had a dream that he always had when he was a boy, when the
nights of Burgos were too much warm and it seemed to feel the light
sigh of the sister he already dreamed or the love whispers
of the parents playing each other like children.
Here is the dream of unconscious Merlino. He woke up close to a
source within which he looked at himself to see how he would have
become when he would be adult. Suddenly from the full water of
gentle circles a ace of smiling and ironic child, close to his
crowned from a trembling and new thick beard. Growing up
he forgot that face that was not the round and blond of the
beloved wife, but the ace of a disowned girl with Mediterranean
eyes and the dark curls. Suddenly from an old palm a
dry branch fell and Merlino was waked up. He instinctively watched in
the water that softly sang peacefully its song for the birds, and saw
that foreign face. He was turned restless and Morgana was there, more
scared than him, even if she did not let him to see.
" Where have you been for all this time Merlino? You lost yourself with
your owl in the hairs of your beard? I have known that now you put
to you of engagement to be a painter, in order to perhaps help an
art in extinction. It's little wise for you, usually so shrewed therefore.
Better if you continued with yours potions to obtain
witchcrafts, or helped the muse to take back a little order in this
distorted time, without comedies or celestial tragedies, flutes and
choruses, pantomimes or light poetries that obtain love ". And
every last century lived again in the memory of the wizard Merlino,
current painter in Galicia. " you have not put any crumb of wisdom,
Morgana, always running behind your fantasies, and vain words that gladly
exchange fireflies with lanterns, stars spinning with falling stars,
comets with the tail of a mule for shipment.
The only thing that appeals to me in your switches is that you became more
Mediterranean, that you turned away from our common cold
origin. This makes me curious, due to also I am half Arabic, although
attending the other coast and having a family of celtic blood. As
far as my current trade, to the usual you mislead, fairy bruja,
because it will exist until that there will be a single human being and he
will be able to impress on the log of a tree one love dedication,
natural like the force of the ocean and the brightness of the dawn,
expression of a foolish passion whose formality will be always
incomplete. And the unsatisfied painter will scream like a child.
Rather attend to your limbs, Morgana, that are the most troubled,
being in deep change the transmission of the writings
sacred to the gods of the beauty and intelligence, due to the new most
powerful of the machines to press inventions, that did precede us
in our birth on the earth, and to which we were accustomed from centuries and
centuries.
You cannot allow not to have mastery, or you will become a country Bruja unuseful for
everybody ".
"Your language Merlino is not improved
like the wine with the time, but it is more poisonous, like if it belonged
to a pregnant viper. I am a planetary fairy and I travel within
the newest devices of the new Leonardo.
You would have to
remember that I am so famous to have induced a great painter to
dress me with the vestments of the sacred russian beauty. if you want, I
will put down for you like a white dove with the widest feathered
tail, regal between the birds, more than the cruel eagle or the vain
peacock, because in its innocent perfection it conserve the humility of
the sparrow and of the joyful swallow.
I am happy that painting will be conserved in the future, because I love
every expression of beauty. To me it is up, the ungrateful task to
catch up the most distant minds and bodies, unsettling them with a
trail of star powder. I will still speak a lot to the
children that already live in another dimension. I passionately wish to
talk with them, that are the future, the eternity. My
poetry, the magic of the word will gentle lead them into the garden of
the artists in the spell from where never they will be throw out
feraciously for a sin never performed.
Erratic
The slaughters of love and the cheerful hours of the
embraces secretly consumed at the market of vegetables vhere
cabbages at breakfast or pickled gherkins, eggs, bunches of flowers and
onion grass are not sold, but the healthy and insane desires are sold, of men
and women, and other foods with strong sulfur smell. The intimate
conversation between friends, maidens and whores,
are alternated joyfully with whispers between
putti and children, in the
attempt to define the ghost of eros and its innumerable effects. And
someone has wish of a spiritual love, and the other wishes only to
finger the sweet matter of the things, to savour directly. While
another invokes the salvation together with the own damnation, gone
crazy.
Enchantments and original magic
Febo wrapped in a purple garment seated on a
shining of refulgent emeralds throne.
At his sides they were the day, the month, the year,
the centuries, the hours disposed to equal intervals, the encircled
of a crown of flowers spring, knot summer with a bounch of spikes,
the dirty of treaded grapes autumn, the
winter with bristly of ice candid hair.
"Purpurea velatus veste sedebat
in solio Phoebus claris lucente smaragdis.
a dextra laevaque Dies et Mensis et Annus
Saeculaque et positae spatiis aequalibus Horae
Verque novum stabat cinctum florente corona,
stabat nuda Aestas et spicea serta gerebat,
stabat et Autumnus calcatis sordidus uvis
et glacialis Hiems canos irsuta capillos"
The first declaration of love of the history of the world
began in this way, then emanated in dream in a night of brightness to
a great Latin poet, singer of the chaos, of the change and of the glorious
times. For Aeda it began with a green dictionary and a map of the
world without light.
And these two things were the ones that she used to make enchantments and
original magics. I am the philosopher of the little garden,
hermitage that protects me only in part from the human beings who live over
me and brush everyday their carpets, flutter the table
cloths and sometimes they lose the coppers awkwardly hang up to dry,
the cigars they smoke halfway, the sticky
candies that absently spit from the windows, the particles
of cheese with which they try to feed their similars and much other downstairs. I am a floreale philosopher, I love
the flowers and the animals and everything gives them life.
From the human beings at this point I do not take anything, knowing their
gestures, their words, many of their little fixed thoughts towards
which I feel a sort of every watertight closing.
I am interested only of beauty and I chase it in the little garden of house
and in the most withdrawn gardens of Rome, or at the table of an elegant
cafe with the aid of the son of the fire taken in moderate quantity
in order to avoid it damages the body and to facilitate the fantasy.
I am Rea
and come down from great fathers of Hellas.
To be what I am I have had to go across the ascending and descending metamorphoses, until
I landed to fortysecond parallel. I have been
a village boy captive of my fears and now, arrived to the eternal
city, Rome is my master. I dream to become the lover of the entire
world, like the fortysecond parallel that passes through the sea
and the pinete of Ostia, embracing subsequently the planet, imaginary
tourbillon.
I would invoke Pythagoras in person, to make him reveal to me the powerful magic of
the numbers in exaustive way, so in the November of
the dead men, or near, I can approach a new life, joining my
desire to my corporal life. I will dance over thousand candles ignited
without burning. I will dip the feet in the burning wax and then I
will bathe them in the marine water, like last goodbye to what I was
only until the summer as soon as vanished in sky.
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