last moon

giovedì 1 giugno 2023

The real story of Patrick Winningoes

Chapter 8


How had succeeded, that strange old man, in transporting those visions down our sights, below the windows? The same visions I had still in my mind, being so fresh and real, we had just lived right that Friday of 9th November 1979 I was relating of!

We had walked silently. Sometimes we crossed some hasty passing or perceived, almost more than hear it, as a fleeting apparition, a car or a motorbike whose noise was spaced out slowly, as absorbed and diluted in the immensity of the surrounding silence. Turning around several times, after an indefinite time, that desert of dry leaves seemed to stop against an iron handrail.

From my point of observation, tall brushes of trees hid the horizon and I could only see, slightly swaying in the void, a green poster with the write “Winpey “in block red-dark characters.

I felt a pleasant excitement throughout my body. A feeling that immediately was of lightness. A desire to let my body flow in the air, toward that poster, flying the sky.

. As we went down the stairway, the view, under of us, revealed his real contours.

That poster, that seemed to me like suspended in the air from my previous point of view, was the summit of the tall pylon of a crane that laid in the center of an immense housing estate.
I watched again toward that write and noticed that it was hacked against a loaded leady sky with no change of tonality. A dark and heavy vault until my eyes could see.

To find the access of the yard, that occupied a wide place in the centre of a crossroad, we walked for an half along his perimeter. The thick tables that bounded it were interspaced of half an inch, around through numerous working machines were glimpse: diggers, shovels, concrete mixers, kneaders, all firm, as dead animals, in the most total silence.

The entrance was exactly on the opposite side of the inn from where, for the first time, I had perceived the pylon of the crane. We reached it, after a quick and silent walk. Between working machines and shovels, heaps of sand and piles of sacks of cement, bricks, lumbers, irons and utensils, we noticed a small cottage of red plate that was almost in the centre of the building yard. We were approaching there when a small door was opened out of the shed.

- «Hello boys!» - A gentleman said sorting out. - « Can I help you?»-.

His voice was cordial and happy. It seemed he was talking to well known persons.

-« Is there any need of some workers?»- George did him without preambles and also laughing.

We stopped a little closer and so I had the opportunity to better observe him: he looked quite a lot peaky, making a net contrast with the strong black of the hair. He dressed with elegance a brown suit on a white shirt with a red and black cravat.

- « I would not mind at all » - the man replied in the former jovial tone -«but our firm assumes only through the agency. Now I will give you the address so you can go and see there. There are good hopes. Follow me in to the office, please» -, he spurred on, seeing us so undecided.

The office looked like the building field. As matter of fact inside there were numerous buckets full of hammers, chisels, pickets, waterlevels, trowels and other mason utensils.
Once inside, Mr. Joking (that’s was the name he had introduced himself, asking us in turn our names) immediately passed beyond a desk loaded on with papers, different samples of colored tiles and some minute utensils . He scrutinized us for a long while.

-« Where do you come from?» - He asked after a careful examination, dissuading his look.

-«From Italy»- responded promptly George, preceding me.

We seemed to overcome his examination, because he smiled in a satisfied way.

-«Here is your agency’s address» - he said after scribbling some lines on a piece of paper, - «and good luck!»-, added while was handing the note to George!

We had not even had the time to read it that we heard a strong aloud voice:

"-Old Pat doesn't stand people pronouncing his name and that of his Agency in a wrong way and above all he doesn't bear to be told any lies. If you do it, you won't have any job from him."

Then, turning to Mr Joking he added:

- "Sir Patrick the Hanger Winnin’goes again, doesn’t he?" - Only later on we had to realize that the big man we saw rudely laughing, turning a look back on our shoulders, was not misgiving English language at all, as he willingly wanted but to stress the wrong verb, like he really did.

George stood perplexed, with the note in his hand, now looking the big man, who was still laughing, now Mr. Joking, who seemed rather embarrassed than enjoyed.

I walked closer when I saw him reading the note. On a single line the note said:

"Pat Winningoes - Gehenna Geld", and nothing else.

-" Strange names, the last two. They sound quite German" -, George exclaimed by low voice.

- "He has not even put the telephone number. Shall we ask for it?" -, I said.

-" We might take a look for it on the telephone guide. Still if it really does exist" -,

George murmured. putting the note in his pocket while sorting out the cottage. We walked out without even greeting, with fast and nervous footsteps. Before reaching the exit of the yard, nevertheless, we heard a man’s call.

-« Hey, wait a moment, please!.» Mr. Joking came rushing slightly breathing towards us.

- «Do not pay attention to Big Joe, please! He is a joker» - he added gently smiling like he had made the first time, with a tone of reassuring voice.

«Come over with me, please» -, he said driving us over the exit .

- «You cross the road in that direction and take straightly the avenue you have in front; then, taking the third street on your left, that can’t be wrong, you will see a big door in dark wood. There is the agency. Go in….. and...... good luck»!.

He had spoken all of a breath and in so convincing way that we had already forgotten Big Joe and his strange former laughing . The avenue that Mr Joking had pointed us, was really the third crossroad on the left. It was a blind, wide and short alley.

At the bottom a massive dark wood doorway stand out, occupying all the breath of the street..

More than the entry of a job’s agency, it seemed to be as the entrance of a rich and luxurious residence. A few steps in marble lead to an extraordinarily glimmering atrium, to whose sides were risen, also in marble, two mighty columns.

George, walking the steps, almost was very close to stumble. He restored immediately his equilibrium, murmuring an annoyed "My goodness!" and looking on the bottom of his shoes, like searching there the cause of the accident.

The wind was blowing more insistently, and formed in the alley a strong eddy, violently shaking above the front door a rectangular poster which was bestowed with some scotch tape, held out against the wind on a unique side. With my right hand I stopped it on the front door. We read there, in a clear handwriting and cursive characters:

"London Trickery and Illusion Centre."

- «But where the hell did they send us?» -said George looking at me.

- «’I do not know!» -, I answered, releasing the side of the poster, which retook immediately to wave.

- «They made a joke of us, those two braggarts!» -, I told him with angry voice. Then turning to my companion - «Didn't we make a mistake by wrongly counting the crossroads?.» I said returning back on our steps to check in.

- «Come soon to have a look, please!»-, cried George in that while, with excited tone of voice.

I returned quickly on my footsteps and drew close to him. With the right hand he stopped the poster on the front door and surprisingly I could read on it this time - "Pat Winningoes - Geenna Geld Agency - 1st Floor."

-«What devil of history is this? »-, I told George, who was looking at me in a mocking way, with the right hand still fixing the poster on the door.

-« The history is all here» -, he answered. And with emphatic gestures as a conjurer who discloses an amazing trick to the public, he turned the poster from a side to another, showing the different writings we had read on it just a little before. I turned it for a couple of times, as to make myself convinced, while George was already pushing the other half of the front door.



lunedì 29 maggio 2023

The real story of Patrick Winningoes

Chapter 7

A little time later we heard someone knocking at the door.

«Is everything all right?» –our guest asked. I went nearby George for asking him how he was feeling.

-«I am very well, thank you»– he answered trying to hide from Mr Winningoes’ sight. Then in a low voice, eluding the hearing of Mr Winningoes, who however had kept discreetly quiet distant, he added in anxious tone: - “What are we going to do? I can’t stand staying here anymore. Let’s jump on him and...”

-«Just excuse me for a while, my friends »- the man said with persuasive voice, still holding politely at the same distance–“before you turn a decision, that is up to you to be taken, I would like to ask you only the courtesy to be able to end my own history. You don't have to be afraid of me: if I wanted to hurt you I would have been able to do it and I will show you that I am not lying. Follow me, please.”

So saying he started walking for the long corridor. We followed him turning on the left; then we stopped in front of a wooden small door, on the top of the ample staircases that led underneath. He fumbled in the lock reassuring us with a mild look. A long snail iron scale, introduced us in a square big room. The room was bare and badly illuminated. Mr Winningoes directed toward the opposite wall to the entry and after opening a big window he said:

- “Please, lean out and take a look down there.”

We leaned out. The view gave on an ample downed square, visible over the brushes of tall and

mighty trees. I recognized the landing airfield of which Mr Winningoes had informed us, early in the morning. I realized that we had to find us on the central tower of the building. Then he opened a small door wall and after fumbling in a small niche recessed in the wall, he gently told us, winking again with the chin besides the window:

- “Have a look now, would you!?”–

We benched outside: the open space, just a while before, plainly empty, was now occupied by another vision. I kept for an endless time watching at it, astonished, incredulous, confused, while my heart was galloping fast and the blood pressed on to my temples as if it wanted to squirt out of them.

I crossed George’s eyes: he also was astonished and interdict; then I looked again down there. With unchanged emotion I observed that scene once more. The same scene that we had seen, some days before, not far away from home, was there now, under my eyes! Everything was perfectly equal: the high enclosure of tables, the big working machines, immovable as they were sleepy animals, the long iron pylon with the writing 'Winpey', in red-dark block letters. It was with admiration and curiosity that I turned toward Mr Winningoes. I wanted to know, I had to understand what was going on!

The old man fixed me intensely with a mocking look. Fantastic and madding, diabolic and fascinating Mr Winningoes! What kind of cheat was he plotting at our expenses?
He fumbled in the niche again and invited us, with the usual accomplice air, to look down.
The scene had changed again: I immediately recognized the alley of the agency ‘Geenna Geld', with the big front door and the cardboard insignia moved by the wind as that day. This scene, never the less, didn't have anything unreal. It seemed simply and naturally to be there, after all, where our eyes were seeing it, identical to the past, but still live and present. There must surely be a trick! Of course it had to be that! But which one?

- “I understand your wonder, my friends, but I can explain you everything".

What you see does exist indeed. Physically, however, it exists in another dimension. If you were not so convinced that only exists the reality that is shown and explained to us since our birth; if you, that day, had doubted of what your eyes were perceiving, and with a straight mental attitude you had verified the materiality of it, you would be aware that everything around you was just an illusion and there was not exactly the things that you were seeing; actually they were there, but in a different way from your being here now, or this house or those trees that outlined the landscape over there!”

-“Just a moment!” –George cried out, showing off his best grim–“if that day we had taken some pictures, would have come out those things that we perceived or they would not?”

-“A camera is only a machine, without any mind, with no soul. I don't know what it would have come out if you had taken any photographs of it. Both of you would have certainly come out. Or may be only one of you would have been impressed. But don't be concerned at it. My words didn't want to make any offence to you. I have spent all my life on studies and meditations to understand these things that only appear to be inexplicable. I assure you however, that they show such appearance in the vision of our ordinary reality; in the description of the world that is provided by former and daily education, because we believe it as absolutely sure. As if our life were all in the banal obviousness of which we feed our mind. But is not this way! Oh certainly is not!

- “And the two men that we met there, on that day? Were also they an illusion?” –George burst out again in a pugnacious tone, not at all satisfied by those explanations.

- “Such a question, my friends, belongs already to the following of my story. I hope you will allow me to conclude with it. I won't subtract me to your opinion and to your judge, but grant me to defend myself simply telling you ‘till the end about the suffering of a scientist, of a father and of a man. I want you to know, if this can reassure you, that I have only killed other men during the war. The war is always absurd, in some way and is pursued by manhood for greed of power, because men are sick of weakness and only in power they succeed in finding an antidote to their innate deficiency. And though after the war, the value of human life, for me was under graded, I have been preserved by the shame of killing another man and I think that it could not be otherwise, for the man predestined to lead the humanity through the path of the peace and the truth!”

These words of the man seemed to reassure George. From my point of view there was not one single reserve on that man. My adhesion to his application was totally unconditional. We silently agreed to listen to the final part of Mr Winningoes’s story. After all we didn't still know, incredibly, what that man really wanted from us. And in a way or in the other he succeeded capturing our attention again.

-“Since you kindly grant me your time in order to conclude my story, we will do it sipping a good cup of tea that I want to prepare myself for you”–took back in jovial tone Mr Winningoes, squirting from his eyes a radiant and comradely satisfaction. He led us back through the staircase down to the big room where we had our former lunch, with the table still prepared; finally we found, passed another door, in a pleasant small room, furnished in Renaissance style, with some pictures on the walls, which seemed to be stupendous reproductions of work’s talent of the best pictorial school of that memorable epoch.





sabato 27 maggio 2023

The real story of Patrick Winningoes

Chapter 6 

At that question,  Mr Winningoes had set with extreme naturalness, George had brought a hand to his mouth, showing in his eyes an horrified gaze. Then he stood up, with the hand still on his mouth and ran out the room. I heard his long footsteps, through up the staircases.

-«I am sorry! I am very sorry indeed»– said the man in a resigned and sincere tone –“I have tried to gradually introduce you to the difficult matter, in order not to upset you, but it’s quietly  evident that I have not succeeded it.- "Shall we go to see how your friend is?” – he concluded standing up.

- « May be it’s better if I go first to talk to him on my own! We need to stay alone for a while» I told Mr Winningoes.

-« As you like» – he said quietly, sitting again.

I followed George upstairs, thinking at Mr Winningoes’ story. I had also accused an emotional hit to that sorrowful question, although, to say the very truth, I had expected that point of landing in Mr Winningoes’ discourse.

I saw George coming out from the bath. He stared at me without saying nothing. I knew he needed to be on his own, so I went to our room and lay down at the bed without approaching him.

 I closed my eyes, trying to dominate all these emotions.  I recalled into my mind the last accounts had led me to  that house, with that strange man who seemed to fright George so heavily.


It was Friday, the 9th of November 1979, right the day we were going to meet that strange Mr Winningoes, as we had soon to discover, when I had followed my friend on the wide tree-lined roads. On the sidewalks, the leaves, fallen during the night, had formed a thick and soft carpet, on which George seemed to walk with special pleasure.

It was a colorless day, of those that are counted so numerous in London, especially in the winter time. One of those days on which the diurnal light maintains the same slim intensity, from mornings to evenings, and the night comes up suddenly unexpected, when the pale and smothered reverberation of the sun, behind a thick blanket of clouds, has concluded its fatiguing daily cycle.

It blew a fresh and light breeze. But the wind, from time to time, became impetuous, and by means of violent gusts seemed to push us, like for joking or as if it wanted to encourage us to go straight ahead. And courage was exactly what we really needed, as our search of a job was becoming a serious and weary problem.

- «I don't recognize the London's gone times anymore» -George had told me, not later than the former evening, coming out from one of the many jobs agencies we had uselessly visited.
I followed him on his march, absorbed in the noise that our own footsteps produced on the leaves. The rhombus of an auto dissuaded suddenly my attention.

-« Where are we going to?» -I asked him.

-« We will try to go this way along»- he answered turning slightly back his head to me. « This way through we will rejoin the Maida Vale. There are plenty of job’s agencies up there .»

George knew a lot better than I that zone, being living there for the former years. He had taken that one-room flat wherein we were living together, with a girl, now got back to Italy, as he had fleetingly told me, not without a shade darkening sadly his eyes; and after he did not speak more about it.

Instead, in that same day that he told me of his passion for the esoteric philosophies. Actually ‘till then, I had reputed them exclusive knowledge of the eastern cultures, while George, rightly in the period we met, was studying at one (whose study he had to introduce me, later on), that he granted to the Huichols, a direct descending people of the ancient pre-Colombian populations that in the present state, according to what at that time he told me, were still living in the north western mountains of Mexico.






mercoledì 24 maggio 2023

The real story of Patrick Winningoes

Chapter 5

While I was trying to go further in what the man had told of his personal story he took back with sad voice to tell his tale.

«I apologize for talking in a such confused mess. Before continuing telling you of my son it would be better to resume what happened first. At the age of twenty one, after a long journey and appropriate studies, I started some peculiar experiments on the human brain. I felt that I had to create a super brain in order to be reproduced and form a race of super-men able to drive on the right direction this dreg of humanity that inhabits the world. After all I had to consider that the brain of every living being contains, even though modified by the evolution, the original matrix of our existence.

After some rough attempts of surgical engineering, that occupied me for different years, whose initial success and following disappointed bitterness, almost led me to abandon the whole project, it was the fate to intervene and to point out the right way to me.

Which kind of proof would I more need to wait for? The same celestial stars directly showed me the way!

A beautiful day, in fact, while I was observing under the microscope a cat’s brain, ulterior, fortunate guinea-pig, subtracted to the deprivations of its life for the glory of the Science, an amazing account happened to me.

I had set the small feline’s organ in a cylindrical open neck test-tube and I was continuously thinking about it, looking as usual for a sprout of understanding on its complex and mysterious composition. At a certain point, needing something to eat, I went upstairs. I left unwillingly open the microscope’s focus. I was going to have a cup of tea, with my daily survival meal.

As I returned downstairs I immediately noticed that something strange had happened during my brief absence. In the test-tube the brain of the cat had dried, acquiring a grey and pale color.

I extracted it with the pliers: it seemed a dry sponge without neither weight nor smell. What devil had it happened? It was a gust of wind which answered to me.

In that underground where I secretly developed my experiments, I had not left but a small window, that I wanted surfaced to the level of the ground. It had slightly disclosed, quiet enough to allow the passage of a provident ray of sun which, intruding the optic circuit of the microscope, had poured in with all its mighty energy, dehydrating completely the object of my experiments.

But my light, initial disappointment had soon to be transformed in high exultation, when I closer observed the test-tube that had served like furnace to that unforeseen experiment. On its fund rested some drops of a dense and glimmering liquid! I had a lightning, an intuition that afterwards had to be exactly revealed.

Admirably exact, my friends! I had found the way to extract from the muscle that includes our life, from the brain that contains all the knowledge of a human being, its own essence. An extract, a summary, that is the same, but free from the physical brain’s encumbrance, from the grey mash that comprises it. Free from the flesh as a soul is free from his body as an idea from his thinker as a thought from his action!

As you certainly know all our mental energy springs by a simple chemical reaction that is continuously produced in our brain. Such reaction, that the physicians define with the name of “synapse”, is originated by the reaction between the liquid whose any brain is imbued and the cells it copiously contains. In practice this liquid, that has equal molecular structure in every man, works as a tracing detector of the cerebral process, whose action is, instead, what countersigns a man from another.

The intimate reasons for such different action of the cerebral processing, have seen divided for a long time the humanity. Manhood has however been until now incapable to intend the true reason for the difference of the beings of its species. A human being, from the scientific point of view, it is only a product of a casual connection of the basically chemical mixtures that are contained in the cells. And all its activity is coordinated by the cerebral cells.

To succeed on obtaining a distillate of those cells, meant therefore to dispose of a substance of inestimable value.

At the beginning I thought to try his reproduction, but actually this would have been only an interesting and suggestive detour from my principal aim.

In order to reach it I had to gather all my efforts, and the results of that first experiments constituted the base of my following job.

First of all it was clear that the cerebral muscle, under particular conditions of temperature and environment, like those which took accidentally place that prophetic day in my laboratory, released a particular, liquid and dense substance, containing the fundamental geniuses, that I call primaries; those which are responsible of the most intimate and proper characters of the race.

It was also evident that such substance appeared able to be moved into another brain, creating there a new habitat in which to regenerate its cells and with them repurchase its functions and its aboriginal characters.

I verified more times the exactness of these hypotheses, but only in a direction, that I define evolutionary. The experiment only succeeded if the essence of a superior animal, in the steps of the evolutionary chain, was introduced in the brain of an inferior animal, while in the other way down, the phenomenon took place in a lesser and very attenuated tone deprived of significant consequence.

I baptized the liquid essence ‘nouchefalon ', and I prepared hence myself to develop in the foreseen direction my experiments. What would it happen if I transfused some ‘human nouchefalon ' in to the brain of another man?”




lunedì 22 maggio 2023

The real story of Patrick Winningoes

Chapter 4

“My name is Patrick Winningoes Parnell and I was born at Wadebridge, in Cornwall, in the south-west of England, to a Catholic Irishwoman and a Protestant Englishman. My father, Lord Isaac Winningoes, whose family was among the noblest and most ancient for English lineage, at that time, was a very close adviser of the British government. My mother was named Mary Josephine Parnell.

In those times Great Britain was still a vast empire and Ireland, born earth of my mother, made integrally part of it.

After a happy infancy, I was enrolled at a classical studies school, but when I was sixteenth something happened to me such seriously to change radically the course of my life.

Without any apparent reason my father took me away me from the College and the same day of such a sudden resolution, in a night of storm, I was embarked on a ship, “The Ulysses”, that anchored at Land's End, attended my arrival to set sail.

My father didn't want to give me any explanation and, despite I implored him crying, that I didn't want to depart without greeting my mother, he was inflexible. He delivered two letters to me: one for the reverend Jacob Sevear, who would have become my despotic guardian; the other for me, and I read it on tears, when my beloved coasts were already distant from sight.

It contained, this letter, few recommendations on the principles that a good child has to observe, together with the information that my destination would have been Boston, in the U.S.A., and that I had to be in charge to reverend Sevear's.

The life that attended me beyond the ocean was, my friends, a hard life indeed to be sustained. Certainly, I had all the comforts of life, but I lived in a gilded isolation, without almost any contact with the outside world. My guardian was inflexible on applying those rules that, as he underlined, had been ordered to him by my father: I could not go out, if not in his company; I didn't have to possess any sum of money, providing himself to satisfy any my desire; even the newspapers and the magazines passed for his careful censorship, before I could read them.

After some time, my captivity slightly decreased, but I still felt as a prisoner and for my mind, offended and violated, to find a free play in the studies, in which my guardian worked out to be a wise and able preceptor, was a matter of surviving.

How many nights I dreamed to fly, like Icarus, over the Atlantic or to sail, as Ulysses, searching for new, craving lands! How many nights I cried, thinking of my mother and my distant born beaches! How I felt heavy, then, my father's hand on my head and that of my sad destiny! For how much I tried on it, however, I didn't succeed on breaking those chains that tormented me. From time to time I contrived a plan to run away, but I always postponed it, hoping that the day after a letter from England would come, to bring me the freedom, the end of my nightmare and its mysteries.

After years of that life of segregation, finally came the very expected day: On my twenty-first birthday the reverend Sevear handed me over a letter from my father on which he accounted the circumstances that were the origin of all my sufferings and that so much had to influence my life in the future. But the joy for the long, desired truth, was darkened by the sad news, in the same letter contained, that my mother, my beloved mother, had died, two years before, in the prison of Primestone.

I was acquainted through that letter that my mother, just a little before my departure for Boston, had been halted with the accusation of plot to overturn the institutions and the Crown, accusation much more serious, being my father a man at service of the State. She was recognized guilty, and only the interest that some friends of my father showed towards, saved her from the inglorious end that struck all the other heads of the revolt: the hanging in public square.

But she could not stand up with the imprisonment as she wrote herself in one of the few letters that she was allowed to write to me, and which the reverend Sevear had been ordered not to deliver to me before my twenty-first birthday:

The scandal that followed the discovery of the plot to free Ireland from the oppressive English yoke, had also overwhelmed my father, who was forced by his political enemies to give the resignations. The aspect of the whole circumstance for me more spine-chilling was constituted by the fact that my father himself had discovered and denounced the secret activity of my mother, for whose he asked me to be forgiven and hoped that I would understand the involved, ethics implications.

How I hated him henceforth! I cursed him, one hundred, thousand times, from that day and for the days to come! How could he have chosen his stupid state’s reason against the love of a fragile and sweet creature as my mother? Why did he not embark her with me to subtract her to the jailers? His king, then, was more worth than his woman on his heart?

He recommended himself to my comprehension, since he did act for my own goodness, leaving me out, considering also my youth age, from the clamors and from the shame of the scandal that had overwhelmed our honorable name, and he finally, remembered me, that only God can judge man’s operates. That atrocious contradiction induced me to hate also “his” God. If only Him, could judge men’s behaviors, why did he denounce my mother to a Court of men?!? - “

That regrettable question concluded the monologue of our guest, to which we had assisted in a religious silence but with long live share.

While evoking his memoirs, that I imagined remote for forgetful time in his mind; above all speaking of his mother, in his voice a veiled tone of emotion had appeared.

And I don't know if I really perceived a mist in his eyes, ‘cause it lasted only for a bit: after pouring a glass of water and drinking it with avarice, he fleetingly passed a candid napkin on his face, with which he suddenly cancelled any trace of it. Then he stayed immovably, absorbed in his sad memoirs, or perhaps picking up ideas to continue his story. George had followed him for the whole time with the chin supported by the closed fists on the edge of the table. Without proffering a word he lit a cigarette and soon after pushed the packet to me. With peaceful and indifferent tone, Mr Winningoes took back on his speech.

-“The same day I knew by my teacher that I was the only heir of my mother’s estates, and that since the day of her death, he had been its honest and prudent administrator, as he was ready to detail me on his account.

That man, I had so much hated and blamed, now that his ungrateful charge had come to end, seemed to me good and comprehensive, and his words calmed for a few time my incurable pain. thenceforth, however, I needed to think about my life, and in those places I would never succeeded in shaking off my sad past. I begged the reverend to continue to administer my goods and I departed, to discover the world.

I travelled at first through the United States and Canada, then I went to Australia and New Zealand. After I visited Europe, without never finding the courage to return to my country. Tired of the European Countries, among which I mostly liked your Italy , I departed to India and finally, always curious of new lands, I went to Africa.

Neither women, neither alcohol, nor drugs not even the vices which I was devoted in those years succeeded in cancelling my bitter memoirs, until one day, while I was sojourning in Kenya, I fell ill, prey of strong fevers. Not a lot, then I gave, to live or die, but the Fate, had evidently prepared, that I survived, so that the programs could be realized, whose I will have the honor and the pleasure to communicate to you. Revealed therefore from the illness, I returned to America aiming however to south, that I had not visited yet.

Once I had satisfied my world's curiosity, I took over again my studies, more strongly and surely than before. I was akin of all: medicine, biology, physics, mathematics, chemistry, hidden sciences, illusionism, magic arts, engineering, electronics, astrology, philosophy, astronomy, sociology, anthropology, theology, ethnology, history, juridical, economic and political sciences and every other thing attracted my mind curious of reaching new knowledge.

During the numerous years of my following study, it happened on me a gradual mutation that flowed, between a short lapse of time, in a great, bright revelation. I had realized, deepening on studies that any single subject lost, little by little, until vanish, its own contours and that all acquired information met in a bubbly melting pot, to form just one, immense nucleus of knowledge.

Yes, dear friends: our knowledge is an original, total unity. The single disciplines of human knowledge are but the infinitesimally small fragments that the mankind looks hopelessly for recomposing in to the aboriginal unity.

Two were the necessary consequent corollaries to this thrilling discovery. The first one is that the brain of both animal and human beings constitutes, though at a different evolutionary stadium, a microscopic part of the primordial totality. The second is that human thought search, yet in a blind and messy manner, to recompose, at a mental level, the great, primitive explosion, the Big-Bang, through a long and fatiguing marching back, up to the innumerable light years that separate it, from an equal, yet opposite, roaring and powerful implosion. And if you consider that our mind speculates in the space-time as fast as speed-light, this kind of final Big-Imbang will appear less far than any hasty forecast.

The burst of the second world war caught me surprised on this walk of studies and searches.

Bitterly I was forced to consider that human beings pursued their premature end, rather than search for the truth. But at that time I hadn't understand yet that every human action, even the most iniquitous and bestial, has however its own reason to be done and for me, that war, would have been another fundamental step on the way of comprehension.

During the war I had the opportunity to deeply analyze the causes of those disastrous events. I had been, it is true, in the years immediately preceding the war completely devoted to my studies, in a way that I could call purely scientific of the phenomena which stand at the base of the human life, but it was not certainly in the fore coming years of war that we had to seek its reasons and inmost causes. The roots of hate and evil sank their extreme appendixes in the most tangled and lavish meanders of human mind. These deleterious feelings, so inherent to human mind, were to be conceived like the principal causes of that huge bath of blood.

From this premise I puzzled out that the basic beliefs of the national socialist philosophy were correct: the humanity, in order to be saved, needed a superior race to be raised over the others for leading them to salvation. But German race could not certainly be the chosen one. Not even any other among the existing races could be that, because it had to be a race who didn't know, in their hearts but goodness and love.

With a greater fury than before, I addressed all my energies against the hateful enemy: I challenged death ten, hundred, thousands of times, always defeating the adversary.

Little by little, I started perceiving what role it was reserved to me in the history of the world and the contours of my destiny assumed more and more its clean and precise outline.”

While pronouncing his last words Mr Winningoes, who had gradually been increasing his excitement during the narration, lifted up the right hand, tensing his forefinger as an accuser, and his eyes rotated a couple of times halting eventually in an insane expression of craziness depicted on his face. He remained for indefinite time with the lift forefinger, staring into space, with his muscles tended as if they had wanted to get out of standing. He seemed a statue of marble, immortalized in a grotesque pose. This sudden explosion of apparent madness came unexpected. Before we had the time to interact, however, the man seemed to recover himself. He looked around, lost and embarrassed and, grabbed a glass of water, voided all of it in a hit. The water seemed to calm the man. His eyes showed now a serene light and he looked like being almost absent, lost in his thoughts or perhaps looking for recomposing the interrupted line of his story. He pulled the refreshments trolley and picked up a carafe filled with a golden colored liquid.

- “Have a drink, please. It is cognac from Charente, one of the few things that I appreciate of French people.”

This way saying he poured some of that liquid in a short, carved wine glass, explaining us that a cognac, to be really good, has to leave, if slightly rotated, a thin layer of color inside the glass.

As soon as I had drunk, I immediately felt a comforting warmth. On the warm’s alcohol wave I thought that that man surely knew so much indeed about life. His theories, nevertheless, yet quiet abstruse to me, showed however a sort of suggestive charm.

I imagined my brain imploding together with George’s, melting with it and flying, as a winged rocket, in the endless universe.



sabato 20 maggio 2023

The real story of Patrick Winningoes

Chapter 3



My remembering was interrupted by Mr Winningoes’s discreet touch at the door. The man entered holding a tray in a hand on which there were a stumpy teapot in porcelain and three handless cups, decorated with Chinese ideograms.

- «I apologize for leaving you alone for such a long time »–he said happily–«but to make tea is a very serious matter, that requires time and skill. Help yourselves please».

I filled with a lot of attention the three cups. George, taking one on his hand, gazed its outside and the inside for a long time. He seemed particularly interested at the small yellowish petals that floated on the surface.

«They are jasmine's flowers »–Mr Winningoes prevented him–«I get this tea directly from China. It is delicious, isn't it?» –he added turning to me, while  I was trying   to sip it slowly, in order not to burn me.

“Yes, certain. It is very tasteful '. Does the Chinese cuisine also like you? “–I returned him on my time.
«Oh, yes, indeed so much!» –he answered with a light flash on his face–«I remember when my son Adam was still alive.»

But suddenly we saw that flash of light illuminating his face transformed in a dark and sad countenance.

«My son Adam…»– he echoed bitterly himself, with a smile of self-pity on the pale lips.

We observed a respectful silence for the pain of that man who appeared at times a proud lion, full of projects for his future, to become instead afterward, a man tired of striving, bend by disgraces and by the time.

I wished I had mastered a better English to show him my solidarity and tell him that I didn't even know he had had some children, not even he had gotten married, forming a proper family; apart, of course, his father and mother, whom he had spoken of to us for long time throughout his story.


But who was really that strange man? Was it enough, to know him well, what he had told us himself rightly in that same day? I made an effort to collect my ideas recalling the story in his own words.






giovedì 18 maggio 2023

The real story of Patrick Winningoes

Chapter 2

In order to relax I recalled the preceding events, starting from the moment I had firstly met my friend George.

I   had known him early in the summer 1979, in a little snack bar of the centre, in the beginning of my London stay. A snack-cafe not so far from Piccadilly Circus, where they made a slightly drinkable coffee. I used to go there, because it was the only place where the coffee was served in the small, classical, Italian cups, and even if it was served with no cream, was still better than that watered black soap that almost all barmen sell off for coffee in England.

The bar was housed in a large rectangular room. On the right of the entry there was the counter with the coffee-machine, while both on the left and the opposite wall, in front of   the entry-door, there was a wood bench, lined in plastics of brown color, and, straight above, lined in the identical way, a same long but narrower shelf, plenty of sugar-bowls and ashtrays.

The left wall, for the whole length of the bench, beginning from the shelf and finishing to the originally white-painted ceiling, was made of a thick transparent glass that, giving brightness to the place, allowed the visitors to enjoy a wide outside sight where, just in front, it was well visible the entrance of a theatre with an ample and luxurious atrium.

It was there that George seemed to stare up his look, over the round glasses (like John Lennon’s, I had thought). His olive complexion, the chestnut hair and the black moustaches didn't make him certainly look like a probable Queen’s subject, but I questioned him, this not less, in English.  Also because, after all we were in London. What other idiom was I supposed to speak?

He burst into laughter, hearing my question. Not immediately, but after turning his head to look at me, with a funny expression on his face, while with my hands I repeated my request for fire, rubbing, at the same time, my right forefinger on the palm of the left hand.

Lighting his own cigarette, as I stood close and steady, much more interdict than angry, because of his crazy laughing, he told me in a strongly stressed, though smooth, Italian language:

- «Sorry for laughing, but Italian people do make notice of them, when they speak English. You come from Rome, don’t you -, he suddenly added, smiling with satisfaction to my sad, affirmative answer.

The place, beside the two of us and a girl sitting on the other side of the bench, was empty. The barkeeper, behind the counter, was preparing a great copy of sandwiches, with cheese and tomatoes, lettuce and meats and a few others with all four ingredients together, according to the best English taste.

- «And you, where do you come from - I asked him in some annoyed tone for that reference to the Italian’s accent and particularly to that of the Romans, whose noble descendants I am still proud to belong.

I am not Italian» - he answered to me with peaceful voice «but I have lived quite a lot of years in Italy. So I know your customs quite well, and also your accent» -, concluded laughing again tastefully.

This time his laughing, however, didn't upset me at all. Those few words had been enough to make my anger fade away; or maybe I was just only glad to talk to someone without squeezing my brain to translate my thoughts from Italian into English language. be continued...