last moon

Tuesday, August 14, 2018

The story of Mr Winningoes - 12

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.

You can of course imagine, what such an emotion I felt when I injected those drops that were deposed on the fund of the test-tube, to a rat guinea-pig.

The result was amazing, greater and more meaningful than I had been able to foresee myself. The mouse, a normal mouse of averages age and greatness, after spending twelve hours asleep, wakened up again.

Apparently he seemed to be the same as before the injection, but actually he moved in a different manner however.

He had, in a few words, a different air. He slowly started walking and moving its tail upwards, in a way quite unusually for a mouse; furthermore he sniffed and smelled the air and the ground of the cage. And I was much more surprised when I saw him stretching its legs towards and backwards,  forming a tall hunch with his backbone,  then sitting down leaking his pawns and finally resting in leisure with a sleepy way. Its limbs still looked like those of a mouse, but they behaved as belonging to a cat! That was the exceptional result!

The animal seemed restless and took on turning around the cage with his feline behavior. He was surely looking for some food.

I gave him his usual mice food but after he had smelled it for a long time, he started over turning around visibly more nervous and hungrier. I opened a cat tin food and with my great surprise he devoured that meal in a flash.

He grew up constantly in the following days, assuming a double massive structure compared to the same aged of his own race, then his growth seemed to halt.

His epidermis had not suffered either big mutations;  nor  the bony structure, at least externally, showed to have acquired any peculiar characters, except for the moustaches and the legs, that seemed to have changed for a most congenial use to cat’s needing.
In the movements and in the external behavior he moved as a cat though having the semblances of a mouse.

A serious question had bothered me since the first days of the experiment: how would that animal relate with another mice? And how would other cats relate with him? In his more inner instinct had he become a cat or he had remained a mouse?

With much trepidation I moved him to captivity with other mice: they started to squeak very afraid; it was evident that those small rodents had immediately warned the hostile presence.

He had a good time pursuing them and grabbing them as cats make with mice, and at long, exhausted and satisfied, he rested quietly on a side of the big cage, while the little mice, remained farther all afraid and trembling.

He didn't show any interest to pursue them, more than joking  in that way, perhaps because he was not hungry or even because something inside prevented him from doing it.

The thing, after all, didn't interest me and I transferred him afterwards with a real cat, and also there the success arose to me: they behaved as two bosom and jovial friends.

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 succeed 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?
12. to be continued...

London for ever - 22

I first met  Ruben in  an afternoon I had decided to have  a pint of lager at the Pub "The Vashel," not far from Leicester Square, before resuming the evening ice cream service. The pub, from outside, seemed likely to be the same as many others: the building occupying the  corner of two streets, smoked glasses to protect the privacy of the customers, massive external dark wood, and gigantic headed  insignia.

But as soon as you came in, it gave you the impression that a ship had flown centuries earlier in that corner of London, as if by magic, and then somebody had the brilliant idea of ​​getting a public exercise, adding the necessary kit furniture, tableware and furnishings, leaving all the rest, the central shaft, the rudder, the tailgate, the bulkheads and the sides of the polished wood in the mirror, along which many cannons for defending a pirates’ assault

Ruben  was there with his group trying the instruments, in view of the concert they had to hold that very night. By the way we knew already each other, but only by sight and we never had a chance to talk together.

The central deck was occupied by a long counter, with many barrooms’ points,  along which numerous wooden stools laid, fixed to the ground with a metal cylinder. 
Facing the counter were arranged in good order several tables, which were also fixed to the ground as if they had been designed to deal with the swings of a navigational vessel. In  a space was available to accommodate the instruments of a band, even though Ruben played the guitar accompanied only by a drummer and a bass player. Very narrow wooden ladders led from the central deck to the stern, where at the bottom the architect had skillfully set up a more intimate and pickled bar, which at that moment was in the shade and desert.

At the counter, being so early, there were not many people. The only servant, after having served the beer, went back to fix some cups and some glasses behind him. The three went on a bit, performing without an apparent order some songs, which sometimes broke down, and then resumed after exchanging some technical commentary.

When they decided for a longer break they approached the counter. I guess they had some drinks at their disposal from the house (the number, in fact, ranges from pub to pub, depending on the generosity of the manager). 
To avoid making a mistake, I wanted to pay one by myself, because I wanted to compliment them.

They gladly accepted the drink and compliments. But before they even drank the glasses they gave me a gesture to follow them towards the bar at the stern.

We took a coffee table in a private corner where I noticed that you could see, without being seen, the transit along the stairs leading there.

The drummer named Jon (without the "h", as he  let me know,  for it came from Jonathan) when he learned from Ruben I was selling ice cream, he said, "You cool!"

The expression, though ambiguous, had been uttered with a kind of spontaneity.  I  spontaneously answered, doing his own gesture, with the index of the right hand facing him and laughing as he had done: "And also fresh!"

Ruben liked my answer, because laughing he said to his friend, "For good. He also sells fresh drinks, not just ice cream! "

The answer was also good for Jon, as he turned to the bass player, "Hey, Phil, hunt out that joint that our  cool friend loves to smoke! Is not this true? "He concluded staring at  me.

- "Sometimes!" I answered, putting on my lips my  handmade cigarette.
- "Try first with this. It's packaged with Lebanon oil, you know?" Phil told me,  passing me the joint and giving me fire with  his cigarette lighter.

- "It's O.K." I replied, passing Ruben the joint after two deep throats.

Ruben told his friends who had already seen me at work, "in the square," as they called Leicester Square, without naming it, and joked that she had always seen me "very busy" (he mimed  the actions I used to serve ice cream at the pitch).

We all got rid of his funny imitation.

He had a broad smile on his teeth, a bit stained  by smoke, which made him  look  older than his youthful appearance, and his thick black hair and a bit crunchy. The look you read in his brown and melancholy eyes was shiny and calm.

- "Did you like the concert?" He asked, perhaps to break the silence, pushing my joint back. I did and I passed by the joint to  the other two, but Ruben pointed out to me that they had set aside and were packing another one.

- "This is all for us two," he added, returning  to me after having smoked for a while.

22. to be continued...

Saturday, August 4, 2018

London for ever - 21

I also liked the English for  the vein of pride that made them feel united in the name of the queen or the homeland, or even more simply of the land where they were born, and even earlier, in the name of their their ancestors; or the simple and spontaneous transport with which they stood up to sing the national anthem or a popular song at  the last glass of the Cockney Pride, when the three ringing of bells closed the time of the drinking stir until the next morning .

Leicester Square was a favorable attraction and an ideal stage for an innumerable series of improvised artists but no less skilled and entertaining than many self-styled professionals of the show: mimes, jugglers, singers, dancers and show-men with different characteristics .

One of these was "Uncle Fred", an old man who owed his name to the skill with which he performed the "tip-tap" dance, from the those times best world skilled  tip-tap dancer Fred Astaire.

Uncle Fred's "performance" was performed in an improvised clearing, just a stone's throw away from my post. The octogenarian  slim man  placed on the ground a metal display of theatrical billboards that, appropriately deprived of the supporting rod, served as a platform for his skillful and fast dance. And just as skilled and fast, the same old man, immediately after his dance, passed with his hat for the offers. And he never failed to withdraw it full of coins.

One day I realized that "Uncle Fred" had to act with the help of a lookout supporting man, because once  I saw him  suddenly leave his thick crossroads of extemporaneous spectators (which invariably formed recalled by the sound rhythm of his dance steps), and headed out towards me, mimicking with rapid gestures of the right hand, the request for a drink.

He just raised his eyes from the glass of orange juice, which I had promptly offered, to the passage of a round of bobbies that, bewildered and suspicious, watched that group of spectators waving around that  metal sign paved senseless on the ground.

"Uncle Fred", on that occasion, told me about how, a provincial dancer, he had tried without luck the great jump in the capital. Not being ready to lick anyone's ass, he had remained anonymous. And when he told me his age, I wanted to ask him the secret of his surprising agility; he confessed that he was in good shape with a breakfast of tea, ham, buttered toasts and boiled egg, without any alcohol nor smoke.

I did not have time to ask him anything else because he turned away, after giving me an affectionate and light nudge of understanding, leaving me with that empty glass in my hand, thinking about how life jerks us, between alternating fortunes, driven by an unstoppable,  mysterious and distant force.

21. to be continued...

Wednesday, August 1, 2018

The story of Mr Winningoes - 11

My studies would get a great advantage from this new decisive financial impulse. But why didn't I feel any sorrow for my father’s death? Yet I had loved him, in the cheerful days of the infancy; and he had loved me.
Thinking about the years of my infancy and the coasts of beloved and distant Cornwall, I finished to consume my poor meal, then 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 its body as an idea from his thinker,  as a thought from its action!

11. to be continued...
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Wednesday, July 25, 2018

The story of Mr Winningoes - 10

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, when I heard some beats on the door. The circumstance was quite unusual. Nobody ever came to find me and

Soledad, the Mexican housemaid who was in charge for homework, as an invisible angel, entered in the house using her own key.

As I opened the door a young man introduced himself as an emissary of the English legal study “Heirs and Heirs” .

He was coming to inform me that my father had died and I had been named his only heir. He also told me that he had brought with him some letters of attorney to allow his fellows to look after the most urgent matters of administration.

I signed those proxies without not even reading them. On the financial plan I would have been now stronger than ever.

10. to be continued...

Monday, July 16, 2018

The story of Mr Winningoes - 9

I resolutely threw myself heart and soul into brain’s study. 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 dregs of humanity that inhabits the world.

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 showing 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!

9. to be continued...
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Saturday, July 14, 2018

The story of Mr Winningoes - 8

He cried, my old father, seeing the medals that I had conquered in the hot skies of Europe. With pride he told me that he knew of my heroic deeds, and now that his name, the glorious lineage of Winningoeses had been fully rehabilitated, he could happily die. I wished to him a very long life, leaving his medals as consolation of my not dilatory departure. My books, my studies attended me again, in the United States, for a new thrilling issue on the walk of truth.

Taking back to my searches I considered that I had to continue in a forced direction, if it were true, as it is true, that the brain of every living being contains, even though modified by the evolution, the original matrix of our existence.

8. to be continued...
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