The Dreamer

 

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CQDFK2JW

Chapter 3

My remembering was interrupted by a discreet touch at the door. Mr Winningoes entered holding a tray in a hand on which there was 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 the three cups with a lot of attention. George, taking one on his hand, gazed at its outside and the inside for a long time. He seemed particularly interested in the small yellowish petals that floated on the surface.

«They are jasmine's flowers», said the old man. «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 tasty. Do you also like Chinese cuisine?», I returned him on time.

«Oh, yes, for sure! I do it 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 into 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, bent 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 on that same day? I made an effort to collect my ideas recalling the story in his own words.

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Dreamer

 

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CQDFK2JW

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 of 1979, in a little snack bar of the center, at 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 narrow 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 at 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. After all, we were in London: what kind of 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 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 me with a peaceful voice «but I have lived quite a lot of years in Italy. I know so your customs quite well, and also your accent», concluded laughing again. 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.

to be continued...

  

 

The Dreamer

 

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CQDFK2JW

Chapter 1

 

«I will soon be back, make yourselves at home, please» said the man going out. We looked at each other, George and I. It had only been from the morning that we didn’t have a chance to stay on our own.

«That’s a real story of madness! » he burst out taking a seat in one of the four wood armchairs that were around a circular table in the center of the small room. «This man must be crazy! Let's put him off as soon as is back and let's escape from here, until we are in time», he added while I was taking a seat in front of him.

«Just a moment, George, maybe it will seem strange to you, but I don't feel afraid of this man! He inspires a sort of trust in me, despite his strangeness».

«But do you realize what you are talking about? Have you gone out of sense too? This man must have some extraordinary powers: hasn't he hypnotized us just slightly before? Have you also heard him talk of super-races and brain's experiments or have I dreamed of it?», George attacked me nervously.

«Be quiet, please, George», I told him in a calm voice. «First of all, I don't believe he has hypnotized us, just before. Secondly, if he is really so powerful as you say, what could be his reaction, when we try to immobilize him? Make a point on it:  when we arrived here, we were both sleepy. If he wanted therefore to use us as guinea-pigs, two punctures were enough for him to knock us down!  I have not seen yet neither cats resembling mice, nor men with a square brain!

 Who can be sure that the old man is not inventing everything? It would not surprise me if this story derived from the imagination of some fantastical writer. I want to go to the end of all these circumstances. Don’t you also want to know what kind of job's proposal Mr Winningoes is going to make for us?»

George gazed for a long time into my eyes, thoughtfully. Then, without answering, he relaxed on the back of the chair, releasing the muscles and breathing deeply.

He stood with half open eyes crossing at once the feet and the hands softly on the womb, with the right hand covering the palm of the left one. He seemed to me almost slept, while only the breath animated his body. Won by all those unexpected and subsequent emotions, I also imitated him doing my best on sitting comfortably on the wood ancient chair.

...to be continued...

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Dreamer

 https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0CQDFK2JW

Chapter 1

«I will soon be back, make yourselves at home, please» - said the man going out. We looked at each other, George and I. It had only been from the morning that we didn’t have a chance to stay alone, however I swear that it seemed to me as if it was an eternity.

«That’s a real story of madness! » he burst out taking a seat in one of the four wood armchairs that were around a circular table in the center of the small room–«This man must be crazy! Let's put him off as soon as is back and let's escape from here, until we are in time»–he added while I was taking a seat in front of him.

«Just a moment, George, maybe it will seem strange to you, but I don't feel afraid of this man! He inspires a sort of trust in me, despite his strangeness».

«But do you realize what you are talking about? Have you gone out of sense too? This man must have some extraordinary powers: hasn't he hypnotized us just slightly before? Have you also heard him talk of super-races and brain's experiments or have I dreamed of it?», George attacked me nervously.

«Be quiet, please, George» - I told him in a calm voice. –«First of all, I don't believe he has hypnotized us, just before. Secondly, if he is really so powerful as you say, what could be his reaction, when we try to immobilize him? Make a point on it: when we arrived here, we were both sleepy. Therefore if he wanted to use us as guinea-pigs, two punctures were enough for him to knock us down! On the other hand I have not seen yet neither cats resembling mice, nor men with a square brain! Who can be sure that the old man is not inventing everything? It would not surprise me if this story derived from the imagination of some fantastical writer. I want to go to the end of all these circumstances. Don’t you also want to know what kind of job's proposal Mr Winningoes is going to make for us?»

George gazed for a long time into my eyes, thoughtfully. Then, without answering, he relaxed on the back of the chair, releasing the muscles and breathing deeply.

He stood with half open eyes crossing at once the feet and the hands softly on the womb, with the right hand covering the palm of the left one. He seemed to me almost slept, while only the breath animated his body.

Won by all those unexpected and subsequent emotions, I also imitated him doing my best on sitting comfortably on the wood ancient chair.

to be continued...

The Dreamer

 

https://www.amazon.it/dp/B0CQDFK2JW

This romance, although conceived and partially dreamed in English, was originally written in Italian language with the title “The Essence of life” in the early eighties of the past century; at the beginning of this new century I made a translation into English language. Hereafter it was published with four different titles: “And then four crows will fly away”; “The thin line between dream and reality”, “Just a story of islands” and “The real story of Patrick Winningoes”. Now eventually it’s published under title of “The Dreamer: a novel of love and madness”. Therefore the present is the fifth edition. This is the synopsis. A noble and rich man, with a double, confused personality, is planning for an unlikely love as well as for an impossible new mondial order. In his reasearch he comes accross two young people searching for a job. He’s ready to employ them with a well paid job but before hiring their services, he asks them to listen to a story: the real story of Patrick Winningoes. But the employer turns out to be a master of trickery and illusionism who has a mysterious plan where he tries to involve the two friends. At the end of this story they will find out that the reality is often misrepresented. And things are so different from how they sometimes appear. The story is set between London and Dublin in the late seventies of the 20th Century.

Have a good trip Mr Shadow

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07H44DYF7 

Another trip for  Mr Shadow

I

It’s very hard to live my own life

Fighting against the inhibitions,

the limits, the taboos of my own time!

 

It’s really very hard to cancel my personal history,

chopping off every bond with my past!

 

It’s hard to change the idea

We have of ourselves,

forgetting   what  the others

believe   to know of  us!

 

And it’s hard again to change

Our idea of  the life,

seeking for trust,

not in the eyes of the other people,

but in the deep eye of our being.

 

II

It’s hard for me to proceed

Through this path of loneliness,

hoping to undertake one day

my trip to Ixtlan,

to bathe me in the sacred river,

to purify me of all my sins,

and  understand the mysteries of life,

smelling the magic flower,

to reach the eternal safety,

the apex of   knowledge,

the heaven of the ever green city  

where the seven gold doors

 will finally open their secrets!

 

And the soul will fly for ever

Through the endless worlds

Of the universe

Recuerdos de un Italiano en Londres - 18

 

 

https://www.amazon.fr/Solo-como-una-piedra-Recuerdos-ebook/dp/B09Z6C5LKC/

The Evening News era en realidad solo una imitación del Evening Standard más famoso. Este último venìa publicado en múltiples ediciones desde las siete de la mañana. hasta altas horas de la noche, con una frecuencia entre las dos y las tres horas. De una edicion a otra, solo cambiaba la primera página para atraer a los lectores a noticias brillantes. Se distribuyìa con una red de distribución realmente fantástica.

Las entregas llegaban en una camioneta negra y amarilla, y desde allí, con el motor encendido, sin descender de la furgoneta, volaban los paquetes de periódicos.

The Evening Standard no tenía una fisonomía política precisa (al menos no en el sentido que los italianos le damos a esta expresión) y tal vez alternó su afinidad ideológica con los partidos políticos al gobierno en el cuerpo administrativo más grande de Londres: "The Great London Council" .

Todos esos vendedores me daban una impresión extraña: que siempre habían hecho ese trabajo. No solo por la voz sibilante que los caracterizaba, sino también por su ropa muy sucia. La piel de su cara se veía oscura, casi sucia, debido a la exposición al aire insalubre.

También me parecia que siempre tenìan fríos, incluso en verano, como si en sus huesos hubiera penetrado la humedad y el escalofriante aliento de las corrientes de aire heladas procedentes del Metro.

Usaban guantos que dejaban los dedos expuestos para agarrar fácilmente dinero y periódicos y se calentaban con una taza de té con leche que compraban en el bar más cercano.

A pesar de su aspecto, que en los días de intensa niebla se mezclaba con el paisaje circundante, convirtiéndose en un elemento característico, como las columnas rojas del Royal Mail, las cabinas telefónicas y los taxis negros, las sensaciones que transmitían eran muy positivas.

No digo que fueran alegres, pero puede ser joviales. Una serena y resignada jovialidad, como si la difusión de los acontecimientos londineses y del mundo entero, contenidos en sus periódicos, los hiciera impermeables a las emociones, colocándolos por encima de los acontecimientos humanos, como mensajeros imparciales de los dioses del subsuelo.

Cuando pasaba por allí, donde estaba trabajando, nunca faltaban de asentirme con simpatía, al mismo tiempo emitiendo un sonido que quería ser un "¿estás bien?", Pero uno solo podía escuchar un silbido, como el viento que había entrado en sus cuerpos, consistiendo en tres, tal vez solo dos sílabas, veladas en la garganta.

La Terza via - 5

 

A Londra era tutto un proliferare di sette new wave di ispirazione per lo più orientale: buddhiste, indiane, cinesi, persiane; e i giovani si perdevano appresso a questi venditori di illusioni e di sogni, mascherati da spiritualità antiche e profonde. E non ho mai capito se fossero i giovani più smaliziati o quelli più fragili confondere la ricerca dello spirito con le sostanze che alteravano la percezione della realtà ordinaria; probabilmente la questione era correlata alle letture più in voga in quel momento: Aldous Huxley, Allen Ginsberg e i poeti della Beat Generation, Baudelaire, Herman Hesse e chissà quanti altri ancora. Tra questi c’era sicuramente anche il sudamericano Carlos Castaneda, trapiantato negli USA per studiare Antropologia e finito poi  in Messico ad applicare sul campo i suoi studi sul popolo degli Huicholes, uno dei tanti ceppi originari del territorio attorno all’altipiano della Sonora che assumevano il peyote, il fungo contenente la mescalina, che a quanto pare li metteva in contatto con un mondo fantastico. Eppure l’antropologo peruviano (lì mi pare fosse  nato Castaneda) spiegava bene di non amare queste droghe. Ma non c’è niente da fare: ognuno sceglie ciò che più gli aggrada in ogni lettura, soprattutto se condotta senza un’adeguata guida.

Così, leggendo quella trilogia che mi era capitata tra le mani (ma la serie completa, come scoprii più avanti negli anni, conta molti più volumi), sognavo di diventare l’allievo di uno sciamano yaqui (nei libri non viene mai menzionata l’esatta etnìa dello sciamano che funge da maestro per lo scrittore, forse per evitare il turismo superficiale di viaggiatori interessati soltanto allo sballo facile, laddove la ricerca dell’autore, sembrava invece avere tutti i crismi di una vera e propria ricerca antropologica e di uno studio sul campo), di ingerire il peyote e di fumare; di padroneggiare la bilocazione riuscendo  a librarmi in volo, come un autentico volatile; e tutte le altre fantasticherie che andavo leggendo; e che sembravano credibili e vere; e magari lo erano veramente, chissà! Quando si è giovane è più facile credere e sognare l’inverosimile; e perfino l’impossibile.

https://www.hoepli.it/libro/la-terza-via-un-uomo-un-viaggio-tre-strade/9788833812366.html

 

Memoirs of London - 4

4.

At that time I felt like a stone in a river. I rolled by as the water flowed down. And if the river was dry, I stood still, waiting for the rain to come.

To be raised in a large family, had taught me, at least, to survive trying to be invisible and escape or fight at the right time.

I became a close friend to Erminio and  all his friends became also my friends.

Franco had a wonderful girlfriend, half Italian and half French. They had a nice flat in West Hampstead (or it might have  been in Finchley Road), where we often were invited for diner. We had clever conversation, while dining.

But mostly we  spent the evenings smoking and listening to music. My thought flew in the air following the guitars’ sounds of blues songs or twisting happily around rock’s riffs of skilful fingers. Then I soared over the world and I thought there were spaces for my soul to be discovered or detected, somewhere in the world .

Then I would abandon myself to the currents of the wind like a wingshed bird, hoping to applaud in a timeless land where my soul could dine for ever.

There must be such a land somewhere ! I dreamed of that, evening by evening, day by day, night after night! I didn’t dream of money  or richness assumed that I had enough to live through. I was spirit more than flesh in those days. I had a vacuum to fill up but I didn’t know how.

There were a lot of people, coming and going in that place, at any time. Though Franco and his girlfriend could be considered a conventional, may be even a bourgeois couple, they were very opened mind and always ready to add a dish at their table or to open a bed in the guest’s room for anyone who might enter in their house.

Once Marco came with a girl. A nice one, named Susanna or Simona, I can’t remember now. She was supposed to be his girlfriend, for they said were going to get married. Nevertheless, after diner, she wanted to make a dance for us; a sensual dance, so sensual it was that afterwards she took off even the last of her clothes, looking wonderful as her mother had made her. I enjoyed that very much but I knew she was Marco’s girlfriend and anyway I thought since then that making sex was a matter of  love and affection, not just a carnal contingency. There was also a friend of Franco’s  (named such as Rocco, or some similar name) watching that sort of Salome’s dance. He didn’t see the thing like I did and so made some rude advances with Marco’s girlfriend, assuming she was looking or provoking for something. He totally  misunderstood that strange behavior. He never showed up again in the house, after that. 

Another friend  of   Franco’s came one day, along with his girlfriend, from the wonderful Liguria land. This was a better one; a man of  good spirit, a searching soul, like I was. I'll name him later on in the story.We sympathized immediately.

He  handled some books of Carlos Castaneda to me. They were three books.

I fell in love with those three books. They spoke of the initiation of a young Western intellectual by an Indian wizard, somewhere in the Sierra Madre’s mountains of Mexico.

Though they are called Huichol, they called themselves “The people walking with the Gods” because so they feel through the ingestion  of a green mushroom, called  peyote, which contains a lot of mescaline, a powerful hallucinogen.

We spent a lot of time, talking about these books and planning to go to Mexico together. He also talked to me about a book he knew very well:  Aldous Huxley’s The Doors of Perception. But he told me he never wanted to take LSD, because it was a chemical substance, and as a such,  he didn’t trust it. He wanted to go to the desert land of central Mexico, where those mushrooms grew. May be it’s thanks  to him if I never wanted to tried LSD or other chemical stuff that in those times were in vogue among young people. May be he was the river that moved the stone that I was in a certain direction, instead of another. But he never reached Mexico. He died in a strange way, somewhere in Italy, though I knew it when I came my back from my trip to  America.

4. to be continued...