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...

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stases of resonances

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0FQ488BSM

Now I know what is love

Now I know what is love

Not the sudden passion

that turns off soon

and then rises again

Not even your eyes

May be sincere

But not eternal.

Not your vain, fallacious promises

But the Word that never betrays

It's true love!

Stases of resonances

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0FQ488BSM

Let them in

Let them in, Mr President;

they are the silent majority

tired to see a greed,

financial minority

exploiting the world.

Let them in, Mr President;

sit down and listen to them;

they have a lot of things to say;

they are the future of Mother Earth.

Let them in, Mr President;

By occupying Wall Street

they want to show how

a bunch of criminals

have occupied the power

and not by means of democracy

but through illegal tricks.

Let them, in Mr President;

they are fed up

to endure the richest 1% in the world

has more wealth

than 95% of humanity .

Let them in, Mr President;

they want a new world of justice

and U.S.A. must show justice.

Let them in, Mr President:

you can choose to be with them

or against them;

with justice or against justice;

with the New World

or against the New World!

Stases of resonances

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0FQ488BSM

Don’t ask me why

Don' t ask me why I've been there

Why I had to fill the emptiness of my days

Why was I lost in the dark  nothingness

Why I didn't have a place to go to

Don't ask me why

I only remember now

 the time of hope

The smoking rings

The dreaming trips

That's our life

Made of mistakes

Driven by mysterious course

Aimed to search

What you think to be true

And the time being the cheater of our senses

Only God

Cannot mislead

Our souls.

Stases of resonances

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0FQ488BSM

Let them sing

 

Let them sing,

all over the Country,

 let them sing!

Let them sing,

 they are the real voice of the Country!

Let them sing, in the name of liberty,

let them sing in the name of dignity!

Let them sing against speculation,

Let them sing against criminal finance!

Let them sing for the world is their world,

let them sing for their sons, for their daughters!

Let them sing with the voice of the sixties!

Let them sing remembering flowers!

Let them sing for a new world to come!

Stases of resonances

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0FQ488BSM

Lost in the House of Dawn

 

Ehi, Mr Shadow

Would you please tell me

How has gone away

the age of Aquarius?

That story full of love,

Hope and romance!

And why now

cannons balls

Keep on flying?

Please, tell me

 where the best minds

Of your generation

Are resting now?

Talk to me again

Of peace,

Speak again of brotherhood!

Aren’t you

used to live your

Own life anymore?

Or you’ve really got lost

In The House of Dawn?

Stases of Resonances

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0FQ488BSM

Let them celebrate

Let them celebrate

the end of your world,

they want to celebrate:

the American dream is over;

they are celebrating 

money growing over nothing;

let them celebrate

discovering your rootless brushes;

they need to celebrate

the burial ceremony

of criminal capitalism;

they 've got to celebrate

the funeral

of greed octopus

which scrounges their people!

Let them celebrate

the dawn of new distribution

of richness of earth!

Let them celebrate

the end of your world.

Stases of resonances

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0FQ488BSM

The new day

(on death of my brother Mauritius)

 

Now the veils of Maya have fallen

And no longer covers your body

The armor of the Syrian Naaman;

I see on your face

Shining again the ancient light

Of our childhood games

When hopes

were all to come

And the misleading curtain

Which hardens the hearts

Had not yet come between us.

Run now

On your nimble legs

Wait for me in the sunny lands

Where the sun never sets down.

Sparks of Faith- Volume 3

 

https://www.amazon.it/dp/B07JPK5MCD

Your power won’t last forever

 

Come on great men of the world

who owe the power

You have already had much money

To move on soldiers

much gold to feel stronger

luxury palaces to live comfortably safe in!

And fields, ground, soil, trees,

Rivers, lakes and seas

As far as your own eyes can get

‘Till the horizons can show!

 

But do you really think

your power will last forever?

 

Don’t you remember Ramses the Third,

Cyrus of Persia, Nebuchadnezzar,

Alexander the Great, the emperor Augustus

and all the kings from the past up to Napoleon?

You’re now inventing new richness made of nothing

You’re exploiting the soil under its surface

And even you’re searching for more in the universe

Still cheating the poor!

But don’t never forget

Whom God created the world for!

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.

Laissez faire, laissez passer

 

https://www.amazon.it/dp/B07H44DYF7

 

Come on! Laissez faire, laissez passer!

Today is not time

To arrest people anymore!

Don’t you know is November the 9th 1989?

Today there is not time

To stop goods anymore!

Come on!

Only one thousand dollars

Will cost you

A plenty full track!

At 9 past 21 p.m.

The wall is falling down!

Laissez faire, laissez passer!

There are bound to be changes

For our lives further on!

It’s crashing down

Together with our illusions

Their false promises

The wrong secular hope!

Come on!

The wall is not hiding anymore

The totems of progress!

Let’s go worshipping

The glittering gods

Bounding ahead!

 

In Berlin November 1989

 

The real story of Patrick Winningoes-6

 

https://www.amazon.it/real-story-Patrick-Winningoes-Salvatore-ebook/dp/B0B244SFNQ/

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.