• Simply… woman

    Sara Luna e Claudine
  • I support ANIMAL RIGHTS

  • me and my girl :-)
  • Mi sento unicamente una "Cittadina del Mondo"
    figlia, madre, amica, compagna, donna...
    Ho viaggiato lungo rotte conosciute ed altre ignote, per lavoro ma anche per curiosità o solo per il desiderio di scoprire nuovi luoghi!
    L'esperienza a contatto con altri popoli, religioni e culture, mi ha insegnato a venerare Madre Natura ed ogni forma di vita che ci conduce a valutare precetti inconfutabili, ma che purtroppo troppi ignorano nel più assoluto egoismo.
    Vi apro le porte del mio mondo virtuale... seguitemi lungo l'itinerante scorrer d'acqua lasciando traccia di vissuto.

  • What to say about Claudine? She is passionate about living a present, balanced and authentic life, with a healthy dose of humor! She loves to travel the world, explore new places, people and food, but equally loves to retreat into silent solitude. She is a writer who follows a hidden path, into an unfamiliar world. If you just surrender and go with her on her eerie journey, you will find that you have surrendered to enchantment, as if in a voluptuous and fantastic dream. She makes you believe everything she sees in her fantasy and dreams. But as well you take a journey to the frozen mountain peaks of the north of Europe, to the crowded sweating streets of Mexico or Africa. Her characters are wonderfully real and wholly believable perfectly situated in her richly textured prose. She’s a lovely person and she writes with exquisite powers of description! She’s simply great! R. McKelley

    ***

    Chi è Claudine? Lei è appassionata nel vivere al presente una vita equilibrata e autentica, con una sana dose di humour! Ama viaggiare per il mondo, esplorare nuovi luoghi, persone e cibo, ma ugualmente ama ritirarsi in solitudine, nel silenzio. E' una scrittrice che segue un sentiero nascosto, verso un mondo sconosciuto. Se solo vi arrendete e andate con lei in questa spettacolare avventura, realizzerete che vi siete confidati all’incantevole, come in un sogno fantastico ed avvolgente. Vi farà credere ad ogni cosa che lei vede nei suoi stessi sogni e fantasie. Ma inizierete anche un viaggio verso le cime ghiacciate del nord Europa, verso le strade affollate del Messico o Africa. I protagonisti sono magnificamente reali e totalmente credibili stupendamente inseriti nella ricca trama di prosa. E’ una “grande” persona e scrive con uno squisito potere descrittivo. E’ semplicemente magnifica.

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FINDERORIÉN

Italian Text * Testo in italiano

In a place difficult to reach by land, an ascetic lived and probably still lives. He was no longer young, but the years had not yet marked his flesh with aches and pains that are typical of aging. Time seemed to stand still for him!

Many came from afar to ask for his advice or even to hear him tell his Thousand Stories. Sarabi Al-Surfa, this was the name of the Sage, he had searched the streets of the world for the secret of happiness. Evidently, somewhere he had also found it, since no one had ever seen him sad or angry, indeed the elderly ascetic was always smiling and for each visitor he had a special story in store that seemed tailor-made.

Some spoke of magic, others claimed that Sarabi Al-Surfa could read the minds; still others were saying that the good man was just a lunatic. Over the months, every time I listened to the stories of the people I accompanied during the flights to India, I was more and more curious and after returning home I spent hours and hours talking to my cats telling them how famous the old Sage who told the Thousand Stories had become.

Having travelled the world of Earth – Water and Air, I had heard of several oddities, but never as particular as the story of Sarabi Al-Surfa. This singular man had begun to interest me in a disturbing way: I wanted to meet him personally; I wanted to listen to some of his stories designed specifically for me. I was sure he could have given me a lot of important information to share with all our cats, since I was sure of one thing: they were the keepers of a huge secret!

A dozen domestic cats lived in our house and another dozen wild cats visited us regularly to receive food. The more I devoted myself to them, the more the belief that our cats were not there with us only by chance, they had chosen us as owners for a mysterious reason that I wanted to discover at any cost.

Several years have already passed since I finally decided to go and look for Sarabi Al-Surfa in his hermitage. I was still young, just married and I was flying around the world following the routes outlined by my job. I had asked for a couple of weeks of vacation, sure that it would be enough to set off on the arduous path that leads from Delhi to the immense Himalaya Mountains.

When I arrived at the airport in New Delhi, I looked for my Indian friend Govinda. I had immediately spotted her in the crowd, she wore a fiery red sari with edges embroidered with golden thread. She was shaking her hands in the air trying to attract my attention; pinned to the dress, clearly visible, was the identification badge of the ground staff. Delhi airport was quite large, so it was easy to get lost when the gaze was drawn to the many varieties of shouting people.

I met Govinda in 1988 during one of my first flights to India, immediately becoming friends and accomplices of many adventures. She worked for Air India, there in Delhi, as a ground-hostess. When I had explained to her my crazy idea of reaching Srinagar in Jammu and Kashmir, Govinda had darkened her face.

“But are you out of your mind? Don’t you know it is dangerous to venture up there? The border with Pakistan is close and that is a disputed territory between the two nations. They are always at war and every now and then, there are terrorist attacks”.

Govinda was a brave woman; I could almost say that she was a daredevil, so the reaction of hers had put me a little alarmed. I had explained to her that I would not stop in Srinagar but that I absolutely wanted to reach Leh. Her face had relaxed a little, and then she laughed:

“Ah, what are you going to look for in Leh? The Yeti? On the other hand, have you met the son of the Jammu Shri Karan Singh Maharajah on some flights?”

Evidently, Govinda believed that I was joking or that it was one of my usual quirks. However, I was very convinced and damned serious! I knew there was also a small airport, Leh Kushok Bakula Rimpocee Airport. From Srinagar, when weather conditions allowed, there was a flight every 3-4 days and therefore in just over half an hour you reached your destination. When I asked Govinda to give me some more detailed information about Sarabi Al-Surfa, my friend became serious:

“And for what reason do you want to venture to know the old Sage of the sacred Mountain? It could cost you your life… many have never returned and several who have returned have become… crazy.”

“But many visited him and he gave them a story. I only want one that allows me to understand the language of my cats; I wish to be able to share with them much more than what I can now! In addition, I want to know why they chose us as masters!”

I had replied in a voice full of conviction and determination. Govinda had stared into my eyes for a long time, a gaze as dark as moonless nights, when the clouds also cover the soft glow of the stars of the firmament.

“Maybe… maybe Sarabi Al-Surfa won’t want to give you the pleasure of seeing him. He is a very old man; perhaps he has already been dead for some time. Are your friend’s cats so important? You talk about they were humans, not animals.”

How could Govinda even doubt the deep affection that bound me to my felines? I replied in a resolute voice:

“My cats are a sort of Key… I have to find out which magical door they can open to me… for this the Old Wise Man will have to tell me MY Story!”

Shaking her head and gesturing in the air with her hands, Govinda had accompanied me to the boarding counters in the Domestic Flights terminal.

“Look, I’m going with you. In short, I accompany you! You don’t know how to speak Hindi, and even if you try to disguise yourself, you see a kilometer away that you are a westerner and I feel responsible for you.”

My Indian friend had said with a smile. Speaking with a colleague of hers, who occasionally peered at me with a very amused air, Govinda had managed to reserve two seats on the plane to Srinagar which would leave the following day. The connection from Srinagar to Leh would however have been after 3 days, so in Srinagar we should have spent two nights. Govinda had specified:

“My friend, the one who issued us the ticket, will be able to do my work shift. I have already done her many favors in the past and I gladly reciprocate them; but when we are in Leh, to the old sage, you will go alone. Too many stories have become legends, you see, I’m afraid that knowing my story then too, many things could change.”

“So be it, Govinda. Thank you for accompanying me… do not fear for me, there is something that I have not yet revealed to you, but as we walk along, I will tell you.”

Hard to think that she would believe my words… perhaps revealing my secret to her, she would change her mind and I should have gone to Srinagar alone! However, there was time, a long time…

In the afternoon, Govinda had accompanied me to the antiques district, the Thief’s Market, where I hoped to find a specific Object… to bring as a gift to the old Sage. I remembered seeing several of them, displayed on the rickety vendor’s stalls, during a previous trip to Delhi. Years ago, I had bought three similar in size, but completely different in colour and execution. I had kept the less flashy one for my husband and myself, and after inserting it on granite support, it was on display above the half-tailed piano.

Several times that Object had attracted the appalled gaze of friends who had visited us, while cats had quickly learned how to use it and it seemed that they were enjoying themselves. This strange and dark detail had convinced me that it was a magical artefact!

I had given away the other two: one to my parents and the other one to an elderly woman from my hometown who lived isolated, in a patrician house without running water and electricity. The woman had already seen some similar objects, almost everywhere in the world that she too had turned when her health still allowed. My dad had been fascinated by the accurate and precise workmanship on sandalwood with inlays of mother of pearl, lapis lazuli and ebony.

“It’s wonderful, my daughter” the whispered words still came back to me while with his big hands he stroked the object as if it was something of inestimable value, “all people should have on, to help remember… and not to forget.”

I had never been able to discover the real name of the Object because in each country and culture it was called differently, and as well as used for different purposes. My husband and I had decided to call him FINDERORIÉN. I felt, deep inside, that my father was right! Sarabi Al-Surfa would need to own one, if no one had already thought of giving him such a present. It was as if a little voice inside my ear was advising me to bring him a FINDERORIÉN in exchange for my story.

 “You are weird, you know? If I have not known you for so many years, I think I would not have listened to you. Moreover, are you sure that you will be able to find that thing… what did you say it is called? FINDERORIÉN? Never heard of it.”

Govinda was tugging at my arm, she was serious in the face and certainly also a little worried. She was always apprehensive when I shared with her my thoughts, she believed it was a sort of curse that is borne on us Westerners, that of having the mind always occupied by the tomorrow without ever being able to appreciate the instant, the here and now.

“Listen Govinda, my friend, you must not feel compelled to come with me to Leh. I appreciate your offer and generosity but at the end it is my Mission; you see, there are things in life that are predestined from conception and there is no use trying to ignore the existence of fate… or kismet… or predestination or all three things combined.”

Shaking her head slightly, my friend added:

“Maybe I don’t have so much faith in instinct, my dear; otherwise I fear that I would not be in Delhi for a long time! Maybe I should have left this city and gone to the Maldives as my brothers did. I simply would not want something bad to happen to you, the story of the hermit has put me on agitation. There has been a lot of talk about him, he is always talked about, and there are those who after knowing him are no longer the same person as before. The power of his stories is very great, they say, so great that he has the power to change the listener permanently! Are you sure, you want to change?”

That was a question, which had caught me off guard, I certainly did not expect Govinda to worry so much about me, nor did I imagine that she was aware of so many details about Sarabi Al-Surfa. However, more convinced than ever I had replied in a firm voice:

“Yes, the story that the Sage will tell me, as long as I accept it, will help me to communicate with my feline friends. No, please do not look at me with those eyes… I am serious, I do not have a fever and I am fine. I have already told you that my husband and I share the same passion for cats: 10 live with us and another ten visit us regularly to receive food. Just once Nebuchadnezzar and Amneris were touching our FINDERORIÉN with their paws, I had a strange vision: the object had become bigger transforming itself under my incredulous gaze. Later I had heard a powerful voice speak to the two cats…” I had a short pause to catch my breath, “but I did not understand the meaning of those words.”
Govinda was amazed, a couple of times had swallowed with difficulty and then stammered:
“Ah… so you had a vision? And did you hear the strange object… speak to your cats; evidently, the cats will have replied something you didn’t understand?”

I had been watching her in silence, and then I had looked around us to see if other people had followed our dialogue.

“Govinda, it is too long a strange story to tell you about it like this. I already showed you the photos of our cats the last time we were together in Jaipur. I am also convinced that the names of our cats are not random.”

Govinda smiled smugly:

“Yes, they are really special names, but even more I find the vision of FINDERORIÉN surprising. Maybe the mystery is contained in these strange objects!”

We had finally reached the end of a narrow, dusty and crowded lane. The heat had become unbearable, the sweat was sliding down my forehead while the orange linen kaftan was literally gluing on me. Suddenly, from a corner of the alley, a child rose from the ground and came to meet me: he held in his hands the most beautiful FINDERORIÉN I had ever seen!

“I kept it for you, ma’am!”

He said giving me a white smile of innocence and authenticity. The object shone between his tiny fingers, dirty with earth. In that moment, I understood: that this was the right contribution for the story that Sarabi Al-Sufa would tell me.

With trembling hands, I took over the object and then I looked for Govinda to show it to her, but when I wanted to pay the child, he was gone! I looked for him in the crowd, hoping to see the whiteness of his smile… I took a few steps around. Maybe he was intimidated and went to curl up in a corner. When Govinda finally joined me, she immediately noticed the object I was holding in my hands and, of course, she had read the dismay in my eyes.

“Holy God, where did you find it?”

I had no words to answer her, still I was trying to understand what was happening to me. With my eyes, I had looked again for the boy who seemed to have dematerialized; on the street, there was only the usual large multicolored crowd that shouted and gestured to passersby trying to attract their attention. However, there was not even the shadow of the boy. Yet somewhere he had certainly gone… I had felt a sort of panic, while I was holding the Object firmly in my sweaty and dusty hands.
Govinda looked at me with inquisitive eyes:

“What are you doing? You are not going to stay here for the rest of the day. I have been calling you for a while. Look, they all turned to look at us!”

In the meantime, I was smiling a little forcefully while I realised that two women were staring at me by pointing finger in my direction. A kind of respect shone from their eyes, mixed with disbelief. I had just smiled back but now those women dressed in blue and cardinal red saris came towards me with their hands outstretched.

“Blimey! Govinda, what do these good women want? Why do they keep pointing at me? Moreover, why are everyone else looking at us with startled faces?”

The girl had needed a few more seconds to realize, and then she had approached me with an abrupt and very rapid movement:

“Listen, better get away from here, they say they saw the Little One who gave you an object… they say it’s an auspicious Sign… they say you’re a lucky woman and they want to know who you are… Here in India, these things happen and it is not good to stop, come, let’s go quickly before it’s too late!”

Without even realizing it, we both were running, measuring the whole path strewn with stalls and various knick-knacks that led to the main road. I felt my heart in my throat and the initial panic sensation had turned into anguish!

Who was that boy? What had the women seen that escaped my attention? The questions continued to haunt me when, more or less comfortably sitting on a seat of the economy class of Air India, I was struggling to put together the details of the story of the day before.
Govinda, sitting next to me, slept soundly. She had spent the night awake looking out the window at first at the full moon and then at the rising sun. She had told me that she suffered from insomnia… I knew it was a lie, I had heard her whispering Mantras all night. I was wondering if what I was doing was right, involving a friend in an adventure perhaps full of dangers and risks. Then I thought about the times I had discussed philosophy with my father, when he had suggested that I follow my instinct.

“Inside each of us” he confided to me “there is an immortal soul. It is a kind of bridge with all previous lives, with every teaching that has been given to us over the course of countless lives. You must trust your instincts even if many times you are afraid of making mistakes. Always put love in your every thought, in your every action. If Love will guide your every breath, then your instinct will be fully awakened, and will as well allow you to see into the future and to do wonders. But don’t forget that every action must be virtuous and linked to love for every living being: nature, animals, and men.”
I had always listened to Dad’s teachings; I felt that they would take me far, very far!
When the pilot announced the landing 15 minutes later, Govinda had recently dozed off. It was going to be a long day!

Initially she had avoided asking any more questions or looking at me with those inquiring eyes. However, the girl had teased my memories:

“Here, look over there, those are the lakes… very similar to the ones you have in your small town, aren’t they?”

Indeed, that area in northern India was very similar to our small Switzerland. Thinking about the house, the cats, my husband, had increased the urgency and revived the real motivation for my presence in that remote place on the slopes of the Himalayas.

In my bag, I felt more and more the presence of the FINDERORIÉN, as if advancing north and to the eternal snow made the object vibrate in a pronounced way. Govinda had a nice surprise in store for me: instead of entering the city of Srinagar, the rickety little taxi with no suspension, took the road that skirted a lake. After about half an hour’s journey, from a height I saw the large lake below which mirrored the blue sky covered with huge white and plump clouds.

“Here we are. I thought you would spend two slightly different nights on a floating barge.”
Govinda watched me with half-closed eyes as if she wanted to go through me to read the unspoken thoughts.
“You will see how special it is, we could sail along the waterways and then in three days, we will return in time to take the flight to Leh. Therefore, you can say that you have experienced the emotions of Jammu and Kashmir!”

I was truly speechless, a little disconcerted that my friend initially so terrified of the idea of ​​going to that disputed region between India and Pakistan, could even think of a pleasure trip rather than barricade herself inside a hotel for scary tourists.

From our floating house, the great Dal Lake shone in the rays of the sun now at its zenith. The nature appeared lush and green, the air was fresh and crisp and in the distance, the crown of mountains overlooked the city of Srinagar as if in an embrace. There are no adequate words to describe those places, where Mother Nature concentrated suggestive wonders; then humans continued the work by inserting many temples that rose in height as if they wanted to reach out to Heaven in imitating the height of the mountains of Ladakh: the Himalaya chain.

The skipper, if I can afford to call him so, was not very inclined to the conversation. Apparently, he did not understand English, even if it seemed very strange to me because in general those who worked in contact with tourists knew a few words of courtesy. He said his name was Sabibar and he wore the usual turban typical of the followers of the Sikh religion, present in that area of northern India.

Sabibar prepared our meals with great care and attention to detail, on the tray resting on the stern of the boat, there were always flowers, pink bougainvillea and a beautiful yellow flower with an unpronounceable name. Having got used to spicy food again, I had started to appreciate the typical fragrances of Jammu by explicitly asking Sabibar for my vegetarian preferences, and the different ones he had cooked with paneer, were sublime! The man was very intrigued by our conversations because, more than once, I had caught him earesdropping from behind the panel that separated us from his skipper position.
The sensation had become very pronounced even during the second day on the boat, as we quietly slipped on the dark cobalt surface of the lake.

“Govinda, I have the impression that the skipper is a little too interested in our conversations. Did you choose him for this stay in Srinagar?”

The young woman had looked at me with her usual puzzled look.

“No. I turned to the Delhi travel agency, the one where we have also been on our trips to Jodhpur and Agra the past few years. However, why are you so full of doubts? Since we left, you have seen oddities everywhere… come on, try to relax a little. You have an imagination to envy! There is still a long way to go to get to Leh, we do not even know if your Sage will be there waiting for you when the plane arrives!”
Then Govinda laughed heartily, as if for her this whole story had taken on an adventure yellow character. For me it was very different. The impression that something was getting out of hand was becoming more and more pronounced, but I did not know whether to try to get a few words from Sabibar’s mouth who apparently knew how to use well only his ears to listen to our discussion, and his hands to cook.

On the third day, during breakfast with fruits, yoghurt and nan, Sabibar finally decided to let us hear the tone of his voice:

“Madam, I humble apologize, I wish to present my availability with pleasure. I understand that you are going to Leh, I understand that the foreign lady is looking for Sarabi Al-Surfa. I met old Sage many years ago when I lost my family. I can take her to him.”

Govinda had let drop the buttered piece of nan which had slipped from her hand ending up on her sari, leaving an evident grease stain. Then she looked at me without saying a word, evidently leaving me the responsibility to answer. I had observed the face of the man who was now smiling affably; all my doubts about him had vanished and now I found myself alone in front of a person who offered his help, I thought for some reason related to the disappearance of his family. However, I had waited a couple of minutes before replying to Sabibar, my gaze had first moved over the surface of the water, then along the shore that was slowly approaching, marking the imminent departure towards the airport for Leh. Wouldn’t there have been only this man in trouble? Govinda did not want to follow me in search of Sarabi Al Surfa… should I perhaps have trusted a perfect stranger?

“Why are you now offering us your help?”

The question had surely struck him in his pride since Sabibar had become a little annoyed; it is possible that he did not want to tell me too much about himself, but he had cut short stating:
“I owe a lot to old Sage, ma’am. This must be enough as an explanation… I do not want to receive compensation; my help is a gift since you too will bring a gift to Sarabi Al-Surfa. He awaits you, ma’am, to give you your story.”

I was more and more confused: yet on the boat with Govinda I had never mentioned the FINDERORIÉN. Furthermore, I had never separated from the object that had been carefully stored in the bag from which I did not detach even when I was sleeping. How could Sabibar know of its existence?

“I… should bring a gift to the old sage. Oh, yes? Moreover, as you know, I am curious to hear this part of story too!”

Evidently I had slightly altered, my voice was shrill, Govinda had politely put her hand in front of her mouth: she was laughing. Her eyes betrayed her hilarity as she replied in place of the Skipper:

“Ohh, but this is the land of mysteries, my friend! Do not forget that India is Magic and you do not know which are the powers that are amplified here, in harmony with the beauty of nature!”

Sabibar looked at me seriously, staring into my eyes and, without looking down, added:

“Lady, let your heart guide the Mind, as your father taught you.”

At that precise moment, everything stopped, I no longer felt the perception of the boat swinging on the water. I no longer felt the sparkling air that entered my body charging oxygen into the blood. I no longer saw the blue of the sky, with the circle of mountains that joined the cobalt of the water… every sense of my perception had eclipsed in the most complete lack of size. Dismayed, I observed Sabibar’s face, which gradually seemed to modify its molecular structure, taking on that of the face of the child I had seen in the streets of the Tief-market. A fraction of a second more, and I would have passed out if it hadn’t been Govinda’s readiness to call me back to reality:

“Come on, let’s prepare our things, we have to get off the ground in a while and you can decide if you want to take him with us.”

In the end, I had decided to take Sabibar with us. Listening to the language of my heart, something suggested to me that I would need his help very soon.

At Srinagar airport, thanks to Govinda, we also bought an Air India ticket for Sabibar. It was a flight of about half an hour, but which would have saved us more than 400 kilometers on roads not always feasible without engulfing. Moreover, I had collected several wild memories consumed in the Gilgit region of northern Pakistan! Those roads on the Roof of the World were not a Sunday walk, without forgetting that unfortunately I did not have a month vacation.

Sabibar had looked out the window throughout the flight; I had wondered several times if that was the first time the man had sat in an airplane! Nevertheless, he had appeared calm and confident; on the plane, there were chickens in iron wire cages and even a goat that kept wiggling. I had to hold back my usual hilarity in the face of such scenes: but this was another reality. A sort of parallel world where everything took on other meanings. To our left, the Zanskara mountain range stretched up to encircle these of Ladakh, enchanting our gaze with a sort of unreal apparition. Even though I am used seeing these helpless titans at the mercy of their destiny, from more than ten thousand meters above sea level, I was amazed every time by the beauty of our planet Earth. Here the forces of the wind and the sun appear extraordinary: as if, evolution had not yet completed in this corner of the earth.

Among the soft clouds like the foam on a shore, the Indus river and the valley where, further down, the members of the Brokpa tribe still live appeared. Light-skinned men with blue or green eyes; individuals whose roots descend from Alexander the Great’s Macedonian army, for centuries forgetting the glory of the past.

I knew that in those places below many Buddhist temples were inserted, like jewels set in green oases. I had seen representations of the temples of Likiri, Lamayuru, Ridzong, Archi, Thiksey and Himris. Vestiges that tell of flying monks with mysterious and extraordinary powers, of lakes and seas now dried up, of sea lions and myths of the Bonpo religion. They were the tantric and shamanic rites of Buddhists, which link the esoteric to the reality of our presence in this body.
Time had literally flown, while I was busy on one side spying on Sabibar who was sitting in the opposite row from mine and on the other admiring the view. Govinda had embroidered a sort of belt, which, she had revealed to me, she wanted to give as a vestment to her sister who would be married in 4 months.

The offer of our former skipper to act as a tourist guide to the mountains did not give me particular concerns, except for the phrase concerning my father who still distressed me. I was now sure that the presence of this man was not accidental; eventually he would reveal the mystery to me, the reason why he had so taken my pilgrimage to the mysterious valleys of the Himalayas in search of the old Sage.

Landed at Leh Kushok Bakula Rimpocee, everything had taken on another priority. Sabibar was watching me with a cloudy look, while from under the front seat I extracted my bag containing the FINDERORIÉN. At Srinagar airport, I noticed the deference shown by the airport employees towards Sabibar. On his ruby-colored turban, a large diadem depicting the Khanda, symbol of the Sikh religion, appeared out of the blue: two scimitars and a central dagger. Who was this man? As an experienced helmsman across the lakes and coves around Srinagar, had he turned into something fearsome and dangerous? What was his real purpose in wanting to accompany us?

Sometimes, I perceived with a certain annoyance his scrutinizing gaze; after all, I still couldn’t trust him completely, and why would I have to? In life, I always had had to fight for my ideals, argue my every thought and I had never received support from anyone in a disinterested way. I then concentrated on a story, of which I had heard a lot, about the monastery of Matho, the only convent belonging to the dark Sect of the Sakyas, monks-shamans who practiced occult rites and of which it was said that they could even fly. Maybe they, these Sakyas, could have given me some information about Sarabi Al-Surfa? It was said that these monks also knew how to predict the future! But Sabibar apparently also read in my thoughts, or had some other supernatural gift that at the moment I was unable to catalog.

“No, Madam. This is not how you will find the old Sage. You must follow your heart, the path is not easy, but the teaching you will receive is the goal that everyone is looking for during a lifetime! The Sakyas cannot help you.”

The man had apparently touched a weak point of mine since I immediately felt judged. I hated, above all else, to be examined by strangers. Govinda had read a certain annoyance in my eyes:

“Come on, let’s hear what Sabibar proposes us to do,” she had whispered in my ear. Then turning to the man she asked:

“But do you know this place? I mean, have you been to Leh and the surrounding areas before?”

The man most likely had little desire to speak and limited himself by adding:

“I know him. We will discuss when it will be time to do so.”

We had walked to the small Homestay, a sort of guesthouse, whose owners made some rooms available to tourists. They were traditional places where you could share the life of the inhabitants. I was cold and unfortunately, not even the thick sweatshirt protected me sufficiently. I regretted not having considered that in those valleys, during the night even if it was summer, the temperature could drop below zero. The evening had passed quickly, it had darkened soon but Sabibar had not thought it was the right moment to speak and therefore he had remained silent as a fish.

“I preferred him when he told his nonsense”, I confessed to Govinda after dinner.

“What on earth is he waiting before telling us where to go looking for the old Sage? Moreover, why all these mysteries?”

Evidently the man knew of the discomfort he had created, his eyes had become dark and sometimes it seemed to me that a light of evil shone there. After the tea I had revealed to my friend the intention to speak with the owner of the house, but in response she had only advised me not to look for trouble.

“Let the night bring you advice, my friend. I do not think you can do much; much less find Sarabi Al-Surfa like this on the spot. Patience is a virtue of the wise!”

I had a strange dream that night: an immense snow leopard had chased me along a frozen river. I had been able to take refuge in a Chorten covered with a thick gold foil inside which herbal incense burned. The smoke was thick and the aroma penetrating, then the great Leopard had managed to enter but it had not hurt me. The animal had only spoken to me and I had understood its language!
I had woken up with my heart pounding. Next to me, lying on a mattress slept Govinda. I knew it was an omen: the Leopard is a feline. All this was certainly connected to the reason why I was in Leh. I thought about my cats, only God knows how badly I missed them, as much as they missed me too!
I was no longer able to go back to sleep, so I decided to get up as soon as the light would allow me to walk without the risk of stumbling; there was no electric light in that house.
At half past four in the morning, I was on the wooden terrace watching the awakening nature. With a start, I realized that I was not alone. Sabibar smiled at me as he waved in the direction of a ripple in the mountain.

“It’s up there that we have to go. However, perhaps with a little luck the Sage will still come to you. He does not always take the form of a snow leopard!”

Dazed, I was left with my mouth open without being able to say a word. I thought it was because of the height, we were at 3,500 meters above sea level.

“No, it is not the lack of oxygen, Madam. I can really read your thoughts, as well as I have other faculties that may seem rather strange to you. You do not have to fear me, I reminded you to leave the task of guiding to your heart. Love never fails, even if many times it makes us suffer. You must also learn to use the FINDERORIÉN and for this, Sarabi Al-Surfa is waiting for you. He looked for you in the dream, but you was afraid despite the leopard being a feline… a little bigger than your cats, it’s true.”

He continued to observe me while with his hands he traced strange signs in the air. Later, still sitting on the terrace with a blanket on my knees, I had patiently waited for Govinda to wake up. Sabbiar had certainly strolled on his own, without adding any more details to our brief morning interview.
That strange individual intrigued me more and more: even our innkeeper was very respectful to him and to me and all those salaams and bows, had started to annoy. And what, if he was some important person undercover? Maybe he was of royal lineage. On the other hand, maybe he was an incognito Maharajah.
Nevertheless, deep in my heart I knew that I should not fear anything from him. Life had taught me that many times, we meet a person who is very close to us for a few days, another accompanies us for months, and some others share our worries and joys for years. However, when the reason for their presence ends and the teaching we were supposed to receive was given, that person can leave us.
A bit like the awareness that every living being dies one day, and then be reborn in another body and therefore continue the Path that should lead him to true Happiness and Freedom.
Sabibar was a sort of tool that allowed me to know and learn something new and important for me.
I had admired the sunrise, while the sky was tinged with peach and cherry blossoms colours; very few clouds stained the horizon to the west, perhaps heralding the arrival of a storm brought by winds from the south of the highest mountains. Many birds chirped from the early dawn, festive trills and warbling that revealed the arrival of the sun to the world.

My gaze had escaped several times in the direction indicated by Sabibar: Sarabi Al-Surfa lived up there.
The mountain appeared barren and with little vegetation of low bushes but I could not see anything alike the landscape of the dream of the previous night. In the dream, it was winter and the mountains were covered with snow that shone in the light of the full moon while the river was frozen and it was terribly cold.

Cradled by the whining of birds and the lullaby of people who were praying somewhere in the building, I must have dozed off for a while. I awoke with a start feeling the hand of the innkeeper who was shaking my shoulder slightly; there was a big smile on his face as he persistently repeated in English to follow him. Several people had already gathered at the back of the building, including a monk dressed in his wine red and yellow vestments. They spoke softly, indicating a passage by the stream that meandered like a crystal blade through the emerald of some fields. After a couple of minutes, Govinda also arrived with long black hair loose on her shoulders, who looked a little worried on her face.

“The owner told me there are traces of a large leopard! He is joyful because this has not happened for several decades; he says he called that monk you see below: he is a kind of expert. In the monastery on the easternmost mountains where he comes from, four days’ walk from here, the monks receive a visit of these beautiful endangered animals every day. In fact, it is very strange that there is one here in Leh; he managed to find the trace of the path that the animal has made. Somehow, it crossed the small river and immediately came in the direction of the building. The tracks end right under the window of the room where we slept!”

Govinda’s gaze had become inquisitive:

“You obviously don’t know anything about it? Moreover, tell me a little bit, how long have you been out here getting the morning fresh air? I also searched for Sabibar but there is no trace of him. His bed is intact; he certainly has not spent the night here.”

Now I had felt seized by the usual discomfort in the mouth of my stomach. What was I supposed to answer my friend? I decided to tell the truth, but without going into details, I took it aside by gently pulling her by the arm.

“Listen Govinda, do not fret, I think Sabibar was out at night… in fact, I saw him this morning on the terrace where you first found me. I woke up shortly after four o’clock, you slept soundly, but later I was unable to go back to sleep. I had a strange dream: I had a vision in which I met a snow leopard… it was a specimen of exceptional size and was there for me! I thought he wanted to attack me and so, in the dream, I ran away going to take refuge in a stupa like there are many here. However, the Leopard joined me and then spoke to me in an authoritative voice.”

I looked sideways at my friend, initially convinced that she might have an irritated or annoyed reaction, and then I continued whispering:

“Unfortunately, I don’t remember what the animal had said to me but I understood its language. I woke up, a little disoriented, and when it was clear enough to see where I was putting my feet, I went to the terrace. There I saw Sabibar, he seemed amused and he knew about my dream… as if, well, as if he too had been in the dream! One thing is now certain: I have to follow the footprints of the big cat, Govinda. Could you please ask the monk to show me where the tracks lead? Something tells me that, beyond the small river and then down on the valley floor among the pines, they will go up to that point of the mountain,” I indicated the valley marked a few hours earlier by Sabibar.
“There I will find Sarabi-Al-Surfa, the old sage.”

The host had shown himself a little worried at my request to follow in the footsteps of the Leopard, but he seemed amused, I do not know if it was fear mixed with hilarity.

“Ma’am! What do you want to ask the big cat? Do you know its language?”

I answered his question with a shrug, a little irreverent, but very clear:

“Already already… and here everyone who cares about me. I know cats very well; I have a habit of sleeping together and listening to all their gossip… believe me, there is not much difference between a cat of 5 or 6 kilograms and that big big cat that wanders around here!”

Evidently, I was bluffing, and I only became aware of my wit when Govinda translated my sentence to the innkeeper and the monk into Hindi. They both touched their heads, where there is the fountain and the monk smiled talking to Govinda who then translated:

“He says that perhaps in a previous life your Mind was in a feline body. On the other hand, that perhaps you lived here, in their monastery, where the monks speak to the leopards. He still says that this is perhaps only the beginning of a new story.”

Govinda had then tried to add more details, but the monk appeared cheerful and had already ventured along the path followed by the Leopard.

“He says that now he will check where he went, and then when he has traced the path, he will return to instruct you on what to do… even if, well, I do not think it is a good idea to go to the mountain alone. You have a fixation on this cat story; do not forget that that animal weighs more than you do! I would like to know where Sabibar ended up, not even our host saw he… it is macabre, but have you thought about the possibility that the Leopard ate him?”

I had felt a shiver down my spine, for a moment my heart had missed a thud, I felt a sensation of ice around the head and then down to the tip of my feet.

“No, I do not think so. The Leopard had no fierce appearances. The animal had caught up with me in the dream and Sabibar had known this too. Something else is escaping me, Govinda. I have the distinct feeling that if I follow the tracks of the leopard up there in that valley, I will discover much more than I intend to discover! Even if I just wanted to get to know Sarabi-Al-Surfa to ask him for a story in exchange for the FINDERORIÉN.”

After a couple of hours the monk had retraced his steps, had joined us on the terrace of the wooden and stone building. The sun shone high at the zenith, while a fresh breeze moved the purple flowers of the Leycesteria with extreme sweetness, which decorated the wall less exposed to the cold north winds. His face was always friendly and smiling, he showed me an object he had found on the ground, he said, halfway down the slope that led to the valley. I took it with the hand that trembled a little:

“It is the Khanda of Sabibar! The tiara that stared at his turban… Was there only this? I mean… well… wasn’t there anything else around?”

The monk waited for Govinda to add some other details in Hindi by spelling the words to make himself better understood. Then Govinda translated the monk’s answer:

“No, nothing else. He reports that you should know, monks live here who also know how to fly! They are members of a sect, but this is not their symbol. However, it is a diadem of great value!”
He turned it over in his hands showing me the back of the effigy depicting the two scimitars and the dagger; the back was a large faceted and very bright red stone.

“Damn!” said Govinda “looks like an egg-sized ruby!”

I looked more carefully at the tiara turning it between my fingers. There was something else: an engraving was visible representing none other than the FINDERORIÉN. The object I had received, as a gift, from the boy in the Thief’s Market in Delhi.

“It’s amazing, look,” I said, taking the object out of the bag “portrays precisely this FINDERORIÉN. What will it mean? Why behind Sabibar’s diadem?”

The monk had remained as petrified, observed the FINDERORIÉN and the Khanda that I held in my hands, then he had touched the top of his head again and had begun to recite a strange mantra. I did not recognize the words although the melody had a familiar twist. I looked sideways at the man, trying to sense what was happening. I did not want to interrupt his prayer because I was convinced it bode well for tomorrow’s adventure.

The following morning, after a hearty breakfast, Govinda reluctantly saw me leave. I had taken a minimal supply of food for the emergency and if I had to spend one night in the open air, the innkeeper had given me a sleeping bag. To protect me from the cold when the temperature would drop further, he had given me as well a heavy jacket of goose feathers. At that time of the year, it could happen that during the night the cold wind also brought some snowflakes.

The monk had walked quickly, making the tightrope walker along an invisible thread that allowed him to find flat pebbles above the surface of the water. Beyond the stream, which I too had crossed easily and fortunately without ever putting my foot in the wrong, I found myself walking on very green moss and covered with tiny white flowers. Large bushes of pink hydrangeas and thick tufts of blue poppy decorated the landscape here and there. Small cedars and pines imposed their presence reminding me of the Alps of my little Switzerland.

“Wait a minute, please!” I had shouted in a hoarse voice, “at this rate, I won’t reach the goal, if I don’t take a little breath.”

The good man, he had appeared to me as a reddish and yellow stain as he disappeared behind the bark of the pine grove. However, he had stopped a little further, sitting quietly waiting for me on a large boulder. At that height, I had difficulty breathing: the air contained little oxygen and you had to get used to taking things with greater peace of mind. Every movement seemed impossible to do, even just lifting one foot off the ground seemed like a difficult undertaking.

‘How much I would like to be more agile and fit! I hope to be able to continue alone, I bet that the monk will not be very inclined to the idea of ​​being a mountain guide among those cliffs and stony ground.’
Thoughts buzzed in my head without giving me respite; the visions of the snow leopard, ever clearer and more involving, returned to torture me. I was convinced that the animal was the key to the mystery; deep inside I imagined how soft his hair would be and I dreamed of stroking it. The thought of my cats, staying home with my husband, had stabbed my heart.

‘Damn how much I miss them! Who knows if everyone will sleep on our bed.’

I arrived a couple of meters from the monk when he got back on his feet:

“Well, let’s separate, Madam.”

“You thought!” the idea made me angry and I answered a little annoyed: “Ahh, and I thought that your generosity would urge you to accompany me to see the Wise!”

The monk smiled as his eyes got even smaller, he replied in very elementary English:

“I cannot. Already had my Story as a gift from Sarabi Al-Surfa, Madam. This is why I am now a monk. Before I had a family, I was a wool merchant and I had a good life. His story has shown the way to true happiness.”

I was left with my mouth ajar, confused and embarrassed. Suddenly I did not even want to know other details; curiosity had died out in my heart as a bucket of frozen water can put out a camping fire. I felt my head aching, even if I was convinced it was the lack of oxygen, I knew that my boldness was turning into worry… in reverence… maybe even in fear. What would the History of the Old Wise teach me? What, if I also wanted to change my life? At that point, of the journey, of that path in search of Truth, I could not go back. I was sure that at the end of the search I would be satisfied and happy!

“Okay, well, thank you then. It was kind of leading me this far, now I allow my heart to show me the way. I have done it many times in my life; it is not that difficult, I know. I just have to trust myself and use love!”

I turned around a couple of times, to check if the monk had stayed there perhaps thinking that at the first obstacle I could have ruined to the ground and maybe fractured my leg, but he had immediately retraced his steps and without even turning around. He was certain in his heart, having already reached his destination, his goal.

I had tried to intensify every bodily perception; now I felt more clearly the underlying ground on which I rested my feet, I carefully checked each small stone for its stability. About halfway from the valley, it was there waiting for me, a whitish and speckled spot stretched out on a spike of rock. Its long tail, as big as my arm, appeared darker towards the tip where the spots were concentric and black. A majestic specimen of Snow Leopard with a proud look, its ears pricked over his head showed interest in the human who was about to enter its kingdom.
I had perceived every muscle in the body tensing; the sense of smell had become more subtle while, almost without realizing it, my legs had assumed such agility as to allow me to jump easily from one rock to another. The presence of the big cat about ten meters away did not intimidate me. I tried to speak but the words remained unspoken thoughts, so I just thought.

‘Here I am. You called me and I ran, as agreed by fate… by destiny! What have you, O majestic Creature, to bring me as a message? You appeared to me in the dream and I followed you.’

I did not have to wait long to receive a nod from the big cat: he had risen on all fours, and with an agile leap, he had approached. I had stopped, respectfully. My gaze had landed in reverence; the animal had approached and with its muzzle in the air, smelled to understand who was in front of it. A faint and hoarse mew had confirmed his approval: he had come closer to being less than a meter away from my body. I then crouched down, holding my hands forward with my palms facing upwards in a sort of gesture of submission. The great snow leopard had come up to touch my hands then it had also crouched on his hind legs and was watching me. His yellow eyes with a slightly dilated pupil due to the intensity of the light, shone with a sweet and at the same time proud awareness.

‘Welcome foreigner, my name is Siramian. I have been waiting for you for a long time, your path has been perilous and difficult over the years, but it will be even more so in the future. I know that you are looking for your story, which can make you decide to change your life forever or… it can confirm what you will do in the awareness of the reason why you live. Follow me, please.’

Its words, nothing else, were thoughts expressed by my conscience; they had opened me to the Truth: I could already communicate in that mysterious language. It was the same language used by my cats, after all, I had always known it, and I had always used it! Only now, I was aware of it.
I had stretched my right hand up to touch the head of the big cat; he had turned his head slightly towards me, narrowing his eyes. Therefore, I gently stroked it down the neck and down the back, just as if I did with my cats. Then Siramian had continued to communicate in thought.

‘You must always trust what you do. Within every human being, there is a great potential, few realize it, very few find their FINDERORIÉN but only a negligible percentage listens to the words of the heart that should lead them to discover the reason for their life. The knowledge of countless existences is stored inside every human being, you have all discovered the Magic several times and you should be able to use it… This is what Sarabi Al-Surfa wants you to know, since your story is already written and he knows that you can follow your path in peace. Your cat friends, who are so similar and dear to me, are already helping you understand!”

I had carefully received Siramian’s revelations, staring him straight in the eye, trying to understand if its message concealed a new mystery.

‘I think I can trust what I do…’ I said mentally. ‘Will you take me to Sarabi Al-Surfa? I have a gift for him!’

Without adding anything else, the big cat had risen and retraced its steps; a couple of times he stopped to check if I could follow him without problems. The Snow Leopard chose a path that was easily accessible to me. Every now and then, he stopped to wait for me or to give me the opportunity to drink some tea from my bottle.

The sun had for some time gone beyond the zenith when we finally reached a clearing among the rocks with a few brushwood and some bergenia with pale flowers that gave the only touch of color. In the background against the blue sky, the Chorten that I had seen in my dream stood out. I had stopped, assailed by a strong doubt: did I really want to know my story? On the other hand, was it simply the curiosity to see the old Sage personally? Perhaps fear had taken hold of my thought, while these words still rang in my head like a threatening omen.

‘Well? Have we lost our determination? You do not have to fear, let Love guide your steps.’

The Leopard had walked towards the Chorten, covered with a thick solid gold foil, which shone in the sunset light. I realized that the night would soon come and that there was no time to return to the hostel. I had no choice. I had to follow Siramian.

Inside the Chorten, I found myself surrounded by a soft light emanating from several candles while an intense scent of incense had rekindled in me ancient memories. When the gaze had grown accustomed to the twilight, my eyes scanned the interior of that place of prayer. I was not immediately able to see the dark shape crouched in a corner: however, I sensed the eyes of the old Sage who were peering at me.

“Welcome, finally! I have been waiting for you for many moons.”

The voice was melodious and a little trembling; the great snow leopard had approached me and now I felt its breath on my right hand. Instinctively I stroked it on the head and it immediately began to purr.

“I am delighted to see that you made friends with Siramian, the big cat… but in the end it is only a little bigger than the many cats with which you share everyday life! The cat has been worshiped for over 5,000 years; the Egyptians believed it to be sacred and the goddess Bastet, protector of humanity, was depicted with a cat’s head. However, you already know this, don’t you? You came here for another reason… you want to hear your story!”

At the same time I had perceived a gust of cold wind coming from the opening behind me and the snow leopard had slightly gritted its teeth turning towards the entrance. Something or someone had penetrated inside: the presence had become noticeable, I sensed that it was coming in my direction.
“Do not worry, it is Time! I need Him to be able to tell you your story… but tell me, will you be willing to fulfil our desire?”

The old sage’s voice was serious and determined. The presence had become certain, I could hear the rustle of Time echoing in the semi darkness while the Snow Leopard had crouched at my side again and the old man had approached us. Sitting on a sort of stool, which I had not initially noticed; Sarabi Al-Surfa had stretched out his gaunt hands towards me.

“Well, now let us see what you brought me! I learned from Siramian that it is very beautiful, one of a kind! I am curious to see it and I thank you for this delicate thought!”

With a slightly trembling voice, I replied to the Sage, offering the gift:

“I think it has a great virtue, my husband and I called it FINDERORIÉN but I know for sure that it has many names. My dad, many years ago, told me that all people should have one: to remember… and not to forget. I know there is a symbolic meaning in this, since magic is linked to the object and to our cats. Is this perhaps the meaning of MY Story? Is there something I must always remember and do, and our cats will help me do it?”

Sarabi Al-Surfa had narrowed his eyes, stroked the object and started humming a lullaby. The air had become fresh and I sensed the presence of Time around me. Finally, the old Sage had begun to tell a long story, a very long story. My Story!

In a place difficult to reach by land, I had known an old sage and a large snow leopard, which changed my life.

Sarabi Al-Surfa had asked me to tell the world the story you are reading now, since he wished that more and more children could find their FINDERORIÉN and therefore finally bring peace to this beautiful Planet Earth. Using the eyes of the heart and letting yourself be guided by Love, you too can find your FINDERORIÉN and erase all traces of evil and pain from the world!

Later, when you are ready, you can go to the old Sage of the Mountain yourself: he is waiting for you!

Presentation of the workshop CBI (Character Based Improvisation) ¦ Robert Marchand

Ciack

Since always, I was interested in how to put into “action” the stories I write… short movie? TV series?
A couple year ago, with TFL Torino Film Lab, I had my first experience with the “scriptwriting” and all the nuances of misinterpretation of the plot aimed by the “creator of the story”.
As a writer, you may have some specific ideas how the characters of your story interact, you describe scenes and happenings in a vivid way, with great care of the details…
But at the moment of elaborating the story into a script for a movie, actually, everything may happen. From the better to the worst of the nightmares.
And this was the case: a disgusting experience with a young screenwriter too full of herself with bumpy ideas and without any consideration and respect of my will.
I dropped the deal, in the due time of the contract signed for a year.
I soon enough realized that, if I wanted the job done professionally and with an experienced scriptwriter, I should put on the table between 20.000.- / 25.000.- euros.
Alright, this is not on my schedule, since I like to use the small royalties I receive, to help shelters for animals or kids in need.
So I started looking around trying to get into this specific work of transmuting a book into a script.
And to do it in the best way, you need to learn quite a few important things about how a film director works, which type of way they use to get into action the actors and so on.
Thanks to Maria, I was able to attend the presentation of  R.Marchand Workshop, taking several notes… and start getting some clearer ideas about this huge world totally different from putting your feelings on a paper trying to capture the attention of your reader and make them dream!
I know it will take me a long time, I’m very patient… and will take small steps at a time.

 

Robert_Marchand_CBI

 

Sono da sempre interessata a come mettere in “azione” le storie che scrivo… Fare un film, un cortometraggio? Una serie TV?
Un paio di anni fa, con la TFL Torino Film Lab, ho avuto la mia prima esperienza con la “sceneggiatura” e con essa, ogni possibile sfumatura di erronea interpretazione della trama voluta dall’autore.
In qualità di scrittore, puoi avere idee specifiche su come interagiscono i personaggi della tua storia, puoi descrivere scene e avvenimenti in modo vivido, ponendo grande cura ai dettagli…
Ma al momento di elaborare la storia in una sceneggiatura per un film, in realtà tutto può accadere. Dal bene, al peggiore degli incubi.
E ques’ultimo è stato il caso: una disgustosa esperienza con una giovane sceneggiatrice troppo piena di sé e con idee sballate e senza alcuna considerazione e rispetto della mia volontà.
Sono quindi uscita dal contratto firmato, alla conclusione dell’anno d’impegno.
Presto ho capito che, se desidero un lavoro eseguito in modo professionale e con uno sceneggiatore esperto, avrei dovuto mettere sul tavolo tra 20.000 e 25.000 euro.
Sfortunatamente, questo non è nel mio programma, poiché mi piace usare le poche royalties che ricevo, per aiutare i rifugi per animali o bambini in difficoltà.
Così ho iniziato a guardarmi intorno cercando di entrare in questo mondo sconosciuto, con la specifica idea di imparare a trasmutare i miei libri in sceneggiature.
E per farlo nel modo migliore, bisogna imparare alcune cose importanti su come funziona il lavoro di un regista, quale modo egli utilizzare per pianificare ecc.
Grazie a Maria ho potuto assistere alla presentazione del Workshop di R.Marchand, prendendo varie note… per iniziare a chiarirmi le idee su questo enorme mondo completamente diverso da quello di mettere le tue idee su un foglio di carta, cercando di catturare l’attenzione del tuo lettore e per poi farlo sognare!
So che mi ci vorrà molto tempo, ma sono indulgente con me stessa!

Los devoradores de Mazapán * Mario Chavarría Gonzáles

Los_Devoradores_de_marzapan

Los devoradores de mazapán  *  Mario Chavarría Gonzáles

(con le illustrazioni di Ruth Angulo) Carvajal Educación S.A.                              Literatura infanttil – Novela Guatemalteca
Editorial Norma – Ciudad de Guatemala , agosto 2013
ISBN 978-9929-42-031-1

 

 

I was myself immersed together with Ximena in the bowels and labyrinths of the old Capital of Guatemala: La Antigua, in search of the “Book of Answers”.

I found a delicate, and gentle reading, though I had to emphasize (and then look for) many words that, since I am not Catalan mother tongue, allowed me to increase my vocabulary. The style used by the author Mario Chavarría González is particular: a mixture of real facts with other imaginative and again others that leave you with so many questions. The choice of the name for the young protagonist, Ximena, whose Jewish meaning is “the one who listens to voices”, makes it clear from the beginning of the narrative that the keys for the reading of the novel can be multiple. The story setting is in Guatemala, the year 1954, which reports to real chronicle. It was the period of the Cold War where the US had its own commercial interests to protect and each pretending shadow or threat of “communist-wire” was to be overthrown… Even though the US considered Guatemala “the Banana’s Republic where their financial interests were huge! This is the period of pressure of the FAN (National Anti-Communist Front), during which many intellectuals but also simple academics, were forced to flee the country to avoid persecution under banal pretexts. The narrative plot thus appears related to facts that have actually happened or are likely to be possible; and the subject firmly holds the reader on the thread of doubt, up to the last page. After her husband’s escape from Guatemala City, Ángela with her daughter Ximena reaches her father Don Jesús in the great house at La Antigua, the old capital of Guatemala. The grandfather, nicknamed by Ximena Tata Chuz, shares with her young granddaughter the great passion for literature. In the enormous “jaulón” (whose translation was problematic), the girl, not by chance, begins to discover some secrets that she will share with Fermín and Mariana, two young friends met during her stay. However, between the pages of Jules Verne and Emilio Salgari, in the library of Grandfather Tata Chuz, are hiding mysterious attendees that initially frighten the young Ximena. Anchored to the ancient Mayan legends, there are the “Duendes chapín” (or Guatemalan follies), the “Aluxes” that protect the countryside and the crops (milpas). Doña Jacinta, a servant at Don Jesús, seems to be very knowledgeable but as well not willing to reveal the truth to Ximena… and not by chance, she was preparing the honey jars just to “stay friends” with these strange appearances in the jaulón! However, Zair, Zaqueo, and Alux, during the night disturbed Ximena’s sleep by rubbing her marzipan sweets. The story continues with the tricks that force young Ximena to make decisions that will also involve Tata Chuz, her grandfather and thus, discover other unpleasant and well-kept mysteries.

The author’s narrative power transports us into the magical world of childhood dreams where every conceivable conjecture takes over, moving us into a parallel world of shared paradigms where the purity of the young soul who is not yet corrupted by the “system” above, allows us to identify ourselves in symbolic, healthy and usable values. I shall confess that I loved the tales of Jules Verne and Emilio Salgari: in the 1960s and 70s, they opened me to wonderful worlds as for their authors, using only the strength of the imagination. Strength I found in the tale of “Los devoradores de mazapán”, a lovely novel to share with kids but as well with adults still young in their soul!

 

…oOo…

Mi sono immersa con Ximena nelle viscere e labirinti della vecchia capitale del Guatemala La Antigua, alla ricerca del “Libro delle Risposte”.
Ho scoperto un acconto delicato, di lettura amena, anche se ho dovuto sottolineare (e poi cercare) tante parole che, non essendo di lingua madre catalana, mi hanno permesso d’accrescere il mio vocabolario.
Lo stile utilizzato dall’autore Mario Chavarría González è particolare: una mescolanza di fatti reali ad altri fantasiosi e altri ancora che ti lasciano con tanti interrogativi.
La scelta del nome per la giovane protagonista, Ximena il cui significato ebraico è “quella che ascolta le voci”, lascia intendere fin dall’inizio della narrazione che le chiavi di lettura del romanzo possono essere molteplici.
L’ambientazione nella Guatemala del 1954, riporta a fatti di cronaca reali. Era il periodo della Guerra Fredda dove gli USA avevano i propri interessi commerciali da protegger e ogni pretesta ombra o minaccia “filo-comunista” doveva essere debellata… Seppure gli USA consideravano il Guatemala in modo spregiativo la “Repubblica delle Banane”, lì i loro interessi finanziari erano ingenti!
Questo è il periodo di pressione del FAN (Fronte Anticomunista Nazionale)), durante il quale molti intellettuali ma anche semplici accademici, erano stati obbligati a fuggire dal paese per evitare persecuzioni sotto banali pretesti.
La trama narrativa appare quindi essere legata a fatti realmente accaduti o quantomeno verosimilmente possibili; e l’argomento trattiene saldamente il lettore sul filo del dubbio, fino all’ultima pagina.
A seguito della fuga del marito da Guatemala City, Ángela con la figlia Ximena, raggiungo il nonno materno Don Jesús nella grande casa a La Antinua, la vecchia capitale del Guatemala.
Il nonno, sopranominato da Ximena Tata Chuz, condivide con la giovane nipote la grande passione per la letteratura. Nell’enorme “jaulón” (la cui traduzione mi è stata probematica), la ragazza, non proprio per casualità, inizia a scoprire alcuni segreti che condividerà con Fermín e Mariana, due giovani amici incontrati durante il suo soggiorno.
Ma tra le pagine di Jules Verne ed Emilio Salgari, nella biblioteca del nonno Tata Chuz, si nascondono misteriose presenze che inizialmente spaventano la giovavne Ximena.
Ancorate alle antiche leggende maya, riprendono vita i “Duendes chapín” (folletti guatemaltechi), gli “Aluxes” che proteggono la campagna ed i raccolti (milpas)… e doña Jacinta, una serva a servizio di Don Jesús, sembra essere molto ben informata ma molto restia a svelare la verità a Ximena… e non a caso lei stessa preparava dei vasetti di miele proprio per “tenersi amici” queste strane presenze del jaulón!
Ma Zair, Zaqueo e Alux durante la notte, disturbavano il sonno di Ximena rubandole i dolcetti di marzapane. La storia continua tra traversie che obbligano la giovane Ximena a prendere delle decisioni che coinvolgeranno anche Tata Chuz, suo nonno e così scoprire altri misteri sgradevoli.

La forza narrativa dell’autore ci trasporta nel mondo magico dei sogni d’infanzia dove ogni possibile congettura prende il sopravento, trasportandoci in un mondo parallelo fatto di paradigmi condivisibili laddove purezza d’animo del giovane non ancora corrotto dal “sistema” sovrastante, ci permette di identificarci in valori simbolici sani e fruibili.
Premetto che ho amato i racconti di Jules Verne e di Emilio Salgari: negli anni 60 e 70 mi hanno aperto a mondi stupendi, come per i loro autori, utilizzando unicamente la forza dell’immaginazione. Forza che ho ritrovato nel racconto di “Los devoradores de mazapán”, un romanzo davvero bello da condividere con i giovani ma anche con gli adulti ancora giovani nel loro spirito!

On sale in Ascona… * in vendita ad Ascona…

La prossima domenica 9 aprile, in occasione degli Eventi Letterari Monte Verità, il mio ultimo romanzo Il Segreto degli Annwyn (in lingua italiana e inglese) sarà in vendita sul Lungolago di Ascona.

Un’occasione da non perdere per chi desidera acquistare una copia autografata!

The next Sunday, April 9, at the Literary Events Monte Verità, my latest novel The Annwyn’s Secret (in Italian and English) will be on sale on the lake shore of Ascona.

An opportunity not to be missed for those who want to buy an autographed copy!

Nicholas Rossis Novels: Schism – Rise of the Prince – Mad Water – Vigil – (End Game)

n-c-rossis

More than the saga of Benioff and Weiss The Game of Thrones, “PAERSEUS” by Nicholas C. Rossis reminds me of an epic story where the reader is transported into a sacred narrative, built by cosmological events and where archetypes and symbols garble the reader.
A myth, in short, that could also be the vision of the Homeric hero Odysseus, so to speak.
In the four books “Schism – Rise of the prince – Mad water – Vigil”, we don’t find a schematic or simplified events and social phenomena, but rather a detailed sequence of events that affect  in a determinant way not only the practical behavior but also the ideological one’s of the characters.
Perhaps the author has taken pieces of history of ancient Greece, reformulated in a modern way, assembled with ingenuity and futuristic traits.

As a result of a failure on the ship Paerseus, passengers find themselves catapulted (in the true sense of the word) above the surface of an alien and alienating planet.
The survivors of the disaster are few, and what little remains of the cutting-edge technology on board the Paerseus, can only be used in part.
As time passes, the survivors are divided, and new deities to which devote the judgment of good and evil, takes allegorical form.
It striking emerges the truth that the human being, even far from his home planet, carries with him the most terrible DNA components: the thirst for power and the research of the absolute hegemony.
And here, the function of the inconsistent presences such as “Orbs” and “Whispers”, seem likely to affect the evolution of the descendants of the survivors. Or even, they are the cause of the accident itself occurred to the starship Paerseus.
The facts are not taking place in a futuristic dystopian environment on Earth, but on another planet on which the human race has restarted a new life…

The myth as we conceived it today, is mixed with fantastic unreal and from the author’s creativity come alive beings who behave in a very similar way to the people who, over the centuries, have dominated our planet Earth.
A sort of historic déjà-vu, which can also generate a bit of confusion in the reader, when you consider the amount of protagonists, antagonists, helpers and opponents divided into various groups.

A saga of pleasant reading, very compelling, which requires a particular concentration (perhaps in my case because I’m not native English speaker). Now I look forward to read the last book: End Game…

Buy on Amazon

 

Più che la saga di Benioff e Weiss Il Trono di spade, “PAERSEUS” di Nicholas C. Rossis mi ricorda una storia epica dove il lettore è trasportato in una narrazione sacra, costruita da avvenimenti cosmogonici e dove archetipi e simboli travisano il lettore.
Un mito, insomma, che potrebbe anche essere la visione dell’eroe Omerico Ulisse, per intenderci.
Nei quattro libri “Schism – Rise of the prince – Mad water – Vigil”, non ritroviamo una rappresentazione schematica o semplificata di eventi e fenomeni sociali, bensì una sequenza dettagliata di avvenimenti che influiscono in modo determinante non solo il comportamento pratico ma anche quello ideologico dei personaggi.
Forse l’autore ha ripreso spezzoni di storia dell’antica Grecia, riformulati in chiave moderna, assemblati con ingegno e dai tratti futuristici.

A seguito di un guasto sull’astronave Paerseus, i passeggeri si ritrovano catapultati (nel vero senso della parola) sopra la superficie di un pianeta alieno e alienante.
I superstiti alla sciagura sono pochi, e quel poco che resta della tecnologia d’avanguardia a bordo del Paerseus, non può che essere utilizzato in parte.
Col trascorrere del tempo, i sopravvissuti si dividono, e nuove deità alle quali dedicare il giudizio del bene e del male, prendono forma allegorica.
Emerge frappante la verità che l’essere umano, anche lontano dal suo pianeta d’origine, porta nel DNA le componenti più terribili: la sete di potere e la ricerca dell’egemonia assoluta.
E qui, la funzione delle presenze inconsistenti quali gli “Orbs” e “Whispers”, sembrano influire in modo determinate sull’evolvere dei discendenti dei sopravvissuti. O addirittura, sono la causa stessa dell’incidente occorso all’astronave Paerseus.
I fatti non si svolgono in un ambiente distopico futuristico terrestre, bensì su di un altro pianeta sul quale il genere umano ha riavviato una nuova esistenza…

Il mito come da noi oggi concepito, si mescola al fantastico irreale e dalla creatività dell’autore prendono vita esseri che si comportano in modo molto simile ai popoli che, nei secoli, hanno dominato sul nostro pianeta.
Una sorte di déjà-vu storico, che nella lettura può generare anche un po’ di confusione, se si considera la quantità di protagonisti, antagonisti, aiutanti e oppositori suddivisi in vari gruppi.

Una saga di piacevole lettura, molto trascinante, ma che richiede una particolare concentrazione (forse nel mio caso poiché non sono di madre lingua inglese). Ora attendo di poter leggere il proseguo: End Game

Per l’acquisto su Amazon

 

 

20 Questions with Claudine Giovannoni

Claudine, interviewed by Don Massenzio

Author Don Massenzio

Today we sit down with author Claudine Giovannoni.  She is going to tell us about her inspiration and work.

Please enjoy this edition of 20 Questions:


claudine-giovannoniQ1) When did you first realize you wanted to be a writer?

I loved to intrigue people with my stories since I was able to speak… I always kept a diary and when I started flying around for work, I used to write down many things from my feeling, the countries I visited, the people I met, about their habits… albeit some funny and some sad stories.

Q2) How long does it typically take you to write a book?

A couple of years. I am never in a hurry, and the ideas have to first ripen… priorities are my kids and family, my cats… I am morally involved protecting fauna and flora (my husband is the World Wildlife Foundation – WWF president in southern…

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Tito Bassi: El estuario de la memoria

El_Estuario_de_la_memoria

El estuario de la memoria

di Tito Bassi
Editorial Vitela Seviglia – España
ISBN:   978-84-944659-0-1
prezzo  30.-  €

here you may order * aquí se puede ordenar

Bajo el luminoso título de El estuario de la memoria Tito Bassi publica sus recuerdos, los de un hombre de acción que supo hacerse a sí mismo, que descendió de las nevadas cumbres de los Alpes a la indómita selva guatemalteca, que habló italiano y alemán, pero acabó escribiendo en la lengua castellana, como nacido en Coactemalan, y que pese a percances, desacirtos u obstáculos, no abandona una cálida y gozosa mirada sobre el tiempo que ha vivido.

(Jaime Galbarro García)

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Il 3 ottobre 2016, ha avuto luogo la presentazione di questo nuovo romanzo di Tito Bassi, a cura di Manuel Merinero Villagrasa a Sevilla presso il “Circulo Mercantil e Industrial de Sevilla”. Estratto della presenzazione sul blog Editorial Vitela.

titomanuel
L’autore Tito Bassi con il prof. Manuel Merinero Villagrasa a La Antingua – Guatemala.

Books are pieces of dreams… I libri sono frammenti di sogni

Copertine_romanzi

Inside my novels, there is a common dream aiming to change the world for a better place for humankind… You will find appealing descriptions of places far away, you may travel with the characters on airplanes and sailboats, you will plunge into unrevealed mysteries and you will feel the shiver realizing that most of it are realities behind a closed door.
The last book “The Annwyn’s Secret” is available in English on Amazon.com, for the other books you can order them (Italian versions) directly here.

…oOo…

Tra le pagine dei miei libri, c’è un sogno comune di cambiare il mondo facendolo diventare posto migliore per l’umanità… Nei romanzi, troverete accattivanti descrizioni di luoghi lontani, viaggerete seguendo i personaggi su aerei e barche a vela, vi immergerete in misteri non rivelati e percepirete un brivido realizzando che la maggior parte di quanto scrivo sono realtà dietro una porta chiusa.
L’ultimo romanzo “Il Segreto degli Annwyn” è ora disponibile in inglese su Amazon.com, gli altri libri(versione italiana) puossono essere ordinati direttamente qui.

IBRIDO (romanzo urban fantasy edito da GDS)

cover_Ibrido

Titolo: Ibrido
Autore: Isa Thid
Casa Editrice: editrice GDS
Genere: urban fantasy
Numero pagine: Lunghezza stampa 191
Prezzo ebook: 2,99€
Link d’acquisto ebook: amazon (.mobi)ultima books (.epub)

Contatti: Facebook (Isa Thid) – Twitter (@isatgreen) – Blog (Maledetta Tastiera)

Un paio d’anni fa avevo letto con piacere la prima stesura del romanzo dell’amica Elisa (alias Isa Thid)… con molto piacere condivido qui la notizia della pubblicazione ebook!
Questo è un tuffo in un ambiente fiabesco, ma al contempo reale, nel parallelo delle dimensioni multiple nelle quali viviamo… mi è molto piaciuto, seppure crudele, un must per gli amanti di questo stile letterario molto particolare.
***
A couple of years ago with pleasure I read the first draft of the novel of my friend Elisa (aka Isa thid)… with pleasure I share here the news of the ebook publishing!
This is a dive into a fairytale environment, but at the same time a real one, in parallel to the multiple dimensions in which we live… I really liked, even if somehow cruel, a must for lovers of this very unique literary style. (Italian version only)

philomela997

Oggi è uscito per GDS un mio romanzo in formato ebook. Si chiama Ibrido, è un urban fantasy un po’ scuro (si capiva già dalla copertina, probabilmente…) ambientato a Torino. Il Mondo Sp…

Sorgente: IBRIDO (romanzo urban fantasy edito da GDS)

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Recensione di Marianna Altamura

Premessa di   M. Altamura
Il blog di Claudine Giovannoni è stato curiosamente il primo che  ho cominciato a seguire subito dopo aver aperto l’account su WordPress, qualche anno fa. Un incontro casuale. O for se no. A parte la questione del multilingua, che mi aveva attirata in un primo momento, nel suo blog ho riscontrato una grande sensibilità nel trattare alcuni temi a me cari: il viaggio, la letteratura, la musica e la natura. Dopo aver seguito virtualmente la presentazione del suo ultimo libro (non il primo) e dopo averci girato attorno per un po’, mi sono decisa a contattare l’autrice per poter acquistare una copia. Oltre alla questione dell’unicità del libro, sicuramente oggetto di attrazione per gli amanti dei libri (infatti, non è possibile acquistarlo nelle librerie, a meno che non ci si trovi in Svizzera), mi avevano incuriosito i temi che mi era sembrato di individuare: la mitologia, il viaggio e, il più importante, la natura. L’aspettativa era quella di ritrovare nel libro la raffinata sensibilità dell’autrice che avevo scorto fra gli articoli del blog; la lettura ha confermato la suddetta aspettativa ed è con piacere che ho deciso di dare il mio contributo di lettrice e presentare il suo libro in questo piccolo spazio. Quella che segue è l’interpretazione di una lettrice. Ringrazio Claudine per la gentilezza, per gli spunti (tanti) e per le emozioni che ha messo nel suo libro.

 

Aconteceu aqui, mas poderia ter sido em outra parte do mundo.
Ou talvez não. Talvez os acontecimentos estejam em fila,
ordenados, justos, esperando para colidir com as pessoas,
e as pessoas, iludidas, pensem que a colisão além de natural é aleatória.

 

È successo qui, ma sarebbe potuto succedere in un’altra parte del mondo.
O forse no. Chissà che gli eventi non stiano tutti in fila, in ordine,
aspettando giusto di entrare in collisione con gli individui
e quest’ultimi, illudendosi, pensano che tale collisione sia tanto naturale quanto casuale.
Ondjaki, E se Amanha o Medo.

 

Il 2022, una data molto vicina al lettore del 2016, è stato colpito da un terribile cataclisma ambientale che ha decimato gravemente la popolazione mondiale. I superstiti sono stati costretti a spostarsi nelle poche zone della terra ancora vivibili e si sono dovuti adattati a strette misure di sicurezza, al fine di poter rispondere adeguatamente a frequenti situazioni di emergenza.
copertina_finaleIl Segreto degli Annwyn, ambientato nel XXIII secolo, presenta al lettore un tempo probabilmente diverso da quello che ci si potrebbe immaginare nella meno negativa delle ipotesi. Forse deluderà le aspettative, d’altronde nello stesso modo in cui il XXI secolo deve aver deluso le aspettative delle generazioni precedenti, ma metterà il lettore davanti ad una cruda realtà: la distruzione della natura, un processo già in atto da molto tempo. Nel XXIII secolo molte cose sono cambiate e la tecnologia ha raggiunto livelli esorbitanti. Tuttavia, per molti altri aspetti l’umanità ha compiuto molti passi indietro: la natura ha subito danni irreversibili e molte specie viventi si sono estinte. Durante tutta la lettura del romanzo aleggia la macabra minaccia del disastro ambientale ed impera il monito del dover agire, subito, per cercare di arginare il cataclisma ormai prossimo; purtroppo non si tratta di finzione né di fantascienza.
Notevoli cambiamenti sono stati fatti in merito alla sfera politica e finanziaria del globo e il Potere Unificato è emerso come una sorta di partito unico (che mi ha ricordato i tratti del Grande Fratello di George Orwell), il quale si avvale del servizio per la sicurezza svolto dal corpo della Squadra Sperimentale. Se da una parte il Potere Unificato si è distinto per aver preso le redini del mondo in un momento di devastante confusione, dall’altra parte le sue decisioni hanno leso le basi della libertà dei suoi cittadini.

Le vicende del romanzo sembrano svolgersi seguendo cerchi concentrici, su cui si collocano molteplici personaggi e azioni parallele; essendo il centro occupato da un nucleo di tre protagonisti: il punto di partenza è ad Ascona, in Svizzera, dove vi sono Chrisa, suo fratello Joshua e il loro fedele amico irlandese Marius, il quale sembra aver sempre vissuto per mare e che, solo in un secondo momento, rivelerà la sua natura mitologica.
Fra Chrysa e Joshua, entrambi ventenni, c’è un amore incondizionato familiare condito con quell’ingrediente che solo fratelli e sorelle conoscono, un rapporto complice e perennamente puerile, ombreggiato però dalla morte prematura di entrambi i genitori, avvenuta pochi anni prima degli eventi qui narrati in circostanze oscure e mai chiarite.
Chrisa e Joshua, rimasti orfani, hanno deciso di vivere sulla barca di famiglia che la defunta madre aveva chiamato Avalon Mist, rievocando l’isola avvolta nella nebbi su cui re Artù fu trascinato dopo essere stato ferito in battaglia e dove, secondo alcune leggende, era stata fabbricata la sua spada.
Le vicende narrate nel libro si svolgono per mare, per terra e per aria, richiamando le parole che Claudine Giovannoni usa per presentarsi ai lettori:

«Avendo girato il mondo di terra, di mare e d’aria sempre alla ricerca di nuove emozioni e per conoscere nuove culture, mi piace definirmi “Una Cittadina del Mondo”».

Chrisa, sebbene nata da genitori mortali come suo fratello genetico, è un’Annwyn, ovvero fa parte di un gruppo di individui che l’autrice presenta con le seguenti parole:

«Questi “sognatori”, comunemente chiamati Annwyn, sono provvisti della stessa struttura molecolare umana nella finalità di proteggersi camuffando la loro presenza tra di noi, ma il potere della loro mente è incommensurabile.
Gli Annwyn iniziarono a giungere in gra numero sul pianeta Terra attorno alla fine del secondo millennio. Dapprima, a decorrere dal 1970, furono trattati come casi anomali […] Solo in un secondo momento, grazie alla scoperta di codici antichissimi si comprese il vero motivo della loro presenza sul pianeta: aiutare gli esseri umani a progredire spiritualmente e quindi salvarsi dall’imminente cataclisma planetario, predetto fin dall’antichità».

IMG_4204[1]Dunque, gli Annwyn sono dei sognatori che riescono ad andare oltre la realtà delle cose; essi sono in grado di viaggiare fuori dall’involucro corporeo in una dimensione metafisica nella fase di Rapid Eye Movement del loro sonno. Nella mitologia gallese Annwyn era il nome dato al regno dell’oltretomba; in alcune fonti mitologiche si legge che”[…] all’inizio non c’era nulla, solo Dio e l’Annwyn”, l’inizio dell’Universo.

In uno dei viaggi notturni, proprio quello che inaugura le vicende del libro, Chrisa inciampa (non casualmente) in un oggetto misterioso che raccoglie e che, successivamente e con l’aiuto di Marius, riesce a identificare come la Matrice Vibrazionale. Si tratta di uno strumento apparentemente inerte, ma che sembra possa essere messo in moto per rompere lo specchio della Proiezione e dissolvere il ciclo di nascita, morte e rinascita.
Una serie di eventi turba l’equilibrio iniziale. Un’indefinita minaccia, proveniente da non si sa bene dove, irrompe fra le pagine del libro e si ha la sensazione che per i protagonisti sia giunto il momento di fare qualcosa di estremamente importante. Intrigante e curiosa è la presenza di personaggi provenienti da altri mondi: Hator, che sembra esser stato legato a Chrisa sin da tante antecedenti vite, Lord Warden, un essere mitologico senza età con dei piani possibilmente malefici, Gwynn ap Nudd, ovvero il figlio bianco della notte, ed altri che qui non nominerò.
Così, minacciati da ciò che potrebbe mettere a repentaglio le proprie vita, Marius, Chrysa e Joshua volano in un’Irlanda ancora abbastanza simile a quella del passato (o del presente di noi lettori), conservatasi come protetta da un incantesimo, e si raccolgono attorno ad un luogo importante per la mitologia celtica, il monastero di Clonmacnoise.
Ben presto si attiva un triangolo energetico che collega Svizzera, Francia e Irlanda, in cui i riti pagani, le voci dell’antichità,forze ed energie sconosciute si uniranno per portare a termine un compito mistico e divino.
In realtà, il viaggio affrontato dai protagonisti è di tipo metafisico e procede nella  in direzione dell’assoluto

scuola di atene.gif

dell’essere, dell’infinito e dell’unità armonica. Si intrecciano in modo complesso le teorie filosofiche dell’essere e quelle religiose di matrice buddhista. “Come in basso, così in alto”, furono le parole di Ermete Trismegisto sulla tavola di smeraldo che, non casualmente, aveva lo stesso colore dominante della terra d’Irlanda.
Ha un ruolo rilevante la teoria fisica della meccanica quantistica, la quale dimostra che l’essere umano è un tutt’uno con l’universo: esiste una matrice (vibrazionale) che è il collante di tutto; la materia è vibrazione e la vibrazione è energia.
In effetti, la lettura del libro implica un esercizio mentale di comprensione, e in questo il lettore è molto vicino a Joshua, l’unico protagonista della triade completamente umano. Così come il giovane si ritrova a sfidare la sua facoltà mentale per poter seguire sua sorella in uno dei suoi viaggi notturni oltre la realtà, analogamente il lettore deve entrare nella giusta dimensione spirituale per poter seguire il viaggio dell’essere.

Il fulcro della questione orbita attorno uno dei più comuni temi nella letteratura: una volta compiuta la scissione (uomo/donna, male/bene, vita/morte e così via), la felicità e la pace sono svanite, perse nel mistero dell’essere. Così gli umani si affannano nella ricerca di qualcosa che non hanno (o che hanno perso), persino dominando e distruggendo per affermare il proprio io:

«C’era qualcosa di intrinseco, che si pensava fosse insito nel DNA degli umani: la presenza del diabolico! Da cui l’eterna lotta del bene contro il male! Lungo i secoli l’uomo progrediva per poi ricadere nel limbo della propria incoscienza, continuando ad errare e a generare orrore e distruzione attorno a sé».

Solo esseri superiori (Annwyn inclusi) riescono a cogliere il vero dono della vita umana, che é semplicemente l’estensione della natura stessa:

«Il nostro è un dono meraviglioso, Marius. Vedi qual é il nostro potere? Credo che ogni creatura abbia il suo posto in questo universo. Il problema subentra quando qualcuno mira all’egemonia ed al controllo sopra ogniforma vitale».

I protagonisti si affannano per cercare di sbrogliare gli enigmi in cui inciampano, dovendo trovare delle spiegazioni e fare delle scelte di capitale importanza. In tutto questo, a nulla serviranno gli sforzi dei membri della Squadra Sperimentale, che risulteranno essere tagliata fuori da questa specie di “dimensione magica”.

In verità, a mio avviso Il Segreto degli Annwyn lascia avvolte nel mistero molte questioni, fino alla fine. Però, se da un lato non vengono sciolti tutti i nodi delle vicende, dall’altro lato la narrazione fornisce gli indizi per una delle possibili chiavi di comprensione dell’esistenza.
Einstein dimostrò con una formula fisica che tutto è relativo, facendo sprofondare le certezze del mondo moderno nello sconforto. Tuttavia, gli esseri umani sono in grado di modificare le vibrazioni, ovvero le particelle subatomiche della materia (di cui essi stessi ne sono parte), sia con pensieri che con parole ed emozioni. Dunque, noi siamo fautori del nostro destino e nulla è dato al caso.

La scrittura del romanzo è molto fluida ma, nello stesso tempo, estremamente ricercata e attenta al dettaglio che potrebbe  suscitare nel lettore un’emozione. Si nota chiaramente che dietro la stesura del testo ci siano approfondite ricerche, sia in merito al materiale trattato (fra cui la mitologia e la filosofia), sia per la scelta delle parole e per la sintassi. Si mescolano elementi del fantasy con quelli del genere della favola, ma si rimane con i piedi per terra. Tuttavia, ho trovato che verso la fine del testo la scrittura cambi e si frammenti un po’ troppo con l’aumentare delle azioni parallele. Le sequenzedel racconto finiscono col coincidere con brevi capitoli che, per quanto descrittivi e per quanto aumentino il phatos della narrazione, talvolta si muovono talmente velocemente da frammentare il discorso.

Credo che spetti al lettore scoprire il segreto degli Annwyn, coloro che dovrebbero aiutare a far convogliare le vibrazioni del pianeta Terra nella giusta direzione. In fin dei conti, gli Annwyn sono fatti della stessa materia degli esseri umani ma, al contrario di questi ultimi, hanno una maggiore sensibilità e si concedono una maggiore libertà nel sognare.

 

 

Link: il blog del libro.

Tito Bassi: a writer of visceral emotions * scrittore d’emozioni viscerali

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El jueves 24 de septiembre de 2015, a las 20:00 tendrá lugar en Sevilla en el pabellón de Guatemala de la Exposición Universal de 1929, la presentación del libro El Molino del Oso de Tito Bassi, a cargo de Manuel Merinero Villagrasa y Jaime Galbarro García.
El escritor Tito Bassi, oriundo de la Suiza italiana, pero afincado en Guatemala desde hace más de cuatro décadas, es autor de varios libros, entre los que destacan De antiquae Insubrum a Coactemalan, seguido de un segundo volumen, De Insubria a Guatemala, ambos con ediciones en italiano y El Molino del Oso. Este último, publicado en Guatemala en 2014, fue su primera novela y ahora ve de nuevo la luz en España a cargo de la Editorial Vitela. En él, Tito Bassi noveliza una parte de sus memorias en la Insubria natal, un territorio histórico a caballo entre Suiza e Italia. A raíz de la leyenda de un molino abandonado, pero recuperado por un rico pintor norteamericano, el escritor va desgranando una historia en la que el lujo, el amor y la muerte serpentean, con un misterioso alcaudón de fondo.

Lee mi reseña!

…oOo…

On Thursday September 24, 2015, at 20:00 will take place in Seville in the Guatemalan pavilion of the Universal Exhibition of 1929, the presentation of the book El Molino del Oso, by Tito Bassi, presenter: Manuel Merinero Villagrasa e Jaime Galbarro Garcia.
The writer Tito Bassi, a native of Italian Switzerland, but living in Guatemala for more than four decades, is the author of several books, among them De antiquae Insubrum to Coactemalan, followed by a second volume De Insubria a Guatemala, both with editions in Italian languages and El Molino del Oso. The latter, published in Guatemala in 2014, was his first novel and now sees the light again in Spain by Editorial Vellum. In it, Tito Bassi relate part of his memories from the native Insubria, a historical territory halfway between Switzerland and Italy. Following the legend of an abandoned mill, in a second time recovered by a rich American painter, the writer pinpoints a story in which luxury, love and death are snaking with a mysterious Killer Shrike in the background.

Read my review!

…oOo…

Giovedì 24 Settembre 2015, alle ore 20:00 si terrà a Siviglia nel padiglione guatemalteco dell’Esposizione Universale del 1929, la presentazione del romanzo El Molino del Oso di Tito Bassi, con la partecipazione di Manuel Merinero Villagrasa e Jaime Galbarro Garcia.
Lo scrittore Tito Bassi, originario della Svizzera Italiana, ma che vive in Guatemala da più di quattro decenni, è autore di diversi libri, tra i quali De antiquae Insubrum a Coactemalan, seguito da un secondo volume De Insubria a Guatemala, entrambi con con edizioni in lungua italiano e El Molino del Oso. Quest’ultimo, pubblicato in Guatemala nel 2014, è il suo primo romanzo e viene
ora ripresentato in Spagna dal Editorial Velina. Nel romanzo, Tito Bassi trascrive parte dei suoi ricordi dell’Insubria natia, un territorio storico a metà strada tra la Svizzera e l’Italia. Alle radici della leggenda di un mulino abbandonato, ma recuperato da un ricco pittore americano, lo scrittore narra una storia nella quale serpeggiano il lusso, l’amore e la morte, con sullo uno sfondo una misteriosa piccola averla assassina.

Leggi la mia recensione!

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M. R. Morales: a Guatemalan writer of fiction or reality?

I enjoyed both novels, but the second one has left me stunned!

The subtle humor of Mario Roberto Morales, emerges from time to time, but the puns aimed at the truth about his beloved country are effective. After all, is not a fiction invented from scratch... but rather an historical account embellished with sagacity.

Unfortunately it is available (for now) only in Spanish.

Obraje novel by Mario Roberto Morales

“Obraje” is a story within a story…
The premise of M.R. Morales allows us first to taste the genesis, linked to his own life and spread to Central American socio-political conditions of that period.
Even with this introduction, the reader’s curiosity increases, making him feel almost privileged.
Over 40 years, these pages of exquisite simplicity narrative remained hidden.
Friends of Morales were kidnapped and killed, the war has deeply marked the consciousness of the Central American people, leaving an indelible mark in the same “Pacha Mama”.

Nothing is left to chance, I would tell Mr. Morales: it was fate that Obraje could again see the light so that the vicissitudes of the Guatemalan people could be read in a text which for its narrative power, reminds me vaguely Allende’s “The House of the Spirits”, written in the early ’80s.    [read the whole review ]

“Obraje” è una storia nella storia…
La premessa di M.R. Morales ci permette dapprima di assaporare la genesi, legata alla sua stessa vita e alle condizioni socio-politiche centroamericane di quel periodo.
Già con questa introduzione, la curiosità del lettore accresce, facendolo sentire quasi un privilegiato.
Nel corso di 40 anni, queste pagine di squisita semplicità narrativa sono rimase celate.
Amici di Morales sono stati sequestrai e uccisi, la guerra ha segnato profondamente la coscienza del popolo centro-americano, lasciando tracce indelebili nella stessa “Pacha Mama”.

Nulla è dato al caso, mi sento di riferire all’autore Morales: era destino che Obraje potesse nuovamente vedere la luce affinché le vicissitudini del popolo guatemalteco potessero essere lette all’interno di un testo che per la sua forza narrativa, mi ricorda vagamente “La Casa degli Spiriti” di Allende, scritto agli inizi degli anni ’80.   [leggi la recensione completa]

Jinetes en el cielo novel by Mario Roberto Morales

The narrative vitality of Morales transported me to a dizzying pace, typical of the auto-biographical style, within the always very current reality of war for power in Central America.
Revolutions, corruption, protests, drugs and oligarchy… political and social problems that are rampant since several decades in the Central and South American countries, have also been objects of movies (I remember eg. the bloody “Salvador” by Oliver Stone).
I admit that it is thanks to the Swiss-Guatemalan writer Tito Bassi, that I approached with growing curiosity the literature that handles this topic.
The decline and the social and economic inequality, are the foundation of the plot on which the author inserts, page after page, a vibrant and disarming precariousness of the human being.
It is not fiction: it is well known that Guatemalans political parties receive 50% of their funding through corruption, of which ¼ elite of the rich and businesses and a further ¼ by criminal organizations.
Consequently Morales manages to give voice and make palpable through of the “narrating I” of the journalist Fabian Algara, the statement that “Guatemala is the perfect nation to commit electoral crimes without consequences” (source: CICG).

[read the whole review]

La vitalità narrativa di Morales mi ha trasportata ad un ritmo vertiginoso, tipico dello stile auto-biografico, all’interno della sempre attualissima realtà delle guerre di potere in centro America.
Rivoluzioni, corruzione, proteste, narcotraffico, oligarchia… problemi politici e sociali che da parecchi decenni dilagano nei paesi centro e sud Americani, sono anche stati oggetti di film (ricordo ad es. il sanguinoso “Salvador” di Oliver Stone).
Ammetto che è grazie allo scrittore svizzero-guatemalteco Tito Bassi, che mi sono avvicinata con sempre maggiore curiosità alla letteratura che tratta questa tematica.
Il declino e l’ineguaglianza sociale ed economica, sono alla base della trama sulla quale l’autore inserisce, pagina dopo pagina, una palpitante e disarmante precarietà dell’essere.
Non è finzione: è risaputo che i partiti politici guatemaltechi ricevono il 50% dei loro finanziamenti attraverso la corruzione, della quale ¼ dall’élite dei ricchi e commerci e un ulteriore ¼ dalle organizzazioni criminali.
Conseguentemente Morales riesce a dar voce e rendere palpabile, per mezzo dell’io narrante del giornalista Fabian Algara, l’affermazione che “il Guatemala è la nazione perfetta per commettere crimini elettorali senza conseguenze” (fonte: CICG).

[leggi tutta la recensione]

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Presentazione letteraria * literary presentation

String quartet  "I Fulmini"Un’occasione da non mancare: ascoltare dal vivo il  quartetto d’archi “I Fulmini”  (Francesca, Sara Luna, Valentina e Antonio) che ha conseguito un primo premio al concorso svizzero di Neuchâtel lo scorso mese di marzo.
Con la presentazione del mio ultimo romanzo “Il Segreto degli Annwyn”  che attualmente viene trasformato in una sceneggiatura per film… e vi parlerò della sua prossima pubblicazione lingua inglese a livello internazionale.

Vi attendo numerosi il giovedì 23 aprile 2015 dalle 17:30 presso la:

Biblioteca comunale di Giubiasco – Viale 1814  N°3 – 6512 Giubiasco

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“La vita è fatta di tante emozioni…

e queste, le voglio condividere con voi!”

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The Annwyn secret: the thrill to become a movie

 

AdaptLab: from page to screen 

This year L’immagine e la parola (Images and words)  (19 – 22 March) will be joined by a session of AdaptLab, a workshop on the adaptation of literary works for the screen, developed by TorinoFilmLab and addressing industry professionals. This major initiative from TorinoFilmLab will take place at Locarno for the very first time. AdaptLab will hold its inaugural session from 19 to 25 March, a workshop for directors and screenwriters from around the world who want to work in the field of adapting literary works for the screen. 

Twelve specially selected participants will be working on screen adaptations involving their own projects or based on novels chosen in advance by TorinoFilmLab.  AdaptLab will follow every stage of the adaptation process, including by allowing participants to showcase their work to an audience of industry attendees at the next Meeting Event of TorinoFilmLab, scheduled for November. Participants will be mentored by three tutors who will be their guides along the complex adaptation pathway, fostering the exchange of ideas and the development of the various projects through group sessions and on-line networking.

Among the books already picked out for adaptation is local Swiss writer Claudine Giovannoni’s novel Il segreto degli Annwyn (published by Ulivo, 2013).

Nadia Dresti, Delegate to the Artistic Direction and Head of International, Festival del film Locarno: “The opportunity for L’immagine e la parola to host an event of international standing such as AdaptLab is a source of considerable satisfaction for us. Thanks to funding from the Region this year we are in a position to put on L’immagine e la parola in tandem with a major event for industry professionals, raising the profile of our spring program still further.”

Carlo Chatrian, artistic director of the Locarno Film Festival: “The coming of Pawlikowski to Locarno enriches and clarifies the meaning of this year that it intends to explore the porous borders that are between word and image in motion, between the narrator who writes and that who films, between the subject of a story and that of a film. Whether in fiction or documentary, at home or abroad, Pawlikowski preserves that glossy and disillusioned glance that allows his stories to become much more than just individual stories. ”

..oOo..

AdaptLab: dalla pagina allo schermo

Quest’anno L’immagine e la parola sarà affiancata da un’importante iniziativa del TorinoFilmLab destinata ai professionisti del settore, che per la prima volta si svolgerà a Locarno. Dal 19 al 25 marzo si terrà infatti la sessione inaugurale di AdaptLab, workshop per registi e sceneggiatori provenienti da tutto il mondo che desiderano lavorare nel campo dell’adattamento cinematografico di opere letterarie, con la presenza del regista polacco Pawel Pawlikowski.

Dodici i partecipanti selezionati che lavoreranno su adattamenti per il grande schermo attraverso un proprio progetto o lavorando su romanzi pre-selezionati dal TorinoFilmLab. AdaptLab seguirà l’intero processo di adattamento, dando la possibilità ai partecipanti di presentare i propri lavori di fronte a una platea di professionisti del settore durante il prossimo Meeting Event del TorinoFilmLab, in programma a novembre. Tre tutor affiancheranno i partecipanti, guidandoli nel processo di adattamento, promuovendo lo scambio di idee e lo sviluppo dei progetti grazie al lavoro di gruppo e a sessioni online.

Fra i libri selezionati figura anche Il segreto degli Annwyn (Ed. Ulivo, 2013) della scrittrice ticinese Claudine Giovannoni.

Nadia Dresti, Delegata alla Direzione artistica e Head of International: “Avere la possibilità di ospitare durante L’immagine e la parola un evento di caratura internazionale come AdaptLab è per noi motivo di grande soddisfazione. Grazie al sostegno della Regione possiamo quest’anno affiancare a L’immagine e la parola un importante appuntamento destinato ai professionisti del cinema, che conferisce ulteriore lustro al nostro evento primaverile.”

Carlo Chatrian, Direttore artistico del Festival del film Locarno: “La venuta di Pawlikowski a Locarno arricchisce e precisa il senso di questa edizione che intende esplorare le frontiere porose che stanno tra parola e immagine in movimento, tra l’io che scrive e quello che filma, tra il soggetto di un racconto e quello di un film. Che sia nella finzione o nel documentario, in patria o all’estero, Pawlikowski conserva quello sguardo lucido e disincantato che permette alle sue storie di diventare molto più che dei racconti individuali.”

See more informations and news about the novel

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Tito Bassi: a writer of visceral emotions * scrittore d’emozioni viscerali

Tito Bassi

I was not even twenty when I first met Tito: he was a fascinating person, singular and unreachable. Or at least if I considered all the stories and rumors going around about him! He was emanating a strange aura, his smile was captivating, and his strange accent made me smile.

I saw him again on an island in the Caribbean Sea, a few years later. A meeting unfortunately superficial, of which I vaguely remember the thrill and embarrassment. For a misfortune, not necessarily coincidental, ten years later a planned trip from Mexico to Guatemala, had been canceled at the last moment. Then the contacts became sparse. Remained, however, the memory and the curiosity to know what had become of the Guatemalan“, as my dad called him.

But fate weaves its plots without ever asking the actors for permission! When I found myself with his first book in my hands, in the presence of the publisher with whom I published as well, I felt relieved. Tito was still alive and well… who doesn’t die, we review! So, reading with curiosity and fun, I started to know Tito. The real one.

His style of writing is direct, raw and without frills and can sometimes leave the reader stunned. Yet in his autobiography (still tied to his homeland) are not overlooked the details, told with great sincerity and meticulousness.

Perhaps out of modesty or confidentiality, the author admits to have left out names, but many cliches bring the reader to the reality of the author childhood to adulthood. If I liked to go back in time through Insubria northward part I and II  ,   El Mulino del oso  gave me a moment of relaxation and escape. These three novels that I believe strictly selfbiographical , allow us to take part even viscerally to the writer’s emotions. The narrator goes from the action and sharing of real events to the moral considerations more linked to a deep analysis, not to mention a healthy dose of sarcasm.

But what I hoped, even after reading Insubria northward part I  and  Insubria northward part II, was a continuation .. I wanted a confession of what the author, left the homeland, had found over the ocean! These are the stories of expatriates looking for a dream“, a chimera that had transported them along treacherous paths, most often toward a fate that did not provide a return on their steps. These are the stories shared by our ancestors at the end of 800, but it is a reality still strongly present novadays.

Wherever there are people who seek a better life, perhaps aspiring to wealth or even the desire to find “their” place in the Universe. I wanted to know the Guatemala through Tito’s words and emotions, by his intimate and subjective vision that would have painted the scenery in a unique and personal way.

Reading his unpublished novel Livingston, chapter after chapter, I realized that tenuous thread made of adventure, tying each story and testifying the very nature of the author. I admit that the emotion caught me in the act: between laughter and sadness. With him, as if he were there by my side, I went through the dusty streets savoring the smells and sensations transported by his pen on paper. Is a tiny pearl, which I hope, will be published and translated into several languages.

Maybe Tito ought to have dedicate greater determination to the writing; the narrative verve is congenital and I’m sure there is still much to discover in this man who struggle with honesty, leaving a unique and very special testament for those who want to seize the moment and get carried in a hard and cruel world where every day you have to fight for youself and for dignity. Well, as he reminds us: Good and evil are present and occur spontaneously depending on how you stimulate, you create or tame. Then from you it depends to forge allies real or mythological that accompany you, which create you an image and that basically protect you“.

..o~O~o..

Non avevo ancora compiuto vent’anni quando ho conosciuto Tito: era una persona affascinante, singolare ed irraggiungibile. O almeno se consideravo tutti i racconti e dicerie che giravano sul suo conto! Lui emanava una strana aura, il suo sorriso era accattivante, e il suo strano accento mi faceva sorridere.

Lo rividi su di un’isola nel Mare dei Caraibi, qualche anno più tardi. Un’incontro purtroppo superficiale, del quale ricordo vagamente emozione e imbarazzo. Per una sventura, non necessariamente casuale, una decina d’anni più tardi un programmato viaggio dal Messico fino in Guatemala, era stato disdetto all’ultimo momento. Poi i contatti si son fatti radi. Permaneva però il ricordo e la curiosità di sapere cosa ne fosse stato del “guatemalteco”, come lo chiamava mio padre.

Ma il destino tesse le sue trame senza mai chiedere il permesso agli attori! Quando mi ritrovai tra le mani il suo primo libro, in presenza dell’editore col quale aveva pubblicato pure io, mi sentii risollevata. Tito era ancora vivo e vegeto… chi non muore, si rivede! Così, leggendo con curiosità e divertimento, ho iniziato a conoscere Tito. Quello vero.

Il suo modo di scrivere diretto, crudo e senza troppi fronzoli, a volte può lasciare il lettore basito. Eppure nella sua autobiografia (ancora legata alla sua terra natia) non sono trascurati i dettagli, raccontati con estrema sincerità e meticolosità.

Forse per pudore o riservatezza, l’autore ammette di avere tralasciato dei nomi, ma molti luoghi comuni riportano il lettore alla realtà della sua fanciullezza fino all’età adulta. Se ho apprezzato ritornare nel tempo attraverso “Insubria verso nord I e II”, il  Mulino dell’orso  mi ha regalato un momento di distensione ed evasione. Questi tre romanzi che ritengo prettamente auto biografici, ci permettono di prendere parte in modo anche viscerale alle emozioni dello scrittore. L’io narrante spazia dall’azione e condivisione di fatti realmente accaduti, alle considerazioni morali e più legate ad un’analisi profonda, senza trascurare una buona dose di sarcasmo.

Ma ciò che speravo, già dopo la lettura di  Insubria verso nord I Insubria verso nord II, era un proseguo… desideravo una confessione di ciò che l’autore, partito dalla patria, aveva trovato oltre l’oceano! Queste sono le storie di espatriati alla ricerca di un “sogno”, di una chimera che li aveva trasportati lungo percorsi insidiosi, il più delle volte verso un destino che non prevedeva un ritorno sui propri passi. Sono le storie che accomunano i nostri avi alla fine del ‘800, ma è pur sempre una realtà tutt’ora fortemente presente.

Ovunque ci sono persone che cercano una vita migliore, forse aspirando alla ricchezza o anche solo al desiderio di trovare il “loro” posto nell’Universo. Volevo poter conoscere il Guatemala attraverso le parole ed emozioni di Tito, per mezzo della sua visione intima e soggettiva che avrebbe dipinto lo scenario in modo unico e personale.

Leggendo questo suo romanzo inedito Livingston, capitolo dopo capitolo, ho realizzato che quel sottile filo fatto d’avventura, legava ogni singolo racconto a testimonianza alla stessa natura dell’autore. Ammetto che l’emozione mi ha colta in flagrante: tra ilarità e tristezza. Con lui, quasi fosse lì al mio fianco, ho ripercorso quelle strade polverose assaporando gli odori e sensazioni trasportate dalla sua penna su carta. Una piccola perla, Livingston, che mi auguro, potrà essere pubblicata e tradotta in più lingue.

Forse Tito avrebbe dovuto dedicarsi con maggiore determinazione alla scrittura; la verve narrativa gli è congenita e sono sicura che c’è ancora tanto da scoprire in quest’uomo che lotta con onestà, lasciandoci un testamento unico e davvero speciale per chi vorrà cogliere l’attimo e farsi trasportare in un mondo duro e crudele dove ogni giorno si deve combattere per sé stessi e per la propria dignità. Ebbene, come lui stesso ci ricorda: “Il bene ed il male sono presenti e si manifestano spontaneamente a seconda di come si stimolano, si creano o si domano. Poi da te dipende forgiare gli alleati veri o mitologici che ti accompagnano, che ti creano  un’immagine e che in fondo ti proteggono”.

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Alberto Jelmini: a new enchanting literary surprise * una nuova incantevole sorpresa letteraria

claudine e alberto

Ho conosciuto Alberto Jelmini parecchi anni or sono… avendo iniziato il mio percorso letterario, necessitavo di un magister che mi aiutasse a migliorare le mie lacune ed affinare il mio stile. Così iniziai a frequentare il suo corso di scrittura creativa con estremo coinvolgimento: i risvolti sono ormai conosciuti!

Negli anni ci siamo trovati a discutere di filosofia, di storia, di teologia, di sogni e di utopie… lasciandoci trasportare in una vera amicizia che è sfociata nella raccolta di poesie “Tracce”. Alberto è per me un punto di riferimento e ogni storia che trasporto su carta, lui è il primo a leggerla dandomi il suo parere e facendo l’editing iniziale.

È per me una grande gioia poter condividere con voi la sua nuova pubblicazione (in lingua italiana):

 

“Affetti su carta”

edizioni Ulivo – Balerna

Si tratta di un carteggio, risalente allo scorso secolo, tra Eugenia Jelmini (nonna di Alberto) e il figlio Luigi (padre dell’autore). Una sessantina di lettere, dalle quali traspaiono gli affetti famigliari, il dolore e le difficoltà causate dal distacco, e che rappresentano un affresco della vita contadina in un villaggio di montagna in tempo di guerra, contrapposta alla vita di uno studente in una cittadina che pure avverte le difficoltà del momento e anzi le tocca con mano accogliendo quasi giornalmente centinaia di prigionieri feriti di ambo i contendenti.

Inoltre si ritrovano le gustose aggiunte della sorellina Maria (IIIa elementare), che ragguaglia il fratello su tutto quanto riguarda gli animali della fattoria. Il testo è arricchito da un “racconto fotografico” composto con foto d’epoca e una ventina di disegni a colori dell’artista Giulia.

Con la prefazione del Prof. Bruno Beffa e l’analisi linguistica di Guido Pedrojetta.


In pre-vendita, potete contattare direttamente l’autore   albertojelmini@hotmail.com   per riservare il vostro esemplare

con dedica personalizzata a fr. 25.-

 

DSC00185

In primavera seguiranno delle presentazioni pubbliche ad Ambrì, Giornico e nel locarnese. Sarà mia premura aggiornarvi sul Blog….

Keep dreamings * sempre sognando

Estratto dal romanzo Piccoli passi nella Taiga

 

Estratto dal romanzo Il segreto degli Annwyn

Carpe Diem

old-books

 

Sono nato dalla fantasia di un uomo che aveva creduto di poter cambiare il mondo, una persona comune ma dotata di una grande passione: le parole. E da allora mi sono sempre ritrovato a passare di mano in mano, attraversando le vicissitudini di chi mi ha posseduto e il più delle volte senza neppure avere il tempo per raccontare tutta la mia vera storia.  Ma una volta, in un’occasione davvero speciale, ho conosciuto Rebecca e da quel giorno sono diventato il suo più fido consigliere. Da quel giorno, io e Rebecca siamo diventati inseparabili e tremo all’idea dell’effimera esistenza della ragazza, e il mio timore di poter nuovamente essere segregato in un eremo senza dita che mi accarezzano e occhi che mi scrutano con avida curiosità. […]

…oOo…

I was born from the imagination of a man who believed he could change the world, still an ordinary soul with a great passion for words. And since then I have always found myself to pass from hand to hand, through the vicissitudes of those who possessed me and most of the time without even having the time to tell my entire real story. But once in a very special occasion, I met Rebecca and from that day I became her most faithful counselor. Since that day, Rebecca and I have become inseparable, and I dread the ephemeral existence of the girl, and my fear of being re-segregated in a hermitage without fingers caressing me, and eyes that stare at me with eager curiosity. […]

here read the whole short story English and italian  

Claudine Copyright © 2014

 

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Chrysalis’ young fans * giovani ammiratori di Chrysalis

IMG_0764

 

I wrote this novel especially for them, the young!
I wish I could bring more awareness to our moral obligation towards the planet Earth with a mixture of modern fairy tale and educational romance that deals with the theme of the “journey and the contrast between good and evil.

*

Questo romanzo l’ho scritto specialmente per loro, i giovani!
Desidero poter portare maggiore consapevolezza sul nostro obbligo morale verso il pianeta Terra… con un misto di fiaba moderna e romanzo formativo che tratta il tema del “viaggio” e del contrasto tra bene e male.

 

Il Segreto degli Annwyn * The Annwyn’s Secret

Briciole del mio tempo * Time’s crumbs

IMG_0720Nabucodonosor

 

A volte, quanto il tempo si contorce dentro la mia mente e le mani battono veloci sui tasti, la storia dei personaggi scivola lungo sentieri sconosciuti.
Descrivo le emozioni che si fanno incalzanti, come nuvole che si rincorrono lungo l’arcobaleno lasciato, quale utopico segno, da una tempesta appena disfatta.
Accarezzo i loro stessi sogni, ora miei, che accomunano desideri dallo stesso sapore dolce dei baci di gioventù. Ancora un sospiro, mentre nel fremito della notte che muore, l’avventura seguita incalzante… Poi, laggiù, dietro l’angolo velato della fantasia, la magia assume valenza reale. Penetro nel racconto, dissipo ogni paura e vivo coi protagonisti le stesse angosce palpitanti, le stesse emozioni folgoranti! Scrivere è la dolce musica che fuoriesce da uno spartito arcano, ormai fatto mio… che adagio ripongo in un cassetto plasmato di forza e determinazione…

Sometimes, as time is writhing inside my mind and the hands are flying fast on the keys, the story of the characters slides along unknown paths.
I describe the emotions that are pressing, like clouds that run along the rainbow left, which utopian sign, of a storm just defeat.
I caress their own dreams, now mines, that unite desires  by the same sweet taste of the kisses of youth. Still a sigh, while in the thrill of the night wich dies, the adventure continue relentless… Then, there, around the corner of the hazy fantasy, magic takes on real significance. I enter into the story, dissipate all fear and live with the characters the same anxieties throbbing, dazzling the same emotions! Writing is the sweet music that comes out from an arcane music score , now slowly made ​​mine that I put in a drawer shaped with strength and determination…

 

Read more!   Leggi il seguito…

© Claudine Giovannoni

L’Orologio [pensieri da: Il gioco delle perle di vetro – H. Hesse]

casa_camuzzi

I walk with bowed head, looking at the tip of my gym shoes smeared with mud, as I fear that my steps might awaken the souls of the past who have stayed in this magical place. But I just leave confused traces where the grass does not cover the passage, which overlaps with those of a dog or perhaps a plump cat.

The scents of grass and wet earth are tinged, but most of all the acrid smell of smoke emerges. The clock overlooking the stairs to the park marks 2:00 but it is almost night. Who knows for how many years has stopped working? With the imagination I can imagine the noble women who were facing from the balcony, to spy who wandered down below in the park philosophizing. I smile at this bizarre idea while I try to remain vigilant, ready to flee at any sudden noise or shadow.

The yellowish façade’ plaster is crumbling, eroded by centuries while ivy is a reddish patch that looks like stale blood, violently clinging to the iron bars of the windows with half-closed shutters. Who knows what else is hidden from view of the curious sparrows that have woven bushy stems under those baggy parapets! Fragile nests, unusual homes of winged and ephemeral dreams. Those of once, those that will be, the same as ever, those of everyone.

And here everything is decadent and deprived of its original beauty: those Baroque frills are now just a tangle torn in several places. How could it be so neglected in the last century? What will become of this park? What will succeed in pursuing the thirst for wealth of those who wanted, even here, to speculate on a property even on the list of cultural heritage? The thought flows around and without effort sees the previous facts in the region… so many… too many!

The evening sun is hidden behind thick clouds dark and menacing, ready to be torn to unleash their liquid fury above the ground already soaked and slippery. The swallows fly low, almost to verge on the top of the old trees that will be soon cut.

Here read the whole story  –  qui leggi l’intero racconto

 

 

Synopsis romanzo Il Segreto degli Annwyn

 

Multiple visions related to the adventure of Chrysalis, the young protagonist of the novel “The Annwyn Secret.” The synopsis, written by my Portuguese friend Pedro de Almeida Freire, soon I’ll insert the english translation!

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Molteplici visioni legate all’avventura di Chrysalis, la giovane protagonista del romanzo “Il Segreto degli Annwyn”. Vi lascio la synopsis scritta dall’amico Pedro Freire de Almeida, nella versione oridinale in lingua portoghese e traduzione in italiano.

 

Piccoli passi nella Taiga: i personaggi

descriptive card of the character  ¦¦  scheda descrittiva del personaggio

female young adult character: Vladimira O’Floinn

Vladimira 3a

drawing ©Michele Tanner

 

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GENERALITA’

Nome: Vladimira O’Floinn (figlia di Fiona Moira del 1978 e Yuri Georgijevič Zarkovskij del 1968)

Razza: caucasica (per metà irlandese e l’altra metà russa)

Luogo di nascita: Dublino – Irlanda

Data di nascita: 1996   (16 anni nel 2012)

Dimora: Greystones, sulla costa irlandese vicino a Dublino, in prossimità del mare. Vive lì coi nonni Darrah e Dáirine e la mamma Fiona Moira in una grande casa circondata da un vasto giardino.

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[see more  * leggi il resto!]

 

Abstract of The Annwyn’s Secret * riassunto de Il Segreto degli Annwyn

 

drawing©RadoJavo

 

For an assignment of 4a. high-school, my son Emanuele Giosuè chose my latest novel…

Per un compito scolastico di 4a. media, mio figlio ha scelto l’ultimo romanzo…

HERE you go to the whole text: english and italian

Fantasy: dichotomy between real and surreal

CCI00017watercolor & ink  ©Marion Jiranek

We draw a lot of ideas from the dreamlike or from the “collective mind”, from which we can draw without even realizing it also while awake! A single image, like this one lovingly given to me by a dear friend, it can create in the observer ideas and concepts reproducible on paper.

Thus is born the first draft of a story or novel.

I prefer the fantasy genre because I like to interpose to everyday and real life, something unusual binding the effect of unpredictable event to the most shocking of the supernatural.

So it took also life the “vibrational matrix”, an artifact linked to the Celtic myths, hidden from the Unified Power who want to deprive man of his potential. The Annwyn’s Secret doesn’t very distances himself from reality… it’s to be sized as a futuristic projection in which quantum physics is well-founded and not more utopic.

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Si attingono molte idee dall’onirico o dal “collettivo mentale”, dal quale possiamo attingere senza neppure rendercene conto anche da desti! Una sola immagine, come questa deliziosamente regalatami da una cara amica, può creare dentro l’osservatore idee e concetti riproducibili su carta.

Così nasce una prima bozza di racconto o di romanzo.

Io prediligo il genere fantasy poiché mi piace interporre alla vita quotidiana e reale, un qualcosa di inconsueto legando l’effetto della evento imprevedibile a quello più sconvolgente del sovrannaturale.

Così ha preso vita anche la “matrice vibrazionale”, un artefatto legato ai miti celtici, nascosto dal Potere Unificato che desidera privare l’uomo delle sue potenzialità. Il Segreto degli Annwyn   non è si distanzia molto dalla realtà… è da cogliere come una proiezione futuristica nella quale la fisica quantica sarà assodata e non più utopica.

The melodies of the heart * Melodie del cuore

 interno_vagone

*

leggete l’estratto cliccando sul link

*an excerpt from the new novel  Taiga’s Dream * Piccoli passi nella Taiga

First sketches – the main character takes shape

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A long story to tell… read here   ***   leggi qui l’introduzione al progetto grafico

Il blog del nuovo romanzo in lavorazione

taigasdream.wordpress.com

Fiona Moira O’Floinn

Fiona Moira O'Floinn

Durante la fase di progettazione e studio per la stesura di un nuovo romanzo, è necessario preparare una sorta di “schema riassuntivo” che prevede pure le schede con le generalità dei protagonisti. Nelle schede, man mano che il racconto prende forma, vengono aggiunti i particolari e dettagli che sono poi riportati fedelmente sulla lavagna magnetica… io non utilizzo programmi PC!

see the link:     Fiona Moira O’Floinn

During the study and design process for the drafting of a new novel, it’s necessary to prepare a “summary diagram” that also provides the cards with the identity of the protagonists. In the cards, as the story takes shape, are added all the details and the specific references which will be reported faithfully on the magnetic board … I do not use PC programs!

Piccoli passi nella Taiga *** il nuovo blog del romanzo

A piccoli passi anche quest’ultima avventura ha preso forma, consistenza, forza e determinazione. Ma questo è solo l’inizio! Buon viaggio…

click on the  link:

Piccoli passi nella Taiga [gli sciamani del Lago Baikal]

By taking small steps also this latest adventure has taken shape, texture, strength and determination. That’s the beginning! Enjoy your ride…

Non un semplice libro… * Not a simple book…

Desiderate sorprendere un famigliare o un amico?

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Il Segreto degli Annwyn:   un’avventura che resterà indelebile…

A questo link potete lasciare i vostri dati personali, per e-mail riceverò la vostra ordinazione e vi spedirò all’indirizzo desiderato il romanzo con dedica personalizzata e già decorato come pacco-regalo!

Il costo? Tutto compreso fr. 28.- franco domicilio…

There are a couple of wonderful news I love to share with you: the editing of the novel is in progress… and soon “The Annwyn’s Secret” will be published in English!
And most likely in a few months I’ll be able to give you some informations about a possible movie… the story of Joshua and Chrysalis shall come to life!

  • Claudine’s novels * i miei romanzi

  • Piccoli passi nella Taiga (to be published soon)

  • Il Segreto degli Annwyn – Edizioni Ulivo ISBN 978 88 98 018 079

  • The Annwyn’s Secret Austin Macauley London ISBN 9781785544637 & ISBN 9781785544644

  • The Annwyn’s Secret

  • Silloge Poetica “Tracce” – Edizioni Ulivo Balerna

  • Il Kumihimo del Sole – Seneca Edizioni Torino

    ISBN: 978-88-6122-060-7
  • Il Cristallo della Pace – Seneca Edizioni Torino

    ISBN 978-88-6122-189-5
  • Nebbie nella Brughiera – Seneca Edizioni Torino

    ISBN 978-88-6122-055-3
  • I 4 Elementi – Macromedia Edizioni Torino

  • Cats are my inspiration!

  • Remember, transitioning to a plant-based diet that embraces compassion for the animals, your health and our planet isn’t really difficult. You just have to want to do it! For the sake of us all... :-)claudine
  • Amici del Lupo – Svizzera italiana

  • Donate… to help them!

  • Donate… to help them!

  • Donate… to help them!

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