TALSETE DI MARSANTINO
It was on an unrip and full of scent Autumn day, when he got the commission...
Talsete di Marsantino
by Riccardo Regi
It was on an unrip and full of scent Autumn day, when Talsete of Marsatino, the most famous archivist of the Era, got the commission. He received it inside an old style folder, written on a white vellum. Inside it there was just a verb: to pick. In the margin of the sheet, Talsete noticed another transcription:
“It will only take A time equal to 8 To this last work, If standing towards North It will be East And standing towards South It will be West”.
Because of the rush you have when the unknown bothers you less than the known, he didn’t even noticed he went down the stairs. Rush. Rush only. Once on the outside, he didn’t spend a second asking himself if that uncertain light was that of dawn, or dusk. He was just wondering where to go. Where could he possibly go. He figured out some kind of “key”: time. That one was a waiting night. A night in which it is a convention that men look up to seek thorough their wishing the sharing with the rest of mankind. And all in an immense scenery: the sky to San Lorenzo. The mountain revealed itself when dawn was turning that long night lights off. When he reached the deep and narrow crack, that naturally cut the granite rock on the East of the mountain, he entered because of a repeated echo, spaced out by an unvaried pause.
“There’s going to be a tick, but the second one will only arrive the following year. It will chime once per century, while the cuckoo clock will signal the entrance in a new millennium. And it’s going to be like this for at least 10 thousands years”
Talsete of Marsantino had already red that mechanicaldigital binary based project. That is to say: the most extreme technology and the most ancient craftsmanship inspired by human mind. With a deep motivation inspired by a concept: “Fortunately, there’s always somebody who plants oaks without thinking of acorns”. Maybe he stayed there completely dazed all day long, or maybe for a second. It’s funny how he just could not have the exact perception of that, even if he was standing in front of the world most fascinating clock. When he raised his head and focused his attention on the rock upon which he was lying, he jumped back scared. He stood up hastily, like to prevent that scary and shapeless rocky being from attacking him. Another clear “key”: time evolution .
Talsete pointed his feet towards Long Now Clock eye. He started to catch ancient sounds, multiform voices: they were so charming, even if they lasted only for a second. A smile reassured him. He was driven out by a different kind of echo, even though just as powerful as the one that persuaded him to get in. Maybe that smile was a dream, or just the awakening of a memory. The still shy sparkling of dawn reflected itself over a waveless expanse of water, broken up by tuff cathedrals from which a strong smell of smoke was giving off. He searched inside his mind and there he found an unforgettable name: Et
Right then, he spotted a shore covered by a thin black coating: flies. Talsete remembered that the lake was named after those flies: Mono Lake. Hallucigenia seemed to vibrate, almost keeping time with that puzzling bacterium. It was a sort of certification of an invisible parallel world, filled with other possible lives. In other possible worlds. He held Hallucigenia in his hand. He brought her to his chest. He started to hug her harder and harder, as he realized that cardinal points were no longer in front of him.
“It will only take A time equal to 8 To this last work, If standing towards North It will be East And standing towards South It will be West”
That was when he clearly heard a whistle. The childhood whistle. .
Febo is just over 14 years old. Obviously he is a genius with IT......
Moon that follows
the sun and then, now it gives another day. Sun that rises and slides
down. Night is already here. Flowers, snows, wheat, fogs. Change over in
silence. Hands touch seasons that will come back. Time will count you in
silence The steps that you are already following, it will confuse you
touching the sky. Borders that the wind confuses. Hours upon hours and
more hours. Stories upon stories read by who follow names without ideas.
You skim read the map and discover that you are not there. Time will
count you in silence, loves that will not come back. It will confuse you
touching the bottom. The pain you are already feeling, hours upon hours
and more hours.
I want the wind,
it blows the black I have inside in those eyes of rain. Without a veil
of light I am deaf, even to the cry of a child. In this day, put
together by dwarfs, I look for money. Soon dignity, but this time we
will not share. I am alone, leaning on the balcony, and the neighbour
pushes hard on the heart. There was a wave of wheat in that child’s
book, and red poppies for the smell of summer. An adult’s bike leaning
on the hay, a sigh, a tremble in that silk lace. The vertigo of an
endless row, for us so little was enough. There was taste in the salt of
that soup, warmed up only by a really kind smile, a warmth that tasted
like eternity, bossy invading, like the shadow of an ego cast upon the
sins that the good God sends you. Caress me.
Smell of a smell,
that the wind will preserve. Eyes of eyes, that the night will not shut.
Echo of an echo, that the mountain will not stop. Anxiousness of an
anxiousness, that a hug will wipe away. And it shouts a shout, the
meaning of life. And it bites a bite, the lips of a smile. And it cries
a cry, rhe breath of a goodbye. And it cuts a cut, the rope of love. And
it sweats sweat, the drop of pain. And it feels a feeling, the feeling
of silence. Blood of blood, that life will revive. Emptiness of an
emptiness, that remembrance will not fulfil. Thought of a thought, that
will always come back. Nature of a nature, that the son will not bend
Love of a love, that reason will deny. Certainty of a certainty, she
will kiss me again.
Lights that blind
the sun, root that goes up, green leaf that falls and stays in the air,
scarf of salt that wraps the sea, heart that blows balls of dreams. It’s
an uphill road that turns on four wheels. Joy, Joy. It’s a wrinkle that
roughly scratches the smile and goes away. It’s a noise that snarls and
climbs on a melody. It’s an angry tear that leaves nostalgia at the
door. It’s a lake of faraway lights that I catch with my hand. Snows
that falls on a sunny beach, memory that was never born. It’s a paper of
news never read and all true. It’s a fading love that will colour itself
tomorrow. It’s a friend that comes back and doesn’t say “sorry if…”.
It’s a pen that writes a verse of poetry. It’s a wrinkle that roughly
scratches the smile and goes away. It’s a noise that snarls and climbs
on a melody. It’s an angry tear that leaves nostalgia at the door. It’s
a lake of faraway lights that I catch with my hand Joy, Joy.
I'm sitting here,
looking back on the past. I feel you so near, put your face behind glass.
Profondo è il mare delle anime, facile fede la fine non c'è. Ich frag
mich warum einer kommt, einer geht, wer wählt die Momente, wer wählt sie,
wer zählt. This is the song for the ones who have gone, it's hard to
believe and it's hard to go on.
that rises and entangles the earth. Mystery clear since ever, shows the
shadows down the valley. Handkerchief that dries the drop, but doesn’t
warms the crying. With you the earth is mother of wheat, that a hand
will steal. Red thread that in the evening one who hopes saws on
himself. Certainty in the one who goes to come back tomorrow. Caress on
a tired face of a father out of breath. With you the hand wounded by
salt, melts until it lets you touch it. White thread of dawn that
confuses the sunrise, horizon that you show blinding. Who feels endless
throat suffering from thirst since the first cry. With you the oasis
wins the desert which will come back with the wind. Gray thread of
clouds tied to the sky. True warmth of autumn that a cape gives as a
gift. Lighthouse at the centre of time that lights up a stage. With you
the house closed by rooms hears the same song.
The see sang a song, Alder
was dancing with the sea star
That night, when the moon spread out along the water, Alder felt
really alone and it was then that the star of many mirrors
reflected his dreams. The oar started to bite into the water,
the flash became blinding. The sea sang a song, the Man was
dancing with the Sea Star.
The night thundered and the rhythm of the dance increased and he
was going down, to the depths of the sea bed. And he was playing.
Someone would have heard him. Someone would have understood him.
He woke up. In front of him a wall of fish with glazed eyes.
Fear arrived. The cave like home, inside the black of dark
shadows while his tears drowned in those of the ocean. Then the
veil disappeared from the eyes of the guardian fish. Alder
stretched towards the exit from the cave.
He saw the big fin shoot up like an arrow until it left the
water. The Sail Fish dropped back down after the highest leap
onto the rock which became purple. And again it threw itself
onto the rock to colour it more. The swarm of fish formed a
circle "he was old, he wanted death". They all looked at their
fins for the highest leap. Alder saw his hand of purple-red.
On Tanana brook
Amongst the Seaweed Alder saw three glass fish, the smallest
behind: it was having trouble swimming and was searching,
amongst the colours filtered by water. The little one, now, in
front. Father and mother were watching him and he moved even
further forward to reach those strange shadows. Beautiful ones.
While gipsy ladies exchanged love and colours, a crash scared
Alder. The salmons. Coming quickly upstream. The fisherman
approached the last one, the oldest one which ended the line.
Earth was calling them
They passed the Bear, and Alder with them towards Tanana brook,
where the water is mud.
Down came the night and their eyes looked at a star. And another.
And another. And Alder with them.
cielo dipinto di
nero grandi spazi in mezzo al cielo ramoscello di legno vecchio
sull'immenso mare musica dolce di onde che si infrangono violente sulla
sabbia vellutata su conchiglie addormentate e il vento dolcemente
trascina con sé profumi intensi di paesi lontani attraversi le stesse
sponde e mille bagliori per l'ennesima volta sulla stessa rotta ma come
tutte le sere davanti a te nasce la stella marina specchio dei tuoi
sogni più belli e la sua corrente é troppo violenta per un pescatore
stanco di guidare la sua barca. E incomincia la danza del mare la tua
testa comincia a girare mille suoni ti portano in alto mentre il vortice
ingoia il tuo corpo
L'uomo é nella grotta là dove il nero uccide il blu pesci dagli occhi
velatitutti uguali e dalle mille forme incurvato dall'acqua ora é fermo
un'alga accarezza il suo corpo nella grotta che ora riconosce il viso
bagnato dalla lacrima dell'oceano i suoi occhi vedono più in là e lascia
la grotta blu.
attraversa il blu nato nel suo mare per toccare il cielo freccia forte e
antica dalla grande vela che si gonfia al vento e si lancia in alto
lunghi voli ma sempre troppo brevi vecchio arco stanco di flettersi c'è
uno scoglio proprio in fondo al blu nato in questo mare per chiamarti
giù la tua pinna corre verso quella roccia l'acqua resta muta sotto la
tua forza lunghi voli ma sempre troppo brevi pesce vela stanco di
ricadere e lo scoglio scintilla luce é lo scoglio acuta voce fisse in
cerchio proprio intorno a te pinne amiche per la tua ballata freccia che
si spezza contro il vecchio sogno la tua voce grida "l'ho spezzata io"
nuovi voli ma sempre troppo brevi pesce vela stanco di ricadere ed il
branco di nuovo vola e la vela ancora vibra.
lieve spinge tra le alghe colori caldi come di una grande giostra tre
pesci vetro ed il piccolo chiuso dietro un giro un altro e un un altro
ancora il gioco di sempre il piccolo rimane indietro luci senza tempo
che sbiadiscono sempre più un colpo di coda e il piccolo é avanti padre
e madre spiano la sua scia ma nuove luci affannano il piccolo vetro.
Sento che sto arrivando verso la fine di questo sogno rispecchiano i
miei occhi limpide storie di questo mondo l'acqua cambia il suo colore
riflette i rami di quel bosco sento che la natura é sopra di me con il
suo profumo ecco ora tutto é fermo dei salmoni in viaggio é passata
l'eco seguendo il loro segreto sento le tue parole vecchio salmone nella
mia mente no non si può fermare l'armonia del vento quando sfiora il
mare e anche questa volta l'orso sarà lì ad aspettare.