10 posts tagged “english content”

Chapter 1: The Bed

His name was Bill, but that's not so important.
Wake up Bill, said the voice in his dream.  
The world and New York were still there.
Still snowing. It had been going on for a week. Black clouds like Stuka squadrons, thundering over the city.
The snow was grey. Grey as a miner's hand, that's how the bruja nurse pictured it. The grey snow was wet and volatile, strange as it was it melted away during the night, then the next day another tiny layer would fall, leaving New York under a constant inch – no more, no less - of snow.  
The bruja nurse came to his bed.
A giant dinosaur went on a rampage in Columbus Circle this morning, she said. It was huge, evil and red as sin. Stomped on at least sixteen parked SUVs.
Not bad, he said.
Could have been better, said the bruja nurse, who hated SUVs.

Interlude: The Writer

The bruja nurse was priceless.
“Red as sin”. She came up with that kind of stuff all the time. She was born in Santa Teresa, Sonora. She saw things, she spoke tongues and knew herbs. Sometimes she would fire a candle in his room and Bill's head would become weightless and free. “Red as sin”. Is sin red? Well, sure is. Were he still a writer, he would have put that one to good use. But he didn't write anymore. He didn't do anything anymore, after the windshield.

Chapter 2: The Signs

Wake up Bill, said the voice in his dream, and the Abba nurse was by his bed.
He called her the Abba nurse because she reminded him of the blonde girl in Abba. Also, she could be clueless and naïve to the point of no return, just like an Abba song. But, just like an Abba song, she was a kind one.
I'd like to add some decorations to the room if you don’t mind, said the Abba nurse.
A red festoon crossed the ceiling over his head, then a yellow one crossed the red one. Finally, a small tree with lights appeared on his table by the bed.
There, now Christmas is really close, said the Abba nurse.
I'll be bringing the mistletoe tomorrow so we can kiss, said the Abba nurse and chuckled.
Then she came closer to the bed.
Another cook left, she said. Swears that a fried egg jumped out of the pan and tried to attack him. That makes four, this week.
These are signs, just like the snow, she said.
But what do they mean. What does it all mean.
Somehow he felt he had the answer, or at least part of the answer. But he couldn't put it into words.

Chapter 3: The Evil Paramedic

Wake up Bill, said the voice in his dream. The evil paramedic came to his bed.
He would pop up from time to time. He had blonde hair, brown teeth and smelled like a really bad day. And he was evil.
How you doin' Billy, said the evil paramedic. You know, season being near, I got you a present. Here, have a look. Nice, uh? I swear, all the kids are going nuts for this new set of rollerblades. Heard they are the most stolen item in Walmart. Not much use for them now, eh Billy? You should have worn your helmet that day, you nasty scoundrel. You really should have. Now you won't get to write that shiny space knight of yours anymore.
I quit writing. I was a lawyer, he said.
That you were, Billy. A public defender, nonetheless. Almost put on that shiny space armor yourself, uh? Pity it didn't work against the windshield. Windshields are killers for mosquitoes and imagination! Bet you didn't know, eh?

Chapter 4: The Shadow Play

He always dreamt about the car.
Or at least, he thought he always dreamt about the car.
It was purple and the Joker, the Batman villain, was at the wheel. Other times, the evil paramedic was at the wheel. It would always end with the taste of burnt tires and dirty concrete.
He opened his eyes. By the lights of the small christmas tree, somebody was playing shadow puppets on the wall. The shadows told the story of four spacemen who crashed on Venus and found out that it was inhabited only by gorgeous girls. He knew the story.
It's “Queen of the Outer Space”, he said.
Right on, said Bob K. Next time I'll try my hands at playing “2001”.
You look good, Bob.
I always look good, rookie.  
That Bob K, always playing larger than life. He too used to be a writer. In some ways he was his maestro, but he would say, let's not waste words about that. We've been thrown in this world together, he would say, useless and defenseless writers. Words keep us alive. Waste them, and they won't be there for us when we need them.
And what are we to do, Bill would ask.
Why, we will take over. We will take over sickness and disease and helplessness and loneliness and hopelessness and regret. With crazy imagination. We will take over everything with crazy imagination. We will take over the whole world with crazy imagination.
How come they let you in, asked Bill.
They didn't. You're still dreaming. Wake up, Bill.

Interlude: What others dream about

The only thing everybody was more willing to talk about than the grey snow was Mrs Sacks.
They had taken her in the first day of snow. Pregnant woman in a car crash. Some kind of brain damage. They were trying to save the baby.
Must have dozed off in my night shift, said the Abba nurse. I dreamt about Mrs Sacks. I dreamt that I heard some commotion coming from her room, and as I was about to enter, that young paramedic, the blonde, blasted from the door. He was being hunted by a ghost horse. Don't ask me how I know it was a ghost horse. Riding the ghost horse was the ghost of a Confederate general, ghost hat and ghost beard, swinging a scabbard. It was like they were chasing the paramedic away from Mrs Sacks. I entered the room and Mrs Sacks was okay. Is he your friend the paramedic? I see him often coming to your room. I just don't like him.

Chapter 5: The Siege  

Nine days of grey snow are enough to drive everyone insane, said the bruja nurse.
It enshrouds everything, it makes you feel it's going to stay there forever.
You can't find fresh fruit anywhere, said the bruja nurse. Except at the robots' ship.
Big rusty robots sitting on three wheels. They're the only ones selling fresh fruit in whole freaking Queens.
He woke. It was night. Everybody drowning in their own private horror. Just fitting that he should be awake.
Commotion down the corridor. Someone said something about bringing a stretcher. Someone else screamed. Footsteps. Running. Noise. Glass trembling in the window frames. The Abba nurse, who worked mostly nightshifts, appeared in the door.
There's a tank, a tank in the lobby!
More running. More screaming.
The room went dark. Even the small christmas tree died. Emergency neons flared in the corridor.  
A huge, dark figure passed by the door. Each step made everything tremble. The corridor echoed like an empty bell.
Then something lighter, maybe something that didn't need to touch the ground. Maybe a woman, wild hair dancing in an invisible wind. Seized the frame of light in a second.
A rustle. Somebody, something crawling on the floor. They've wounded someone, he thought. Something like an old piece of wood creeped throught the door. An old piece of wood, wet and rotten, with tiny, skeleton arms. Crawling like a snake. Puffing and whistling. Crawling.
Ssssso sssssmart Billy, said the piece of wood. Had eyes.
Smell of breakfast.
So that's what you think of when you are terrified.
No, wait.  
Four enormous fried eggs had flown through the door. Yellow faces like full moons, gliding in the air like white mantas on wings of butter. Without a sound, they covered the crawler. It struggled, but no chance. The eggs were consuming it. The impossible sound of leukocytes doing their job.
I'm still dreaming, said Bill.
No you're not, said Bob K. He was in the room, somewhere in the dark.  
Heavy boots. A squad of soldiers ran by. He saw rifles shine in the neons.
Thought he caught a voice, we'll be done soon sir.
Suddendly the whole building took a big shake, like a punch from a giant. The bed made one big jump, and while he was in mid-air, he thought he heard a roar. An enormous, primal roar that came from a troath covered in scales.
Then, a baby cried.

Chapter 6: The Bed (reprise)  

She fooled everyone, said Bob K. Didn't even leave them time to prep the ER. She wanted to be born in a real bed. Can't blame her for that.
Morning. The Abba nurse came in tears, could hardly speak.
The bruja nurse said that the baby looked at the world with the eyes of a Saint.
Said she and her husband would file for adoption.
Swore the baby would surely become a healer, when she grew up.  
The grey snow kept falling. Bob K was half asleep in the sofa with his best impression of Bogart, white trench and hard hat.
While is floating it doesn't look so bad, he said.
It's like when you are a kid, said Bob K, and see dust floating in a ray of sunlight. That kind of fascination. But when it settles, it's bad.  
You know, said Bob K, there's always been grey snow in New York. There's always been grey snow all over the world. It's been there for a long, long time. Started to fall when we lost our innocence, maybe. Started to fall when we gave in. Best we can do is keep our coats on.
I'll keep my blankets on, said Bill.
Bob K smiled.
That's the spirit, rookie.
You are dead, said Bill. You died in 2002.
Matter of opinion. Actually, I run a nice cozy hotel in Como with Bob H. Remember him?
Como, Tennessee?  
Como, Italy, you hopeless rookie. You know, the lake, the food and George Clooney. You should see the girls. Bob H drives them crazy.
Bill smiled.
Room for one more?
Always.
I’m still dreaming, right?
That I wouldn't know Bill, said Bob K. That I really wouldn't know.

They shout from the walls their old, silent cries. They watch, they peep, they remember. But who remembers them?
Shop sings, inventive insigna, graphic design and oddities from a by-gone era. Is there still someone who looks up to La Valletta walls, listening to them?
A series taken in Malta, last year.

Rawlplugs

Val Codera (Codera valley), up past the northern spike of Como Lake, near the Swiss border, is a treasure of popular devotion.
The valley, as is often the case, owes its name to the river that created it. Legend has it that this is one of the first places that God made, when He wasn't that skillful, or maybe one of the last, when He was tired and left with just throwaways. Either way, the valley has a pristine, savage, severe beauty.
No road has ever been built: there's just a path, and it's scattered with small chapels, each with its own subject and style. This is one of the first that you meet, climbing up from the real world.

Madonna

A blissful Madonna with Child, both with crowns, is the centerpiece.

St.-John

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On the right side, St. John the Baptist. Look at that blue! It's really beautiful. Unfortunately, the painting on the left side, more exposed to the wind and rain, is completely gone.

And here's the chapel, in all its breathtaking setting!

The chapel

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For our international visitors: a new, ongoing series of images taken by yours truly.

Popular devotion in Italy comes in all sizes: small, big and over the top.
As usual, it’s at its best when it’s at its most sincere, which often means: off the beaten track.
In the big cities there’s real art: the big names, the wealthy families, the famous artists.
But if you are looking for the heartfelt, the naïve, the ludicrously simple-minded, you have to wander.

In small communities, religion was the most important social glue. Churces were built with donations provided by the whole community. Paesants and miners would erect chapels to provide themselves with some kind of protection that was unattainable by human means.

Mercy is the strongest feeling you get. Mercy from a lifetime of troubles and suffering: it’s no wonder why popular devotion praises martyrs above all other saints. They are the only ones who suffered even more, and got their reward in heaven. Faith in a simple, blissful salvation provided by a smiling Madonna.

Their faces: they are the faces of real people. Painted by wandering artists, some of their names forever lost to us, who would choose their models among local maids, washerwomen, paesants. Saints share the same features of those who worshipped them. Which is just as well.

S. Agata

S. Agata
Taken in the local church on Isola dei Pescatori (Fishermen's island), a small island near the shores of Lago Maggiore, in Northern Italy.