REBEL DAYS

REBEL DAYS

Giorni Ribelli (Rebel Days) is the latest book by Andrea Calugi, whom I thank most sincerely along with Manuale di Mari

Andrea Calugi is from Tuscany and from his short biography I like to quote this sentence: he is still searching for his future, among a book to read, a page to write, a song to listen to and a glass of good wine to drink.

It is therefore easy to empathise, and as Andrea searches for his future, he offers us a vision of the future in his book.

A timeless future, a future that we cannot calculate, a future that is far away and at the same time near: all the time I had the perception of a kind of dualism.

I was reading about a future and thinking about a past, a clear representation of how everything changes but how in reality everything remains unchanged.

The days flow by and history repeats itself.

A history from which we do not learn, or do not want to learn.

A history of wars, such as the one that characterises Rebel Days, that invite reflection, that spur the search for Freedom before it is extinguished.

I loved a passage in the book in which Andrea compares the earth to a human body bleeding from the wounds of the bombs and “it hovered dust that slowly, like tears, fell back to the ground, flooding everything and everyone with its weeping.”

I wish everyone had the sensitivity to see the earth bleeding, to feel the pain of the earth, which is pain for everyone.

And I was struck by the thought of one of the characters that “the real fear was that with him would also die all those wonderful memories that should have survived him instead.”

Constantine is considered crazy for his way of thinking, what is the real fear for you?

Do you feel rebellious?

Who or what would counteract your rebel days?

THE FIRST TEST

THE FIRST TEST

The first written test of the final state examination is the same essay for everyone.

And this equality links all candidates with a thread that unites them regardless of the path that led them to that fateful day.

The day of the essay for the so-called maturity.

Those who went to high school, those who chose a technical institute; those who attended Italian classes with predisposition and those who are more into math; those who never had any bad vote and those who were able to catch up.

All of them, all students indiscriminately, find themselves on the same morning sitting on their desks in the common expectation of taking the first written test.

The castle of thoughts regarding the hypothetical topics of the tracks have become “legendary” to the point that more or less all people find themselves reliving the emotions of the hours that mark a crucial moment, a phase that ends by symbolically opening the door to the future.

How did you experience your exam?

Did you suffer through the wait?

Do you still remember what the topic of your paper was?

What was your exam about? What kind of test did it consist of?

THE BOOKBINDER OF LOST STORIES

THE BOOKBINDER OF LOST STORIES

The Bookbinder of Lost Stories is the book I read, again thanks to Monica.

 

Speaking of friendship, Sas Bellas Mariposas  and Mamaglia are skilled fan of the author: Cristina Caboni, so maybe they would like to tell us something about her.

In the meantime I would like to chat more about how I especially liked the parts that describe the binding process in the early 19th century.

Nowadays how long does it take to create a book?
There are several 24-hour delivery options on the web.

And each time we find ourselves with the usual question: have we gained or lost?

Recently with my husband we have been looking for someone who was still in a profession related to the traditions of the past, but here in the area unfortunately we do not have old style jobs anymore.

It is very sad to be aware that the precious chain of passing on knowledge and teaching patience and time needed to acquire skills has been interrupted.

By interrupting the oral tradition, we will deprive ourselves of the privilege of being able to know stories because there will be no one left to tell them.

So I would very much like to take up the concept of “binding” lost stories to unite them and to keep them living with us.

I spent a lot of time listening to one of my grandmothers telling about her childhood in a peasant family, talking to me about a seemingly distant era, about an essential lifestyle, about objects that we will never use.

My other grandmother, had less life to live but equally her tales remain indelible to me, as well as the memory her rice-fields worker  knees.

My great-grandfather, on the other hand, was a carter, and his traveling for work gave him the opportunity to meet and to marry my great-grandmother: German, in spite of the saying “wife and oxen in your own country …” jokes aside, theirs was a rather unconventional marriage considering historical period and social conditions.

But tell me please! I would love to “listen to you.”

If you have a craft to tell, if you want a story not to be lost, if you wish to pass on a tale, a thought, a concept, a proverb, an experience or even just a comment, I will be grateful and add it to the lost stories to be bound.

LOST

LOST

Lost is an entirely unreleased track that anticipates the planned April release of the 20th anniversary celebration edition of Meteora.

2003: after Hybrid Theory, Linkin Park unveils Meteora and still do not know that their work will not be a meteor and will consecrate them to music history.

On Linkin Park’s website you can find these words

congratulations on solving all our puzzles and welcome to our warehouse

 

As you know I love puzzles

I don’t know if in the days during which the countdown appeared before the release of Lost you also tried to solve: clicking on the CD case a word game to guess appeared.

Cute, right?

Overall Lost was really a surprise, and honestly hearing Chester Bennington‘s voice in a totally unreleased track triggered a number of seesaw thoughts for me.

Among other things, the lyrics are particularly striking:

a scar somewhere down inside of me
Something I can not repair ...

I’m trapped in yesterday
Where the pain is all I know

… I’m lost in these memories …

But then, considering the official tweet set on the profile, I agreed to consider Lost as a “time capsule.”

 

In a less metaphorical sense, now the term time capsule is used to refer to an external hard drive for wireless storage, but it also remains the classic “time capsule” we are used to seeing in American movies and beyond.

For example, there is a capsule in the Well Room of the Torre Ghirlandina at the Civic Museum of Modena, which in this video tells us various interesting facts about it

 

 

What would you like to put in a time capsule?

According to the International Time Capsule Society there would be more than 10 thousand time capsules in the world. Only one in a thousand is found.

On Focus you can see a gallery with the nine most wanted capsules in the world.

They are lost

Linkin Park, however, made us find their time, their sense, and they put Anime in it.

Anime アニメ as Kasabake explains on the blog As Circles in the Water comes from “animēshon,” Japanese transliteration of the English word “animation.”

Unfortunately I have huge gaps in the subject, although I find the word Anime poetic and intense, maybe you would like to add something about this wonderful subject?

In the meantime, enjoy your viewing and listening

In an interview Mike Shinoda stated that Lost was not included on the Meteora album because of the sound being too similar to Numb.

What do you think?

I WAS BORN ON THE DAY OF THE PIAZZA FONTANA MASSACRE

I WAS BORN ON THE DAY OF THE PIAZZA FONTANA MASSACRE

I was born on the day of the Piazza Fontana massacre, and I defy even those who are not superstitious not to see ominous signs in it.

I was born at home, on the kitchen table, like a fresh loaf of bread in the early morning

When my mother shaked my father telling “it’s time,” he just turned on the other side and went on sleeping.

How could I blame him? I was coming to dawn as importunate as an alarm clock.

I was born in Cilavegna and I am one of the last people to be able to say this: as of January 1970 it was no longer possible to use a midwife, and it became mandatory to give birth in a hospital. Since there were no hospitals in Cilavegna, from that date on, new babies saw the light elsewhere.

I was born in Lomellina, land of fog and mosquitoes, but my father is of Venetian descent and my great-grandmother on my mother’s side was German. I am basically a mixture.

I was born into a simple family, Ihad simple things and a happy childhood.

My maternal grandmother, who looked after me from the time my mother resumed her job as a clerk, had swollen knees from all her mondina days, and, unable to move nimbly, entertained me by telling stories.

The result was that, before I began to walk, I spoke perfectly without the classic infantile mispronunciations, and I knew nursery rhymes, prayers and numbers.

Words were my first games, my first friends, my first nourishment.

Nevertheless, the kindergarten debut was quite traumatic: my shyness was relentless.

I had not yet understood the pleasure of chatting and socializing, a concept I largely recovered after the middle ages of adolescence.

But let us proceed step by step: for the nuns who conducted the kindergarten, my interaction defect was not a noteworthy aspect, quite the contrary. Rather, the problem was created by my inability to fall asleep after lunch.

Standing still in my cot, I would silently weave the bangs of the rough plaid under which I was supposed to fall asleep instead.

I did not feel that I was creating a disturbance, but that was one of my first errors of judgment: I still have clear memories of the reprimand from Sister Antonia, who among the sisters was the better and quieter one.

Thereafter rather than the bangs I took to interweaving my attempts at intentionality with my grandfather’s big heart. He would work night shifts and in the morning, exhausted, instead of going to rest. he would accommodate my requests, effectively endorsing the intent to skip kindergarten.

A tumor took him away when I was only five years old leaving me a huge void and an unfulfilled desire in return.

He used to tell me “as soon as I retire I will teach you German.”

During the war he was used as an interpreter after a German officer, striking him, heard him reply in his own language.

I thought I would learn easily, that I would listen happily as with Grandma’s stories, but instead he could tell me no more.

When elementary school time came, there was no school on Thursdays, but by then I didn’t care much.

Some people still called us remiges: lined up in rows of two, hand in hand, with our overcoats over our black aprons from which sprouted the big blue bow knotted under the white collar.

It began on the first of October when the desks were still desks, and the folders contained a checkbook and a ruled notebook, small ones, with the blotting paper for the ink of fountain pens: witnesses to a writing that no longer exists.

… TO BE CONTINUED.

Pic by Massimo

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