"we are steam & fantasy"

Paris. Cafe Procope. What I imagine to exist is not the product of my imagination, but the transposition to the reality of my will to accomplish the Great Work, helping it to become manifest. From the question, it becomes an answer and all I see is not filtered anymore, questioned, but just answered. Free from filters and above all only the essence. Just the answer. Paul Verlaine, centuries later, is still sitting there on the chesterfield sofa with his black fedora and his glass of fete vert on the marble-topped table. The Vision. Paul is an easy conversationalist when in a good mood, but he’s as disgusted today as I am, in all fairness......

The singular lost in the collective, as in music, so in tragedy. A glimpse of the ordinary as unacceptable. Suffering is everybody’s condition which we transformed.......

I can’t remember where I was, a Shopping Centre perhaps. I read somewhere there, on a commercial banner… no, it can’t be. It was something underneath, almost subliminal. The confused sound of the Shopping Centre’s radio, well audible just after the entrance and then, gradually, inside the galleries. Just a confusing rustle… but no, it can’t be. I got it. It was at a home party; I was talking with somebody, the umpteenth unwanted guest… I guess I took care of it. Anyway, somewhere I heard this message: “I enjoy taking an undefendable position and creating an argument on it.”

Here we are, the unwanted. Astronauts sculpted on a portal of a thousand years old. Restless jingles of an old advertisement, uncomfortable shoes, like raw fries. It’s necessary to find a reason for the puddles which is not the dropped ground. Stop calling the night passer-by lady a prostitute. Stop calling the man with dirty cheeks a miner.

Samhain, October 31st, the Celtic Pagan religious festival. End of Summer, end of the harvest, and beginning of the darkest period of the year. For the original and ancient cult, it was the end of the year, and also according to other, more sulfurous pagan cults. The date appears in the Compendium Maleficarum of 1608, written by Francesco Maria Guazzo, marked as the second more influential Witches Sabbath, after The Walpurgis Night at the end of April. Back in time, they wrote many analyses about the last day of October. From the original pagan festival throughout cultural reinterpretations. Renamed in middle English Alholwmesse, meaning All Saints’ Day, it became eventually Halloween.

It’s morning, isn’t it? Yeah, the classic morning to think, where to consider facts and circumstances. The very time where to get sunk, never a part of my daily game. First task is to have a look at my bridge. You what? I’m sure you’re asking. My bridge. I was never and currently am not fond of the present. I will explain better. I never trust the modernity and the stuff it represents, in a blatant and insidious way. I always feel the need to escape this nightmare, which is my personal view of the present. Thus, I enter my bridge, and I’m sure I will be pleased by the extra dimension. Early seventies are typically the place where I land. Am I delirious? Not at all. How can I enter a bridge? Let me tell you.

The universe is all about space and time and their contents. The universe is like a container, or better to say, a lot of containers one into another; just like the typical Russian doll called Matryoshka. The universe is the container that makes everything possible. Just being as it is. Existent. In the universe, the role for which the holding of things is made possible, is called communion. The complementary sense of things. No one like the other, no one more or less important than the other. All together in the common attempt to be. All proud to be.

My puny fangs and claws, when they come to claim what is logical. What is due. What no judge can evaluate, because no evaluation is needed. It’s our right to be free, proud to be.

Good day to you, my name is Basil Montague. I’m a lonely spirit, a lonely man, or whatever you prefer. For sure, a free soul, a man of courage, a toxin in the social morality, no bravery, a bohemian, proud of it. I’m a poet, and that’s why my scathing prelude; probably mine is the continuous research of verse to justify a universe of the multitude, where a multitude is nothing, I’m afraid. Too complex for a single soul, even if made of stanzas and verses.

Zikru the idea. He had an idea. During an ordinary day, Zikru, tired as always, was trying to find a revelation, an explanation, a solution. What he was looking for was in his reflection, in the mirror. Was it his in-sight? Maybe it was what he was staring at. He wanted to heal his tiredness throughout his own reflection. Using it to fill the void, the lack of substance, the wrong facets. To cancel weaknesses, to save from decline.

There is nothing clearer or more defined than a desire. The framework in which we put on display something vaguely determined, that is far from us. The burning passion, the ardent desire for what does not exist. Not yet. Paul was a loner; he ate away the pavement and the soles, running behind intense chimaeras of the mind, his precious thoughts that belonged to a teacher. This is what Paul was, before the death of his wife, and before the retirement.

Here it is, out from the eternal womb,

marching proud the newborn.

Hard to see,

in its smallest nest.