Notizie da Lilliput 106: Foggy Weather

In Santa Monica exist two different kinds of fog.

The first one is the fog arising from the ocean and hiding water, sand and mountains all around. It is the fog covering the horizon and turning it into a soft-stressed awesomeness, into an elusive-framed narrative theory.

It is the romantic fog, it is the dreamers’ fog. It is the fog wafting over the waves, on their foam, the one that gently caresses them, wrapping them up cotton wool-like. It is the most common fog that often thins so much it becomes subtle veil, transparent gauze.

It is the fog struggling to be taken seriously, it is the light fog, intangible, friendly. It is the fog that does not betray, that does not scare, that does not alter. It is the fog people would like to be hugged by, to be flicked by, to be patted by.

The second one is the thick blanket that sometimes swallows up the entire city, a blanket shaped up with no reason and with no reason crept into streets, into lanes, into squares, with no notice nor clamor. By the minute, by the second, sight clouds, senses sharpen and the world as we knew it is gone, forever.

And so, in such a puzzling air, images and sounds in the eyes and ears of the passers-by become something else, turning into other images and sounds of an uncertain origin, of a cryptic nature.

A walk in such an urban landscape, then, takes on the unique traits of adventure, of discovery, of inquiry into mysteries we know very little about yet we wish we knew a lot more.

On the pavement steps soften while hearts beat faster, bringing back long-time fears and old phobiae, in the ambivalent attempt to explore somebody's own limits gathering courage at the same time.  

All around the fog has kept arising, relentlessly. Houses and trees, once perfectly visible in the long distance, have now the vague profile of some forgotten dreams, of halfway-told stories. 

Beyond the dirty white covering everything, crows and birds with many voices cry in a muffled way, trying to get a direction amidst the surrounding fluff: their screechy song, obsessive as a distress call, brings back into time and space, suggesting ancestral panoramas of men and animals hesitantly moving and fighting for light and rest.

From houses and car lights come ominous flashes, suspicious flares. The fog, perfidious, succeeded, changing known features, familiar details into stranger elements, into frightening figures. 

The fog, only and alone, will be able to restore things, to do justice to the offended, drying off secretly, unraveling inexplicably.

E.M., Santa Monica

Notizie da Lilliput 105: A Thousand and One City

The charm of Toronto is like the one of a favorite item that, following an accident, someone has tried to fix in the best way, replacing possible lacks — a chip lost, a useless little arm — with some inventiveness.

It also reminds of the beauty of those ruins where moss, ivy and lichen have finally come to take back what human hands had stolen them. Although in its case, houses covered with thick green stuff and apparently abandoned reveal, to a closer look, undeniable leads of lives still lived inside them — a starchy curtain, boxes neatly piled over a sad, little window.

This patched-up feature, friendly Frankenstein-wise, has become, year after year, one of the easiest to recognize characteristics of the city that, thanks to it and yet ironically, suffers the destiny of the common-featured person, unique and yet multiple: walking along its streets, in fact, it seems like cutting through neighborhoods already visited over and over again in tens, hundreds, thousands of different places.

This does not imply, though, the city is careless about its appearance: on the contrary, it takes good care of it, radically renovating only if strictly necessary, still preferring to it meticulously accentuate wrinkles, cracks, signs of History.

A little Europe, a little Unites States, the shtetl turns into a hoard of prairie houses, into lines over lines of respectable working-class townhouses, into Parisian buildings back from the first half of the XIX century, into fortified churches medieval castle-like and, less often, into short skyscrapers, leaning towards dwarfing.

Toronto, by the way, has not only charm and beauty: it also has temper; a temper strong and unstable, similar to the architecture that marks it.

It may not have the warmth of the California people or the friendliness of those from New York or Chicago. Better, it is capable of that all, but would rather convey it every once in a while, according to the situation it is in.

It welcomes its visitors in a dry, brisk yet impeccable way, giving them the pleasant feeling of being first among equals.

It does not sport lavishness as it often happens beyond borders. It flaunts outfits, the most different and weirdest one could think of, that matches according to the whim and the mood; expensive jewels and watches contrast with funny goggles and crinkly t-shirts retrieved from the bottom of a drawer.

Had it not a solid economy, somebody could maybe say it is a "decent poor", which, of course, would be true only in a superficial way. For, in spite of such an illusory carelessness and indifference, the Canadian dollar rules undisputed (and even stronger than the US one).

And this might lead to the important lesson hiding behind each wonky balcony and each  proudly odd face: the certainty of one’s own roots and skills capable of shaping, with no big fuss, any feature of daily living.

E.M., Toronto

Notizie da Lilliput 104: (Winter) Wonderland

In spite of its name, there is something Flemish about Wisconsin. Especially during the fall, especially when leaves on trees start changing color and sunlight vivifies them with rich brush strokes like in an oil painting.

This way, forests become wings, whose heavy curtains, bare and greyish birches, protect firs and old oaks that flack the landscape with playful shades.  

It is sufficient to sit by a lake, possibly big, and watch the opposite shore. As far as the eyes can see, it is a never ending string of branches, foliages and peaks apparently solid and thick, as if they were painted one by one and then connected one another through a dark, impregnable line.

Taking a closer look, nonetheless, can be spotted unmistakable signs of restless activity of elks, woodpeckers and squirrels fighting over the territory against a few delegates of human kind. And the latter ones, usually recognizable either on bulky pick-ups or in warm, pot-bellied cabins, seem to be up for anything in order to win.

Entering the woods, then, one has the impression of plunging into a Dürer-like environment: with every tiny squeak breath is held, fearing to have disturbed some tawny hare with long ears combed backwards with affected nonchalance, while curious fawns nimbly move towards the dense wall of trunks after shaking their soft, featherish tail and shooting a demanding glance at the inattentive explorer.

Every once in a while the darkness all around is broken by a house, neither too big nor too intrusive, over which has bloomed a contour of wooden flower-pots, yet as big as tubs, to contain ornamental grass and forgotten toys of grown-up kids, pathways perfectly swept and hand-painted boats quietly waiting for their fate to come.

It is in winter, though, that nature reveals its most secret and fairy-like side: as soon as snow and ice conceal shrubs, waters and roofs, and shovels start frantically working their way to some kind of access for the people, otherwise stuck by the fireplace just like any other hybernating animal, the dazzling whiteness of the country blends with the soothing whiteness of the skies, levelling off every difference, calling off every imperfection.

It feels like being pleasantly and confusingly confined into a slippery glass ball, where to roll restlessly towards its bottom and its top, over and over again, in a continuous reversal of perspectives, until next spring, until next awakening.

E.M., Long Lake

Notizie da Lilliput 103: Welcome To Xanadu

Should somebody closed their eyes for a second in the shuttle bus serving from the tourist centre to the Hearst Castle in San Simeon, California, and opened them again within the immense estate, somebody would find themselves wearing period-piece dresses. 

All around financial experts, politicians, writers and movie stars back from the 20's are merrily chatting, waiting to enter the many fitting rooms where they will find bathing suits and new clothes generously donated by the host, William Randolph Hearst, tycoon.

Some guests, men but most of all women, barely seduced by the usual life of the party, actress Marion Davies, are looking for an elegant way to bolt, heading for the indoor pool, an outburst of gold and blue, marble and Liberty lamps, that is said to hide, from time to time, Johnny Weissmueller and his spectacular diving from the tiny trampoline.

On the way to their forbidden amusement, some couples decide to indulge in a tennis game, loudly taking up the many courts in the compound garden, conveniently concealed with a colorful multitude of trees and flowers, both exotic and local.

Some envious souls sneak into the labyrinthine hallways of the big villa, an endless heap of bedrooms, private spaces and locations decorated with legendary splendour, looking for the cheap detail, for the planning mistake to blame on the creator of the venue, architect Julia Morgan. And a quick glance at the ball room, an indiscreet intrusion into the refectory in search for some dinner preview, a solitary eight ball game could maybe meet that gloating tendency. 

Possibly puzzled by the sewing room, specifically designed for the mistress, though, they might now prefer to exit and enjoy the fascinating sight of the cultivated land declining towards the dark stain of the ocean, away in the distance. Atop the hill, where the whole residence has been built, are winding pathways, softened by North African tiles, fencing in flowerbeds, revealing icy statues, leading to fountains.

The same pathways will have meanwhile led to the cellar the bravest ones, sick of waiting for the possible showing up of their host and his ridiculous amount of spirits: thousands of bottles of select wines, neatly placed on dark wooden shelves, will have then welcome the unexpected visitors, with dusty indifference.

A clock ticks the time: it is 11 p.m. It is now time to reach the private movie theatre where, perhaps, will be finally possible to shake hands with the wealthy philanthropist and see one of the many movies he has produced so far, in anticipation of a movie inspired by him.

E.M. 

eBooks gratis e in offerta: Frankenstein di Mary Shelley

Le cronache storiche e letterarie più accreditate raccontano che nel 1816, durante una serata estiva funestata da temporali ed acquazzoni, alcuni amici si trovavano in vacanza in Svizzera, per la precisione nella splendida Villa Diodati sita sul lago di Ginevra.

Non si trattava di un gruppo qualunque, quanto piuttosto di una "combriccola", appassionata di arte e letteratura, dotata di grande immaginazione e fantasia. Poiché il tempo, come già detto, non permetteva nessuno svago all'aria aperta, il gruppo decise di ammazzarlo andando a frugare tra le vecchie leggende germaniche dedicate ai fantasmi e ad altre mostruose e demoniache creature.

Così, prendendo spunto dai racconti contenuti nella raccolta intitolata Phantasmagoria, decisero di dedicarsi all'argomento. In questo modo, ognuno di loro si impegnò a scrivere una novella o un poema "gotico" che avesse come tema l'orrore e il demoniaco, nel più ampio senso dei termini.

Ma da chi era composto questo cenacolo letterario dedito alla lettura di novelle gotiche e storie di fantasmi tedeschi? A parte Diodati, il padrone di casa, c'erano, tra gli altri, Byron, Polidori, Percy Bysshe Shelley e Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin. E' sicuro, inoltre, che anche l'autore di The Monk, Matthew Gregory Lewis, frequentasse questa congrega di artisti. Ad ogni modo, mantennero la promessa di scrivere un racconto gotico o un romanzo d'orrore?

Partiamo dall'ultima della lista. Mary, londinese, era figlia di William Godwin, uno dei massimi filosofi anarchici della storia moderna, e di Mary Wollstonecraft, una delle più importanti sostenitrici del movimento per il riconoscimento dei diritti delle donne. Donna di grande intelligenza e dotata di profonda sensibilità, sposò proprio il poeta Percy Bysshe Shelley, diventando così Mary Shelley. E difatti fu con questo nome che pubblicò una delle opere più importanti del genere: Frankenstein.

Ispirata dalla leggendaria figura di Prometeo e da quella del Faust, riuscì a dar vita a una creatura oscura e malvagia, figlia degli esperimenti immorali e devianti di uno scienziato stregone, rappresentazione del male che alberga nell'essere umano. Pubblicato per la prima volta nel 1818, consacrò Mary Shelley come scrittrice di "romanzi gotici" al pari di Ann Radcliffe. 

Un fantasy filosofico ancora oggi insuperato per le tematiche trattate che vanno al di là del semplicismo horror che di solito si attribuisce alla storia. Su Amazon è possibile acquistare la versione eBook per Kindle, edizione eNewton, a 0,99 euro.

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