Marks that remain…

Fortunately everything goes by … and something good always remains …
being nothingness fiction at all … “why is there something rather than nothing?” So many philosophers racking their brains, wasting lots of words, Latin and German …
and nothing! A simple little word [NADA] that well-read, or written in the Semitic way, is almost like the father of the homo biblicus, who also happened to be hard ill-
fated, except for the luck of not having had a mother-in-law, supposing he has really existed, since as far as I know no archaeologist has come across up to today with
the sacrosanct bones, and the scribes who invented the pious chronicle so long ago, about two millenniums and a half, neither gave any more details and very much less
trustworthy proofs.

Well, fairy stories!
It is more healthy to feed illusions then to fight against the wind mills of the delirious reality —
although who orders is the wind, it decides, as well versified the bohemian León Felipe, big adventurous, visionary, slightly embittered and fretful bard, sure,
for what he logically had a lot of good reasons. Se non è vero …

Before discovering Poetry [as a basic need article, essential luxury, just as a pure scotch and a good Ribera del Duero] and that to survive I had to learn —
out in the world — fundamental tricks, almost always tied to $$$ … I was a monk's apprentice.

A country boy, authentic highlander … and candidate for monk.
C’era una volta un povero giovane… le misteriose vie della Divina Provvidenza.

First came the Gregorian chant and opened to me the pearly gates — Music! — divine "revelation",
heilige holde Kunst … thereafter equally first need, essential luxury etc.

Later on vae misero mihi Latin and classic Greek, patristic studies, philosophy, theology, Italian etc.
And afterwards other languages, some wisdom. And doubts. Very many.


This enigmatic [neumatic!] figure wants to allude somehow to that unforgettable beginning …
… mysterious signs hanging on four ropes imitating the ritual of certain birds of passage, starlings perhaps,
put on top to words, at that point of the exciting venture, still unintelligible, the pure enigma to the eyes of a
young highlander just gone out of the childhood in the South of Minas Gerais, my first illumination before the
magic spheres of the Gregorian Chant.

There began a long pilgrimage I never could have imagined …
or dreamed where it would lead and mark my steps, my beats.