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    Time Zone
    Time Zone
    Time Zone
    Ebook83 pages3 hours

    Time Zone

    By Edda Tassi

    ()

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    About this ebook

    There is always a love that remains a secret love. There is always a fight of the sages against the power men. Especially between the ruins of the American dreams and the ruins of Rome. But if you want to live forever, you have one chance: use your imagination!

    C'è sempre un amore che resta segreto. C'è sempre una lotta tra i sapienti e gli uomini di potere. Specialmente tra le rovine dei sogni americani e le rovine di Roma. ma se tu vuoi vivere per sempre, hai una sola possibilità: usa l'immaginazione!
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBookBaby
    Release dateApr 18, 2015
    ISBN9781483553627
    Time Zone

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      Book preview

      Time Zone - Edda Tassi

      Contents

      English version

      THE MUSICIAN IS DYING

      THE NINTH LIFE

      EARTHQUAKE IN LOS ANGELES

      THE DIALOGUES WITH THE STONE ANGEL

      TIME ZONE

      5150 CODE

      POLITICS FICTION

      Originale versione in Italiano

      IL MUSICISTA STA MORENDO

      LA NONA VITA

      TERREMOTO A LOS ANGELES

      I DIALOGHI CON L’ANGELO DI PIETRA

      TIME ZONE (Fuso orario)

      5150 CODE (Codice 5150)

      POLITICS FICTION (Fantapolitica)

      English version

      THE MUSICIAN IS DYING

      There is a time to play the piano, and a very different time to die. Playing the piano passionately means to get inside rhythm of the best times, it means life itself.

      As for the rest, there is nothing comparable to the journey, to the interrupted holyday, even in the same place. In the place where the others keep holding still, while they grow old, captured in a special time zone.

      There should be no fear, even if the price to pay is complete loneliness, often soundless, because there is always external echoes, affective attempts, unstoppable urges of the human being, of which at times you can be proud of, and at other times, you should be ashamed of and ask yourself forgiveness for, laughing on it.

      If these may be useful just for a few minutes to deceive ourselves and make us feel happy, knowing that then there is always some kind of pain that would take them away higgledy-piggledy, let us welcome mystery and illusions.

      We have plenty of time to go back to the insulating-tape-sealed dimension, so long, a real eternity, before we hear again the ultrasound.

      The first time ever I invoked the wind

      I was fleeing in the dry desert

      In which there is no oasis to dream of

      But a flat ocher horizon

      Nights and days all alike

      Listening to the thunder of the hiss, the breath.

      It was the rich blow in time

      Which stows everything in harmony

      Little by little, from steps to stars.

      It’s not an expectation, since everything is still

      Held by a pain in the chest

      That risks emotions, catastrophes-

      It’s hopelessly wandering

      Till the natural passage

      The second time I invoked the wind.

      I stood up and it was dawning

      I opened the window, I breath

      Smiling without tears.

      The time when I used to play my piano passionately was the time of perfect wellness, unknown to most people; the time in which to thank great Mother Nature for bringing us to this world.

      That’s what makes us desire to live longer possible, insignificant whim for the hasty, abrupt and messy law of nature.

      When I woke up with the fixed idea to flee to Spain, without knowing well where to go, I left to venture. I found myself in Alicante , I don’t know well how, strangely, with the same name as the mad knight. I don’t ask myself why; it just happened.

      I simply believe in the sun and the moon, and these are my only certainties among so many uncertain human conventions, most of which are unreliable.

      I believe in a secret frame, unsearchable, made of communication among artists, that happens at different levels. Dead or living artists, it obviously makes no difference.

      The levels are geometrical, within special magnetic fields, restricted from profanes, meaning those who are not artists. Even if millions pretend to be them, or to be able to become one of them by attending costly courses.

      I have been living like this, writing down the notes every day, and also every night: what a beauty is the night, with her lazy hours in which to look at the human things from the outside, with minimal collisions, almost zero. I wrote music and words in many notebooks filled up of wonders, concert reveries. I was writing, while the others pretended to be happy, because this is how you do to get along with humans, especially during the religious holidays. No unnecessary and dangerous flight of fancy.

      An old proverb says that the Devil finds work for idle hands, but sometimes the very opposite is true.

      I gave myself another rule: the vice is fantastic and always needs to be shared. I am a musician, but I am not lecherous nor autistic, even if I spent most of my time in solitude. My adventurous youthful escapes have continuously changed my identity, along with the cities, the Nations, till the conquer of a certain strangeness to all and from all in the whole world.

      My nature is malleable, nice, but when I came back to a place in which I had been living for a short or long time, friends were not friends any more. Alike, I was seeing them with new eyes in the present, growing a tremendous feeling of discomfort inside them. So they did stave me off as much as they could of their flat existences, that they pretended to be full of commitments and accomplished, in a great collective recital.

      They were floating in the tide of continuous pretending, and overpowering. I assume that the majority of human beings calls this life, ignoring what this

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