#;giappone

[ilserenissimo-blog]

; il paese del sol levante

@terra-ortus-sol

 “Come on, amico! Come up and enjoy the sea breeze on the deck with me, the wind is not too strong!”

[ilserenissimo-blog]

~Soulscape~ { I'd love to see the way you would write these }

x.

Grace.  His canvas is there, in his mind’s eye. His eyes are closed while he is in deep contemplation of his subject. It is Springtime, and its glorious palette of light pastels immediately makes itself visible as it dusts the slopes of a great old mountain with a light shade of antique pink.  The dawn tints the snowy hill top of the mountain and the surrounding sea of clouds with its rosy fingers; the air is still, crystallised in peaceful calm and a most serene sense of timelessness. There is almost no indication of the fiery monster roiling beneath, save for a halo of rarefied smoke around its peak, disguised as soft clouds; its molten blood fills the very circuits and bowels of the earth, dormant, but not yet extinguished. There is a quiet spring on its slopes, steaming with natural heat, an an old wooden structure beside it. Moss-covered stones encircle it like watchful guardians, and an immaculate garden leads the way into the house. It is neat, it is orderly and almost systematic; there is a show of great care in its landscape. The gravel path crunches beneath his feet, and there is a pleasantly strong scent as he approaches an old, flowering magnolia. He keeps following the stone pathway to the very threshold of the structure, raised from the ground on wooden beams; its architecture is curiously exotic, with large open rooms and window-less walls made of paper and wood, and it is dominated by a stark, minimalistic simplicity. A familiar smell of firewood welcomes him as he approaches it, coming from a sunken fireplace in the middle of the room he’s peeking into. It is a peculiar sight for the traveller’s eyes. His curious gaze examines the aged prints hanging from the walls within, sporting stylised landscapes and foreign characters, and the neat flower compositions in the occasional vases. He feels lost, but pleasantly so, and though he does not belong there, he knows he is a welcome guest. The artist’s eyes open and he begins his work, painting dark, anguishing layers beneath and covering them up with delicate pastels. The brightness of these is thus dulled, giving his landscape an air of elegant melancholy. The snow-maned volcano quietly looms in the background, like an undisputed master of the island’s fate, illusorily calm.   Under the magnolia’s shade, a narrow brook feeds into a small pond with a wooden bridge arching over it; there, a lissome figure wearing exotic robes stands in the middle, carefully feeding the dappled, ornamental carps that dance in harmonious circles below.

[ilserenissimo-blog]

; Una serata all’Opera

@shimaguni

🇮🇹 Settembre 1937, Comune di Milano, Capitale Lombarda   Trains were a thing of marvel  Slow to start, constant, heavy chugging machines, almost impossible to stop when in full motion. The moment Veneziano had stepped onto one, decades before, he was overcome by a strange feeling of helplessness that if he even had a moment’s hesitation he knew it would be too late to go back - and even so, he could only sit in quiet amazement and let the monstrous serpent ferry him away, all the while leaving him behind as the world rushed by in the corner of his eyes, hopelessly out of his reach; streamliners were yet a new wonder of the modern world, faster still, and furious as they bellowed like steel-clad bulls in their powerful, unstoppable course.

  Mister Mussolini’s words still echoed in his mind from the previous day; a well crafted, optimistic and artfully diplomatic speech that he knew to be a sleek veneer concealing something unimaginable. He felt hollow, deaf to the rippling tremors beneath. He had to trust the State, didn’t he? Everything was in its strong hands. It’s what the people - most of them- wanted. It was the only certainty, a promise towards a better future, and they’d already achieved so much since the sting of their suffered humiliation, denied rights and struggling economy - and the latter had already proven to be a crucial key for the heaving unrest. For too long had the others broke promises and derisively crushed his pride, for too long had he suffered the claws of oppression, division, foreign rule. He had to show the world that Italian blood mattered, and centuries of its spillage were not forgotten, and could not be wiped out.   And for a while he’d truly believed it had been enough to be unified with his other half, his brother, to independence - but he had soon realised the bitter reality of things, that a unified state was not enough, no. It’s like his leader said, expansionism was the only way to keep up, to move forward, to survive in a world dominated by power-struggling empires, a world his own grandfather had created, and whose legacy he’d previously failed to commit to because he simply did not belong in it. 

   Hushed whispers were reaching his sluggish ears of a revolution, of an axis, of racial supremacy, of Italianità, of Abyssinia, Dalmatia and anti-semitism, and notions that caused for his gut to twist and churn with immense discomfort.  Mister Mussolini had promised him order, discipline, hierarchy, and yet everything felt like it was slowly spinning out of control. The train tore along the steel nerves of his country, trapping him helpless in the First Class cage of apparent dignity, and finite, ephemeral luxuries that meant nothing.

  New alliances were being forged, ever sought out of the war machine that was Europe, still churning despite the illusory safeguards of peace treaties. The world was a much bigger place now. Diplomacy and foreign relations were the oil that slicked the mechanism, and it was strange how changeable these could be - old enemies became friends, agendas changed and secret pacts were almost commonplace.   A warm light filtered through the windows of the great architectural wonder of Stazione Centrale’s arching dome, heralding the approach of Autumn. Milan was not his favourite city, but it was important to him. It was modern, industrialised, fashionable and efficient, an exemplary banner of Italian pride. He slowly walked along the platform of a newly docked train, its engine still hissing as the beast powered down. He felt uncharacteristically nervous, a feeling of unease coiling in his chest. Germany had yet to confirm his attendance, and he’d only really seen this far-eastern man a few times, and far between, but he’d fought by his side before and he’d supported his demand for a racial equality clause in the Covenant of the League of Nations. They were equals, and shared all the solid bases of friendship. That had to count for something, right?

  With a shuddering sigh and a resigned smile, Veneziano smoothed his fine suit jacket and prepared to meet and greet his esteemed visitor and his retinue at their diplomatic car, the world around him flurrying by in a blur as his ears rang from the cacophony of noises, and his rushing blood.