Salgo in auto e, al solito, la casualità della musica colpisce nel segno, come sempre: dalla radio esce una melodia che conosco bene, l’ho ascoltata per la prima volta quando sono entrato al Liceo, a 13 anni.

The rusted chains of prison moons Are shattered by the sun.
I walk a road, horizons change The tournament’s begun.
The purple piper plays his tune, The choir softly sing;
Three lullabies in an ancient tongue, For the court of the crimson king.

E’ l’ultima traccia dell’album di esordio dei King Crimson, pubblicato nel 1969 a seguito del successo che il gruppo aveva avuto suonando davanti a 500mila persone in un concerto gratuito ad Hyde Park: la qualità del loro “progressive rock” aveva ammaliato e stregato tutti. Il brano è The Court Of The Crimson King.

The keeper of the city keys Puts shutters on the dreams.
I wait outside the pilgrim’s door With insufficient schemes.
The black queen chants the funeral march, The cracked brass bells will ring;
To summon back the fire witch To the court of the crimson king.

L’immagine psichedelica della Regina Nera e della Strega Del Fuoco mi ha nuovamente colpito con una strana e soggettiva attualità. Le quattro strofe del brano sono scorse mentre guidavo verso il centro di Milano con un cielo nuvoloso e una tranquillità innaturale.

The gardener plants an evergreen Whilst trampling on a flower.
I chase the wind of a prison ship, To taste the sweet and sour.
The pattern juggler lifts his hand; The orchestra begin;
As slowly turns the grinding wheel In the court of the crimson king.

I due pezzi strumentali che esasperano il mellotron prima nel “The Return of the Fire Witch” e poi il flauto nella parte “The Dance of the Puppets” sembrava aprissero degli squarci spazio-temporali riportandomi nella città di Kafka.

On soft grey mornings widows cry, The wise men share a joke.
I run to grasp divining signs To satisfy the hoax.
The yellow jester does not play But gently pulls the strings
And smiles as the puppets dance In the court of the crimson king.

Foto? Un cartone di latte in mano, uscendo dal supermercato Tesco …

prague 28jul2014 22

 


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It has been more than fifty years since I began traveling across the world — and the seven seas — for work or for pleasure, always with a Leica M camera close at hand. The camera has never been an accessory; it has been a constant companion, a way of observing, remembering, and making sense of the places and people I encountered along the way. I started keeping this kind of journal some time ago, not as a diary in the traditional sense, but as a space where images and words could meet. This is not a publication driven by schedules or algorithms. At times I disappear for long stretches; then, inevitably, I return with semi-regular updates. Publishing, for me, is a mirror of my state of mind and emotions. It follows my rhythm, not the other way around. You have to take it exactly as it comes. Every photograph you see here is mine. They are fragments of a life spent moving, looking, and waiting for moments to reveal themselves — often quietly, sometimes unexpectedly. This blog is not about destinations, but about presence. About what remains when the journey slows down and the shutter finally clicks.

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