The Autodidact|act II

Money for nothing 

I had,in a daydream like, an encounter with an archdruid.
The poet said to me:
_Immagine it’s , like if it was a reconforting answer addressed to you personally, for having been waiting so long for the muse to speak to me. A silent plea I flung to Heaven, but a prayer, then it came just like that, on time, for when you waited long for the least, after having all time a reject_someone that’s telling you:

Your story isn’t calm.
The road has been chaotic at times,
Filed with detours, and rains,
and loss so sudden, and soon.
Sometimes the bliss was so elevated
Your heart could hardly hold it.
Sometimes it was maddening to have,
And then to lose it. You learn soon enough
that it is hardly ever goes as planned–
gently, easy and smooth.
But that my friend,
is what makes fascinating
You have something to tell.
Something you walked through.
Something valid.
Something courageous,
Something true.
You’re made of stories
Within stories, even
more stories. Those
quiet depths of you.

_Victoria Erickson

Before that,I was reading a blog of Longreads,about an interview with the author Katherine Heiny,
Taking-the-slow-road Then, I came accros a poem of Victoria Erickson on Pinterest, so I left my gaze wandering through the boards sometimes untill I got a glimpse of something burgeoning in my mind for quite some time later on, so to stay in the clime of thoughts, something that looks frutescent down the road, that’s with a kick you excuviat to the open, like a bird taking his first flight from wich it was nestled under.

So, I just wanted to give it a try, and see what happens…

If I was given a chance to visit a place, it would be the Pantheon, in Paris, there it’s where they sleep for the eternity, all the writers, the poets, artists, and all the admited accadimician personalities to that honorable degree of reconnaissance. But that place is to quite to hear their flights and joultes, so I just returned to my muse to get inspired.

Me, personally I  wouldn’t imagine  be writing stories, one day, I didn’t take it seriously. Perhaps as a vacation hobby mostly more or less, than a vocational occupation. Of all the trades, surely it was the easiest one to fail in, anyway. There was no further success in the future of being a writer on those times of old Alger.Back then, I preferred reading to writing, and “my violin of Ingres”_my passion, went for drawing, since the early childhood. And I read a lot of books, the amount that one can fill the shelves of a communal library, (my father owned a bookstore, so you can imagine, and besides having at reach of my hand all the books you can read, people was more reader, and movies goers, the only TV program was black and white, and the broadcast was for more or less for five hours a day, and it started at 5/6 o’clock in the afternoon, and ended by the last newscasts at 10:30. Logically, that is was for the working class more than that for the élite or the bourgeoise class; the have salons and tea room, for playing bridge, and aristocratic activities, by snobbish to only sit and watch the TV. Than, after reading the poem of Victoria Erickson, “taking the slow road”, some decades later, and a few days lately, from reading I get enticed by writing little by little. I finally grabbed my courage, with both hands, and dodged it. It’s not that I’m afraid of writing or the criticism, but mostly by choice. And again, a maladive instinct for being ridiculous, since, some professionals activities were ill regarded Then. So, taking the risk, I said to myself, just sit down and gave it a try. I said to myself, see what happens, you have nothing to lose after all,  just a few dollars, a lot of scribbles, blank pages, but then, if it doesn’t work, before  tossing them away, make sure I haven’t thrown the baby–(you dream  would be-writer) — with the waters of the bath.

Paolo Coscelo wrote the Alchemist, 13 years ago, a million books best-seller now. The story, it starts with a dream, so believe in your dream, that’s all.

The story started something like this; ” one day…”_ or one night?…I don’t remember, I have read the book 13 years ago, since then, you know. If you haven’t read the book:_ A shepherd fell asleep, he made a dream; an encounter with a strange character; the master of the world told, he told him something like, one has to make his one’s own history, or the sort. When he woke up, he found himself with a solemn urge for peregrinations, that he must pursue  his dream in order to get rich ; if he want to be married one day to the girl he loves. He had to make a choice; if he stayed around  and became a seller of popcorn  with his a cart instead of conducting  a herd to pastures, it’s more a respectable profession than a shepherd, and the father of the girl will look at him with more respect, he would travel also, not a lot, but he will see people, villages, and even could go to the city, but at the end of the day he would be back home to find the girl he love. She would be waiting for him, had cooked diner for him, they would sleep under the roof of a warm house, a small one for the beginning, then they  will move to a  bigger one, for that he need money, and while he was thinking about it, thence he fell asleep… His journey started in Spain, crossed the sea, Rabat where he got his job, then followed the caravans route across the Sahara desert and after a multitude of rellantendo, and peripeteias, he  finally reached Fayum, an oasis in the south of Egypt, to finish in to a monastery, the end of the trip.  Then, back home.

This a dream, it’s in a book, that came true. For a writer, it was the hit. A jackpot,  to win the Lotto, for the common of us. What about yours; mine, it was…

                                                                                 To be continued…

http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/5997/the-art-of-nonfiction-no-3-john-mcphee?src=longreads

I have read  the book, “A Sense of  where you are”, an example manifest of  presence  of the author, and the effect of his presence, his voice, totally in view to the reader, while his personality remaining indistinct. Here is an excerpt of it, where McPhee,  in a brief scene , that he wrote in book-lengthy   profile of the famous   baseball player Bill Bradley, that is,  before the star became senator. McPhee is watching The Star practice , and then Bradley misses a shot: …the ball curled around the rim and failed to go in…

"What happened then?" I asked him.                                                                                                                  " I didn't kick high enough," he said.                                                                                                               
 "Do you   always  know exactly why you've missed a shot?"                                                                       " Yes," he said, ...missing another one.                                                                                                                    "What happened that time?"                                                                                                                               "I was talking to you. I didn't concentrate. The secrecy of shooting is concentration."

Mr. McPhee wrote it in the first person, in a casual and natural tone, to make the reader see it in the characteristically  way he wrote the story, he wanted the reader to be present,  not as sitting back only but like a confident, some sort.

Encounters with the Archdruid“_John McPhee’s, another book, l have read lately_I never get tired of reading those excerpts of the author encounters, and interviews_also; it  shows a pattern of extreme complexity, the way it was written, and, with more explicitly,  in a passage where he concluded, after a peripheral itinerary, back and forth, like flash-back with different sittings, between the past and the present:
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2013/01/14/130114fa_fact_mcphee?currentPage=all
The story is told in three parts, initially, it is an extended profile of the most prominent personalities of that time, between the different antagonists of the story,  dam builder, environmentalists, and people who represent the forces  of environment destruction, that is to draw them  in to a debate, where the writer  was a pursuit for of a series interviews through different, places and times, until the moment, it took place in a raft trip down the Colorado River. Then the writer takes the reader in aparte _ when he pull aside, in a confidence, a confessional tone, to tell him: after he took the initiative, to embark you  in a journey, of less than few minutes where you got almost wet: the high-speed of the river, with the slow motion of the raft:

What seemed  unimaginable beside the river in the canyon was that all that wild water had been processed , like pork slurry in a hot-dog plant, upstream in the lightless penstock of a dam.

The  last I discovered is this article below: see  link

“At one point I said, Mr. Shawn, you have this whole enterprise going, a magazine is printing this weekend, and you’re the editor of it, and you sit here talking about these commas and semicolons with me—how can you possibly do it?”

I stay speechless, as if I was standing , in the presence of  the writer  in person , when you hear  his voice through reading the books, and finally this item above.

Modestly speaking, did you hear me? when I say:

” thank you for reading”