#storie familiari

[affascinailtuocuore]

M. Palminteri-COME L’ARANCIO AMARO. Carlotta e la verità, tutta la verità nient’altro che la verità.

Carlotta Calangioso, 36 anni, direttrice scrupolosa dell’ Archivio Notarile di Agrigento, vuole scoprire la verità, tutta la verità, nient’altro che la verità sulla sua storia familiare. La miccia viene innescata da un vecchio documento notarile che le capita tra le mani, riguardante l’accusa della nonna paterna Donna Rosetta  alla madre Nardina di non aver partorito Carlotta, ma di averla…

[pier-carlo-universe]

Una nuova vita di Valentina Cebeni: l'epopea della famiglia Fontamara. La saga dei Fontamara, tra amore, segreti e lotte per il riscatto, in una nuova emozionante opera di Valentina Cebeni. Recensione di Alessandria today

Valentina Cebeni, nota autrice di romanzi storici ed emozionali, torna con Una nuova vita, il primo volume di una saga familiare intensa e coinvolgente: la saga dei Fontamara.

Valentina Cebeni, nota autrice di romanzi storici ed emozionali, torna con Una nuova vita, il primo volume di una saga familiare intensa e coinvolgente: la saga dei Fontamara. Ambientato in Italia durante gli anni tumultuosi del primo Novecento, il romanzo intreccia le vite di donne coraggiose che affrontano le sfide della vita, lottando per l’indipendenza, l’amore e la sopravvivenza in una…

[gregor-samsung]

" C'è un momento nella storia di ogni famiglia in cui si appare felici a se stessi. Magari non lo si è affatto. Ma lo si porta scritto in faccia: io, famiglia da poco composta, sono nella mia pienezza e necessità, sono il cibo per l'occhio altrui, sono la carne terrena che imita la carne divina, sono la Famiglia nella sua beatitudine terrena. La si lascia stampata nelle fotografie questa felicità, sprizza dagli occhi, dai vestiti, dall'unità interna, da quel chiedersi, cercarsi, spingersi, annusarsi che abbiamo in comune con gli animali. Dopo, non si sa come, tutto si rompe, prende a sfaldarsi. La rosa ha dato il meglio di sè, ora perde i petali a uno a uno e assomiglia più a un dente cariato che a un fiore. L'odore è l'ultima cosa che se ne va; quel leggero sentore di carni addormentate, di fiati teneri e giovanissimi, quel profumo di necessità che costituisce la perfezione della famiglia nel suo nascere. È orribile trovarsi adulti, ormai usciti da quel paradiso dei sensi e degli odori, e capire di avere conservato quella felicità solo in qualche fotografia. Un singulto nel ritrovare nelle narici quegli odori di letti materni e sapere che sono persi per sempre. "

Dacia Maraini, Bagheria, (collana La scala), Milano, Rizzoli, 1993¹; pp. 101-102.

[wellesleybooks]

"For all the eons it may take to read it, this colossus of a book will own you" Kirkus Reviews on Familiaris by David Wroblewski

See the full review here.

So many of us loved The Story of Edgar Sawtelle and are thrilled to be diving back into the world David Wroblewski created.

[spettriedemoni]

Ho rifatto la pizza qualche giorno fa. La cosa nuova da segnalare è che l’ho lasciata in frigo a lievitare per circa 24 ore e l’ho impastata con acqua fredda.

Tutto ciò con il lievito di birra scaduto dal 25 maggio.

Finora pare non sia morto nessuno di dolori che l’ha mangiata per cui posso ritenermi soddisfatto.

[kryptonian-in-winterfell]

In Osamu Dazai’s short story ‘Canis familiaris’, he talks about how much he hates dogs. Despite this, a small puppy follows him home one day and his wife insists they keep it.

That puppy becomes a dog, which Dazai describes as short and ugly on many occasions. The dog has aggressive tendencies, often getting into fights with dogs twice its size.

And I just… couldn’t get through the story without thinking about 15 year old Soukoku.

If you’re looking for new dog insults for Dazai and Chuuya, I suggest reading this story. It’s very enlightening.

[anne-bsd-bibliophile]

Dazai Osamu's Works (Volume 1): The complete works of the Japanese author in several volumes

Translated by Erika Strohbach

In (planned) twelve volumes, all of Dazai's well-known works are published in English. The volumes are organised in the order of the Latin alphabet according to the original Japanese titles.

Many of the works have never been published in English before! A mission to make them accessible to more people.

This (Volume One) book contains the stories:

A. Autumn (ア、秋 / A, Aki)

About Love and Beauty (愛と美について / Ai to bi ni tsuite)

Alt-Heidelberg (老ハイデルベルヒ / Alt-Heidelberg)

Rain at Tamagawa - Double Suicide (雨の玉川心中 / Ame no Tamagawa shinju)

My Older Brothers (兄たち / Anitachi)

Aomori (青森 / AOMORI)

Advice(或る忠告 / Aru chUkoku)

Morning (朝 / Asa)

Something Regrettable (あさましきもの / Asamashiki mono)

About "The Last Years" (「晩年」に就いて / "Bannen" ni tsuite)

Handsome Devils and Cigarettes (美男子と煙草 / Bidanshi to tabako)

A Little Beauty (美少女 / Bishujo)

Bizan (眉山 / Bizan)

Chance (チャンス / Chansu)

The Father (父 / Chichi)

The Little Album (小さいアルバム / Chiisai arubamu)

Canis familiaris (畜犬談 / Chikukendan)

Blue Bamboo (竹青 / Chikusei)

Chikyūzu (or World’s Map) (地球図 / Chikyuzu)

Chiyojo (千代女 / Chiyojo)

The Map (地図 / Chizu)

[niennanir]

The Great Bunny Debacle of 24

It was a brisk, sunny morning a week before Christmas in Florida, this morning to be precise. And by 'brisk' I mean: the mid 60's at 8am. It's Florida, I'm not sure what you expect. A nice sea breeze was coming in off The Gulf, touching the air with salt as I opened my lanai door to let the dogs out before breakfast.

Kaname (13), Eirien (12), and Merilin (9), are all, by breed, hunting dogs. I'll pause here to say that no bunnies were harmed in the making of this story. If they had been, I wouldn't have bothered telling it because there wouldn't be anything to tell. Despite the fact I don't hunt, my dogs are very accomplished hunters themselves. No one more than Kaname. Eirien and Merilin are Norwegian Elkhounds, bred for hunting exactly what you'd expect; very large deer. If you took the average timber wolf, made it one third the size and gave it a stupidly cheerful and optimistic disposition, congratulations, you've just created an Elkhound. Kaname is a Shiba Inu. Shibas, despite their popularity in Japan as metropolitan pets, were originally bred as small game hunters. They're lean and sleek and incredibly fast, about as close to a fox in build and skill as you're ever going to see in a dog.

Kaname has a reputation as a ruthless hunter. My house, situated on a quarter acre on the edge of the village, has been her hunting ground for over a decade and she has an impressive trophy history. This is Florida, and all those stories you've heard about the wildlife here are true. There's a lot of it, and a lot of it is dangerous. Kaname has presented me with more dead carcasses of her enemies than I can count. Rats, rattle snakes, and yes, bunnies. But this isn't that story. This is the story of the inevitable march of time and how you know when you're not as young as you used to be. I'm just establishing that four years ago this would not be how my morning went down.

As I open the door and step out onto the patio I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. Over by the front gate, out in the open for G-d and canis familiaris to see, is a small brown rabbit. The rabbit looks at me, his eyes narrowed in challenge. I stare him down like we're two gunmen at high noon. In my mind a tumbleweed rolls by. I draw in a breath.

"Get the bunny."

Like a gunshot, two wolves and a fox take off at high speed for the front gate. An Elkhound hunts in a very specific way, instinctually they will corner their prey, then signal with a loud bark to call the hunter.

A very loud bark. There are stories of Elkhounds cornering an elk and by the time the hunter has managed to reach the location, the elk has kicked just from the stress of being screamed at by wolf like dogs. Kaname has learned how to use that to her advantage. The Elkhounds can be relied on to corner the bunny, blocking off its escape so she can bag herself a trophy. Eirien goes left, Merilin goes right, Kaname goes straight up the middle.

The rabbit? He goes completely off the deep end. In a display of unnatural luck the rabbit tears off right, past Eirien who has a touch of glaucoma and a lot less enthusiasm about hunting than she had five years ago. In Eirien's defense she did make a stab at cutting off the rabbit but she couldn't see it that clearly and missed. A rabbit and three dogs head off across the back garden, do two laps around the massive Japanese maple at the center of my lawn, and then run toward the back gate like a merry parade of fur, loud barking, and stupidity. For reasons I'm not too clear on, none of my brilliant children think to double back around the tree, I stand and watch in fascination as absolutely no one makes a good decision.

As they reach the back gate I think to myself that the hunt is seconds from over, there's a gap under the back gate just big enough for a rabbit to slither under but as they reach the gate I see my neighbor's poodle, Luna, who has clearly heard the commotion and come to see why my dogs, who I do not allow to bark without censure, are now screaming loud enough to be heard downtown a mile away.

The rabbit makes a course correction, turning and heading back toward the front gate. About half way across the garden Eirien decides she is just too old for this crap and stops to say good morning to my other neighbor's dog, Max, who weighs about five pounds and has a huge crush on Eirien. As they flirt like two Vets at a VFW holiday swing dance, Kaname and Merilin move in on the bunny who is now crashing into my chainlink gate as if he can bend metal though sheer force of will.

The dogs are almost on him as he gives this up as a bad job, heading back toward the maple tree. Max and Eirien are still flirting, Luna is still at the back gate, barking excitedly at being left out of the fun. Somewhere on main street two holiday tourists at brunch are musing about why they can hear dogs barking so loudly. I'm considering hanging my sound canceling ear protectors on the coat rack in the lanai.

Two more laps around the tree and on the second lap the rabbit makes a dive into the shrubbery at the bottom and comes out the other side. Kaname skids up short and stuffs her head into the hollow at the base of the tree, convinced the rabbit has taken shelter. Merilin tramples over her, still in pursuit of her less than intelligent quarry who is now headed back to the front gate for the third time in less than two minutes.

It's clear that for the rabbit panic has set in. He might have chosen to go into the hollow in the maple, at which point I would have called off the dogs, he could have hidden in the shrubs by the back gate which are too thick and too deep for the dogs to reach and again I would have called them off. He might have just stayed over by the front gate to begin with and hid behind the HVAC. I wouldn't have been able to see him, the dogs certainly wouldn't have been able to see him and none of this would now be happening. As Merilin continues to shout at the top of her lungs I start to understand how elk have dropped dead from the sound. I'm certainly wishing my ears would fall off.

Merilin is almost on the rabbit when it finally finds a gap in the chainlink big enough to fit through.

And gets its fat bunny butt stuck half way.

Merilin skids up short. She looks at the rabbit, stuffed in the chainlink like Winnie the Pooh, then at me, her ecstatically cheerful brow furrowed in confusion. She has cornered the prey, isn't someone else supposed to do something?

Kaname's head is still in the hollow of the maple. There is now the faint whine of disappointment echoing from inside the trunk as she tries to determine how the rabbit has found a portal to another dimension inside a tree. Eirien and Max are still flirting. Luna has lost interest and has disappeared. It looks like it's just me then.

I drag my feet as I head to the front gate. "Leave it," I say. Immediately Merilin backs off two paces. The rabbit is still stuck in the chainlink but it's struggling less now, probably resigning itself to a horrible, sticky end. Merilin looks very pleased with herself, she has never gotten credit for the trophy before. The honor has always belonged to Kaname whose increasing volume of disappointment is still coming from inside the tree.

"I'm sorry," I say to Merilin. "But we're not torturing it to death." I reach down and shove the rabbit's round bottom through the chainlink.

Nothing happens. The stupid thing's wedged in there tight. 'Oh, help and Bother!' I spend nearly twice as long jimmying the rabbit out of my fence as the actual hunt took, all the while telling the rabbit that it's an idiot and it could use a few hours on the stair-master, pudgy moron. Finally success, it scurries the few feet to take shelter under my truck in the drive.

"And don't come back!" I bark at it. "Stay out there and be coyote breakfast like nature intended!"

The promise of breakfast must have jiggled sometime in the minds of the elkhounds who are waiting eagerly by the door, their perpetually delighted dispositions firmly in tact. Kaname is now trying to scale the tree, convinced the rabbit is still somewhere in its vicinity. It's three calls before she finally disengages. In fairness to her she's never been called off a hunt with the quarry still in the yard before. She doesn't know what to do. She's sitting in her bed now, sulking, probably thinking exactly what I'm thinking.

I'm just too old for this.

From Left to Right: Kaname, Eirien, and Merilin.

If you'd like to see more of my dogs, they have a Tumblr:

[orotrasparente]

io e il mio migliore amico ci conosciamo da dieci anni e abbiamo avuto tanti alti e bassi, per me è come un fratello minore, stanotte eravamo in macchina e tornando a casa mi sono accostato a parlare con lui del più e del meno, finché non so come ci siamo ritrovati a parlare delle nostre storie personali e familiari, cose di cui nessuno dei due ha mai parlato tra noi o con altri amici, ed è stato un momento particolarmente strano perché mentre gli parlavo del mio passato si è commosso con le lacrime agli occhi e ci siamo abbracciati, poi vabbè subito dopo abbiamo ripreso a scherzare però è stato strano e liberatorio allo stesso tempo, penso sia per me che per lui e questa cosa mi ha fatto riflettere su quante cose non sappiamo delle altre persone anche se le conosciamo da un decennio o anche più anni

[susieporta]

Ci sono persone con cui ho condiviso un’intimità molto grande, e che ora non frequento più. Intimità significa che ho conosciuto il loro corpo nudo, i loro familiari, le storie più dure e inconfessabili che riguardano questi familiari, e conosco episodi di quando erano bambine, e adolescenti, significa che le ho viste piangere e le ho abbracciate, e sono stata vulnerabile davanti a loro, e ho raccontato dei miei familiari, almeno qualcosa, e nuda no, non mi sono fatta vedere, perché io nuda non mi faccio vedere mai, e che ho pensato che non le avrei perse, perché il loro modo di stare al mondo mi commuoveva, perché sentivo la profondità irreparabile del loro dolore ed era quello a tenermi incollata. Non le frequento più, le persone di cui parlo, ma quel dolore lo riconosco ogni volta. In un pezzo che scrivono e che leggo pensando eccoti, sei tu, quanto mi somigli, quanto ti conosco. A una cena pubblica, in cui recitano una parte come me, come tutti, una parte sempre uguale, tanto che ormai è la verità, una delle tante verità di noi stesse. In un breve fortuito scambio di battute a un evento, in cui non ci diciamo quasi nulla, in apparenza, ma il sottotesto è enorme - e non riguarda noi, intendo il rapporto fra noi, un’avventura conclusa per sempre, neppure un rimpianto, riguarda le nostre vite separate che un tempo sono state vicine perché c’era una ferita che le rendeva simili, o così pensavamo. Così pensavo io.

Accade che una di queste persone mi dica: ci vediamo? Dopo anni. Dopo una cena in cui per caso ci siamo trovate. Mi scrive un messaggio, mi ringrazia per averla ascoltata, compresa, in quella serata capitata per caso, mi chiede di rivederci. Io non rispondo all’invito. Perché ognuno ha i suoi schemi per sopravvivere, e quello che ho imparato io è allontanarmi da ciò che potrebbe farmi male, perché me ne ha fatto una volta, non tornare mai indietro. Non dipende tanto da loro, ma da me. Da quanto posso sopportare, dalla specificità di ciò che fa soffrire una come me, una con la mia storia.

La maggior parte delle persone che amo le amo a distanza e, anche se è accaduto incidentalmente, se non è il risultato di un reciproco abbandono, a tratti credo sia il modo più adatto a me. Me ne dispiaccio, ma lo accetto. Nel caso degli abbandoni, invece, non ho rancore, e ho nostalgia di rado, quella distanza non è un castigo inflitto, è solo che la passione si è esaurita. Come avviene nell’amore, può avvenire nell’amicizia. Chissà perché alla gente sembra diverso.

Se queste persone ormai lontane scrivono - romanzi, racconti, pezzi sui giornali - io posso leggerle, e nei loro scritti spesso riconoscerle, e ricordare perché la passione era nata, ricordare la nostra intimità. È comunque un dono ricevuto nel corso della vita, un’esperienza che resta, una traccia di me che a volte ricompare nei sogni notturni, con le loro sembianze. Leggendole posso riconoscermi: in quel loro dolore sordo al fondo delle cose, che un giorno e per sempre ho sentito fratello - anzi, sorella.

Rosella Postorino

[pier-carlo-universe]

"Fumana" di Paolo MalagutiUn viaggio tra nebbia, magia e tradizioni nella bassa del Po. Recensione di Alessandria today

"Fumana", pubblicato il 3 settembre 2024, è il nuovo romanzo di Paolo Malaguti che ci trasporta nel cuore della pianura padana, in un mondo perduto tra la nebbia e la magia contadina.

“Fumana“, pubblicato il 3 settembre 2024, è il nuovo romanzo di Paolo Malaguti che ci trasporta nel cuore della pianura padana, in un mondo perduto tra la nebbia e la magia contadina. La protagonista, chiamata Fumana per il legame con la nebbia che avvolge le terre del Po, è una giovane ragazza che cresce libera e selvaggia, allevata dal rude nonno Petrolio. Insieme pescano anguille nelle paludi,…

[viendiletto]

Nel ricordo di Marinella… Una scelta di volontariato

“Mi aggiravo tra la folla, attratta da quella moltitudine vociante, dalle bandiere e dai labari delle nostre città istriane, fiumane e dalmate. Era il 1997, si ricordavano nella piazza principale di Trieste i 50 anni dall’esodo, anche i miei cinquant’anni essendo nata nel 1947. Ma il mio pensiero era fisso su mio padre. Vedi – gli dicevo col cuore gonfio – finalmente parlano di noi. Ma lui era mancato qualche tempo prima senza smettere di sentirsi fuori dal coro, un alieno…” 

Fu così che, durante quell’esperienza pubblica, Fioretta Filippaz, nata a Cuberton, esule a Trieste dal 1956, si rese conto di sapere ben poco della propria storia e del destino di tanta gente che come lei era stata costretta all’esodo dall’Istria.

Decise così di fare la volontaria?

“Quel ’97 fu per me uno spartiacque importante, i miei genitori non c’erano più ma le domande che avrei voluto rivolgere a loro, erano veramente tante. Allora presi informazioni e mi ritrovai all’IRCI che allora aveva sede in P.zza Ponterosso, nell’ufficio di Arturo Vigini, con lui c’era anche la figlia Chiara. Mi presentai e dissi che avrei voluto rendermi utile, partecipare dopo tanto silenzio. Non cercavo un lavoro di concetto, mi bastava anche semplicemente imbustare e affrancare gli inviti per le numerose iniziative dell’ente o per spedire la rivista Tempi&Cultura. Così ho cominciato”.

Una “volontaria”, oggi una del gruppo che segue l’attività dell’IRCI in via Torino, accoglie i visitatori delle mostre che si succedono numerose durante l’anno a cura di Piero Delbello e con il supporto del presidente Franco Degrassi, raccontando un esodo per immagini, attraverso i suoi personaggi, a volte famosi, a volte sconosciuti…

“Viene sempre tanta gente, chiede informazioni, racconta la propria storia, queste sale diventano un contenitore di tante vicende mai emerse, di tante storie familiari mai portate alla luce. Molti arrivano con fotografie, locandine, documenti per il museo. Per noi volontari è una responsabilità, ma anche un profondo desiderio di condivisione. Vede, questo documento alle mie spalle nell’ambito della mostra ‘Come ravamo’ è quello della mia famiglia, è lo storico dell’anagrafe dal quale hanno cancellato Marinella…”.

Chi è Marinella? È una delle storie emblematiche dell’esodo, quella di una bambina che non ce l’ha fatta, in quell’inverno polare del ’56. Aveva appena un anno e una polmonite se la portò via, “morta di freddo” sentenziarono i medici dell’ospedale che non furono in grado di salvarla.

“Ero già grandicella e Marinella me la portavo in braccio, le davo il biberon, la cambiavo, me ne occupavo per alleviare il lavoro di mia madre che doveva pensare a tutta la famiglia, al marito e ai cinque figli. I suoi occhi erano per me, con i sorrisi e i primi borbottii, una gioia infinita: non sono mai riuscita a dimenticarla, a farmene una ragione”.

Per quanti anni siete vissuti in quella baracca?

“I miei genitori dodici anni, finché io e mio fratello non siamo riusciti a terminare le scuole nel collegio dove eravamo stati trasferiti per poter avere un’istruzione e migliori condizioni di vita”.

Vita?

“Quando la famiglia vive separata tutto è molto duro. Mio padre a Cuberton era un bravo contadino, da esule poté fare il manovale, la qualifica di profugo non era servita a nulla. Aveva sperato di entrare in fabbrica, ma nessuno ci aiutò. Ricordo che spesso diceva con convinzione, non sembrava neanche un lamento ma una semplice constatazione: ‘noi ne vol, proprio noi ne vol’ e così continuò per anni sentendosi fuori luogo, forse sconfitto. Quando ebbi diciannove anni, ci diedero una casa comunale, una sessantina di metri per la nostra famiglia numerosa, ma era comunque un miglioramento. Andai a lavorare alla Modiano”.

In che veste?

“Alle macchine per la stampa, ci ho lavorato fino alla pensione. All’inizio vista con sospetto, la nostra presenza di esuli a Trieste veniva ancora considerata un peso, ma noi istriani siamo lavoratori, disciplinati, vivaci, con il tempo mi sono conquistata le simpatie delle persone che hanno saputo apprezzare il mio impegno”.

E la famiglia?

“Mi sono sposata a 25 anni, per qualcuno era quasi tardi, per me anche troppo presto, vista la tragedia che avevamo vissuto in famiglia, non mi sentivo pronta”.

Non era solo per Marinella?

“Soprattutto per lei il cui sguardo non ho mai smesso di cercare, ma anche per tutto ciò che avevo visto al campo di Padriciano: la gente si lasciava morire, di disperazione, per mancanza di qualsiasi prospettiva, in quelle baracche dove non si poteva accendere un fuoco per scaldarsi. La mia casa era rimasta a Cuberton. Ci sono tornata per andare al cimitero. L’ho vista da lontano, diroccata, non ho avuto il coraggio di avvicinarmi”.

Nessuna assistenza psicologica in tutti questi anni?

“Nessuna. E ce ne sarebbe stato bisogno”.

Che cosa ha rappresentato il Giorno del ricordo?

“La possibilità di parlare, andando nelle scuole, fornendo testimonianza sui giornali, le televisioni. Gli italiani hanno iniziato a conoscere squarci della nostra vicenda. Ogni anno mi invitano a Cremona, in Umbria, nel Veneto, con le docenti è scattata un’amicizia importante. Dopo che Simone Cristicchi ha raccontato di Marinella nel suo spettacolo Magazzino 18, l’interesse è diventato maggiore, mi chiedono di raccontare. Lo faccio per i miei genitori, per restituire dignità a tanta gente, per rivivere il ricordo di Marinella, doloroso, ma necessario. I ragazzi delle scuole mi hanno omaggiato dei loro lavori di gruppo che custodisco gelosamente. È incredibile con quanta pietas abbiano saputo raccontare le nostre vicende, anche quelle più difficili. Mi fanno tante domande”.

E Padriciano?

“Ho accolto le scolaresche per tanti anni insieme a Romano Manzutto, finché l’associazionismo ha deciso di formare dei giovani perché raccontassero la nostra storia”.

In maniera più asettica?

“Certo hanno avuto modo di studiare, approfondire, possono rispondere a tante domande, non certo a quelle sull’esperienza diretta che rimane di chi l’ha vissuta veramente, ormai non siamo tantissimi, il tempo decide per noi”.

Dal campo di Padriciano molti partirono per gli altri continenti…

“Avevamo considerato anche questa ipotesi, ma cinque figli piccoli a carico erano una condizione che non favoriva il giudizio dell’emigrazione. Mio padre era una persona di grande cuore, certo avrebbe fatto fortuna, ma era convinto che nessuno avesse compreso che non eravamo venuti via se non perché fosse impossibile rimanere. Questa sensazione non lo abbandonava mai e forse gli toglieva la forza di tentare altre strade. Non ne abbiamo mai parlato successivamente. Ma mi accorsi del suo dolore quando giunti al cimitero di Cuberton, al momento di decidere di andare a mangiare qualcosa insieme, mi pregò di riportarlo velocemente oltre confine. La paura non li aveva ancora abbandonati e non l’avrebbe mai fatto fino alla fine”.

Di cosa avevano paura?

“Di restare e di tornare. In Istria tutto era cambiato e quindi non ritrovavano più la loro dimensione, c’era stata la dittatura che aveva spaventato tutti. In Italia avevano dovuto imparare a vivere il quotidiano, in Istria pagavano le tasse e basta, non erano abituati ad andare per uffici, fare domande, ottenere il riconoscimento dei propri diritti. Quando Marinella morì nessuno venne a manifestare la propria solidarietà, non fecero che cancellare il suo nome dal nostro stato di famiglia”.

Quale spiegazione riesce a darsi oggi?

“Lo dico spesso e l’ho anche scritto: fummo accolti con fastidio e indifferenza, eravamo un corpo estraneo che tentava di inserirsi in un tessuto sociale che non voleva intrusioni”. Dire che la storia si ripete è anche troppo ovvio.

Intervista di Rosanna Turcinovich Giuricin a Fioretta Filippaz per La Voce del Popolo, 5 gennaio 2020

[diceriadelluntore]

Storia Di Musica #321 - Okkervil River, The Stage Names, 2007

Fino a 15 giorni fa non conoscevo questo gruppo, e la sua storia variegata e spassosa. Non conoscevo ovviamente nemmeno il loro modo di fare musica, che mi ha colpito davvero tanto. Will Sheff, voce e chitarra, Zach Thomas al basso e al mandolino e Seth Warren alla batteria sono tre amici sin dal tempo del liceo, e vivono nel New Hampshire. Si trasferiscono dopo il college ad Austin, in Texas, e mettono su una band: prendono nome dal titolo di un racconto di Tat'jana Nikitična Tolstaja (che discende da un ramo minore dei Tolstoj), contenuto nella raccolta Sotto Il Portico Dorato, che si intitola Sul Fiume Okkervil, che è un breve fiume che passa per San Pietroburgo: Okkervil River. Siamo a fine anni '90 del '900 e i nostri registrarono un album autoprodotto composto da sette canzoni intitolato Stars Too Small To Use. Iniziano a fare concerti, la band si allarga (Jonathan Meiburg alla fisarmonica e poi all'organo). Nel 2002 la famosa etichetta indipendente Jagjaguwar li mette sotto contratto: Seth Warren abbandona per seguire la carriera accademica a Berkely e viene sostituito da Mark Pedini alla batteria. Nello stesso anno pubblicano il loro primo LP, Don't Fall In Love With Everyone You See. Un anno dopo si spostano a San Francisco, Warren ritorna in gruppo, e pubblicano Down The River Of Golden Dreams. La band ha continui cambi di formazione, ma raggiunge una certa forma quando Travis Nelsen sostituisce Pedini alla batteria e si aggiunge un altro chitarrista, Howard Draper. Con questa formazione, nel 2005, pubblicano il loro lavoro più riuscito, che li fa conoscere in maniera decisiva anche oltre la scena indipendente: Black Sheep Boy è osannato dalla critica e vende benissimo per un disco indipendente, tanto che la band lo pubblica nel 2006 anche in Europa e ne fa uscire un mini EP in accompagnato, Black Sheep Boy Appendix. Zach Thomas esce dal gruppo e viene sostituito da Pat Pestorius. Il suono è un folk rock ricco, delicato, gioioso ma sono le idee dei testi di Sheff che stupiscono, in una sorta di costruzione di musica cabaret dove il racconto, a volte stucchevole, di ciò che succede intorno a lui è il fulcro della musica degli Okkervil River. E prova maestra è il disco di oggi, uscito nell'Agosto del 2007 e quasi da subito un classico della musica indipendente.

The Stages Names è, come suggerisce il titolo, una riflessione ironica e senza peli sulla lingua sull'essere un'artista e sulle storie che l'esserlo nasconde. Our Life Is Not A Movie Or Maybe prende in giro il già allora evidente e potente ingigantimento di qualsiasi cosa succeda nella vita di chiunque, o per meglio dire, la voglia di rendere le cose della vita molto più drammatiche o epiche di quello che sono (It's just a life story, so there's no climax\No more new territory, so pull away the IMAX). Unless It's Kicks è una analisi sul rapporto artista fan, A Hand To Take Hold Of The Scene è la prima genialata, infatti è una canzone che racconta della trama di due programmi TV, Cold Case (famoso anche in italiana, sulla squadra dell'FBI chiamata a risolvere i casi irrisolti di anni precedenti) e Breaking Bonaduce (una sorta di documentario su Danny Bonaduce, famoso attore bambino degli anni'70, che raccontava dei suoi problemi familiari da adulto) in cui furono usate canzoni della band (in Cold Case Black Sheep Boy). Savannah Smiles è la storia di Shannon Wilsey, famosa pornostar americana, che prese il suo nome d'arte da un film, Savannah Smiles del 1982: la sua è una storia tragica, poichè dopo un incidente stradale dove rimase sfregiata, decise di suicidarsi per non essere vista "brutta". Plus Ones è un piccolo capolavoro: l'espressione indica nelle liste dei concerti le aggiunte che gli ospiti dei backstage hanno per le entrate, ed è un testo quasi non sense che aggiunge uno o più unità a famosi titoli di canzoni: ? and the Mysterian che scrissero 96 Tears diventano 97, le 50 Ways To Leave Your Lover di Paul Simon diventano 51 e così via, citando anche i The Byrds di Eight Miles High, i R.E.M. di 7 Chinese Bros., David Bowie in TVC15 ed altri. You Can't Hold The Hand Of A Rock And Roll Man cita nel titolo un testo di una canzone di Joni Mitchell, Blonde In The Bleachers, e cita nel testo un quadro di Marchel Duchamp, La Sposa Messa A Nudo Dai Suoi Scapoli, Anche. John Allyn Smith Sails è dedicata alla vita e al suicidio del poeta confessionale John Berryman (originariamente John Allyn Smith). La canzone si conclude rielaborando la tradizionale canzone popolare Sloop John B (resa famosa dai Beach Boys), paragonando la morte a un viaggio di ritorno a casa. Non posso non citare anche Title Track (che cita Hollywood Babylonia di Kenneth Anger) e la toccante A Girl In Port, canzoni misteriosa e dolente. Le canzoni hanno una gioiosa musicalità e il disco va persino in classifica su Billboard. Will Sheff si mostra un cantautore davvero poliedrico e la band gira a mille, usando spesso solo strumenti acustici (tranne in Title Track e poche altre occasioni). Un piccolo gioiello scoperto in questo mese di Aprile, che con la seconda copertina capite benissimo a cosa è dedicato (almeno spero....)

[kyda]

buongiorno maledizione dovrò passare i prossimi sei mesi a comprare a rate, un libro al mese, tutti quelli di blackwater. mi sta piacendo troppo, ormai ho capito che ho una cosa per le saghe familiari, non posso ignorarlo, io vivo per affrontare la vita con i figli della prima generazione di cui conosco il passato e che ho visto nascere e crescere per uno-due libri prima ancora che diventassero coscienti e rilevanti nelle storie 😤😤 è per questo che mi sono piaciuti i libri di ken follett ed è per questo che mi è piaciuto la casa degli spiriti e la saga delle tidelands (anche se fino a un certo punto, ok) e non lo so e sicuramente qualche altro libro che per ora non mi viene in mente ma questo è il punto: i caskey ora sono parte di me. non starei qui di domenica mattina alle 8 a scriverlo dopo una sessione di ascolto di quasi due ore altrimenti 🤫

[xantchaslegacy]

Lyese

(A March of the Machine Aftermath fanfic; please give the story on AO3 a read and leave a comment if you can ;) )

Lyese was gone.

Lyese was gone, and the sky was empty.

And below, Phyrexia reeled.

...

Glissa stood alone. To every side the open sands of the Glorious Facade rolled away in shallow hills, fine grains of pearl-white sand cool and still beneath her heels.

Not even the wind stirred those grains.

And Lyese, that green sun of Phyrexia, and of Mirrodin before it, was gone.

They’ve all gone.

Every sun that’s ever graced Phyrexia.

Or Mirrodin before it.

Black reigned above Glissa. Not even the vivid-dark light of Ingle, the black sun, but an empty, blank, unbroken black. Lifeless black. Only the far edges of the sky (if you could call it a sky) were interrupted, by tilted, moldering monuments to Phyrexia and its praetors. Silent sentinels lording over nothing at all.

Glissa’s eyes searched the black.

Searched in vain.

Even without the light of the suns, she could see the plane around her clearly. The sands, the monuments, the wandering figure of the occasional phyrexian pilgrim, one of those pensive, nomadic creatures who graced the facade of late. Everything was thrown into sharp, shadow-less relief, as though illuminated on all sides by a colorless, unseen moon.

Whether this strange, source-less light was the effect of Phyrexia’s banishment to a pocket space beyond the multiverse, or of some as-of-yet unknown property of the argent shell their new Phyrexia had been built upon, no one yet knew.

Karn had said once, when Glissa was fitting him to be the next father of machines, that Mirrodin was sunless at the time of its creation. He had called it “Argentum” then, in the eponymous nature of a demigod. Argentum had been empty too, if the silver golem’s ravings were to be believed. Empty but for the blinkmoths. Empty, but beautiful and precise and rich in detail. Mathematical artistry in planar form.

A bitter smile split Glissa’s lips. Urabrask would have loved such a thing, that form-loving fool.

Now the exterior of the plane was an unending uniformity of sand, hex-plates...and these gaudy monuments to the glory of Elesh Norn’s Phyrexia.

Glory . Glissa spat a wad of tarry oil onto the ground. It shivered on the surface for a moment before soaking into the sands. What arrogance drives a conqueror to build monuments before she’s even triumphed? As if New Phyrexia were ever even hers entirely. As if she’d won us all over before she planted her ruinous realm-breaking tree and challenged all the multiverse.

She felt the lie in these thoughts as they filtered through her mind. Just out of sight over the horizon, there was a statue to Vorinclex. Further in the other direction, one of Urabrask, heretic and rebel though he had been. Phyrexians of all factions had joined in Norn’s invasion, even if some had dissented, and the monuments would not let her forget.

Glissa had walked as far as she could from those monuments for...for what, really?

An uninterrupted view of the blank, pitch nothing that surrounds us now?

Her eyes twitched; a hunter’s acuity taking in the whole expanse above. Again and again. Moment by moment. Alert for even the smallest movement or disruption to that black uniformity. A secondary set of optic nerves, connected to a lens in her eyes that saw heat signatures, flickered on and off, seeing the same blank field.

Yes, that’s exactly why I came here. Exactly why I keep returning. Confirmation that the suns have fled our sky.

No.

That they’ve been torn from their place.

White Bringer, red Sky Tyrant, the blue Eye of Doom, black Ingle...the green Ugly Child.

Lyese. Lyese was not an ugly. And she was a woman grown. A child for a time, perhaps, but it was beautiful.

No, not it.

She.

Glissa grimaced. Not at the sentiment itself, but because, no matter how hard she tried to recall, she did not know where the sentiment came from. The Mirran goblins had had a vast mythology prescribed to the suns. She had familiarized herself with that mythology, but she also knew their name for the green sun, ‘the ugly child’ was not appropriate. She knew Lyese was a name for the green sun, she also knew it was not their name for her. It was Glissa’s name for her. It had been her name for the green sun for many years, before she’d known Phyrexia’s touch.

She was so certain of it, she just couldn’t say why.

She moved forward. One step. Two steps. The facade had been as dangerous a place as any in New Phyrexia before the great invasion, but now it lay inert. Swallowing, confounding sands had fallen still. Wandering predators, the outcasts of the layers below, still haunted the corners of the place, but most had fled back into the lower spheres in the time since the plane had been cut off from rest of the multiverse.

Fertile hunting grounds, once. Now it was still and sterile. Prey could see and hear a predator coming miles off. This glorious facade was the furthest thing from the Hunter’s Maze. Even the Quiet Forge had ledges and heights for a predator to pounce from. Even the Jin’s surgical bays had tunnels and chambers to lie in ambush – and prey worth chasing.

There wasn’t much prey worth hunting on New Phyrexia now, and the hunt was no longer about growing strong for the Grand Evolution, but simple, mean survival. The plane could no longer afford to squander its resources pursuing the disparate objectives of every sphere and faction.

Glissa grit her teeth. Stepped faster. Even in the absence of wind, the cold air rushing past felt soothing.

The facade was no place for a hunter, but it was the only place she could get away.

The only place she could breath.

This is as far as any of us can go without leaving, and leaving is no longer an option.

She’d felt most comfortable above the surface of the plane for as long as she could remember. Maybe that was why she’d pushed to unleash the beasts of the vicious swarm on the Mirrans long before any other faction had deigned to emerge. It had been balm to leave the artificial light of the interior…

...to hunt and bask in the light of Lyese...

Glissa scowled. Rushed forward even faster.

Her responsibilities in the spheres below felt distant here. The facade was a reprieve. A precious rest and intermission from the burdens of being a leader, and a mother to a world thrice-orphaned.

Veins pulsed in the back of Glissa’s skull, beneath copper cables of hair. Each throb a phyrexian, waiting still in its incubating pod somewhere on the spheres below, destined to emerge too late to take any part in the invasion for which they’d been germinated and crafted. Each throb a child who would emerge instilled with an undeniable purpose they would never be able to fulfill.

And it fell to Glissa and the other remaining nursemaids of this abandoned Phyrexia to find purpose on their behalf.

Her skull pounded. She had attuned herself to the birthing pods of Phyrexia at Norn’s suggestion, but using the means of the Grand Evolution. She’d thought it a clever subversion of Norn’s machinations, to incorporate her own innovations, crotus-born organs and enhancements, into the final design of the birthing and conversion pods, but all she’d done in the end was saddle herself with a responsibility that weighed down like shackles of blightsteel.

Another succession of pulses, bringing her head close to aching.

Glissa did not want to be a mother.

The Glissa she had been before Phyrexia had not wanted to be a mother either. She hadn’t even wanted to be a warrior. Not in the way that was expected of the elves of the Tangle, at least. Though she only remembered this life in brief, erratic flashes, or those rare stretches when she dreamed, she was sure of this much. The Glissa-before-Phyrexia had only wanted to be free.

But Mirrodin was not a plane for being free. It had never been such a place, no matter how much the Mirran resistance romanticized the times before New Phyrexia’s ascendancy.

It had been sterile from the start. This much they knew from Karn. It had been empty. Unintended for any life except for Karn’s guests - the demigods that had been the planeswalkers of old. When life had been brought to its sterile surface, by Karn’s mad steward, Memnarch, that life found a hostile world waiting for it. Grain and game scraped from what cold metal would allow to grow on it. A menagerie of artifact predators that swept across the plane to cull and to kill.

Not a home , but a slaughterhouse. A petri dish for Memnarch to grow a planeswalking spark so he could steal it and leave that world of barren metal behind .

K arn had lamented Memnarch at length in his more lucid moments. He had not meant to be a parent either. The weeping regret he felt in his failure at that role had made Glissa uneasy in a way that even his most frantic ravings had not.

Perhaps because it affected me directly, in another life.

Memnarch’s world produced Glissa. Glissa and a spark that should have made her free, but made her prey instead – the indefinite prey of Memnarch the mad. That world had forced the old Glissa to be the meanest, lowest thing imaginable: a survivor. Prey.

None of that made her any more inclined toward motherhood, and neither her death nor rebirth had changed that inclination. To live as a phyrexian was enough. To hunt as a phyrexian had been sublime.

And yet she had let motherhood be thrust upon her.

Norn had been clever about it. Dressed motherhood in skins (skin...that hateful stuff) that she knew Glissa would find appealing. The role as an alpha not just for the Vicious Swarm, but for all the fledgling cubs of Phyrexia. A mentor for the incubated, the new swarm that would prey upon the every inch of the multiverse that their invasion tree could spread its branches into.

She would have an avenue to ensure the Grand Evolution benefited all factions of Phyrexia. Through the invasion, she would have brought the blessing of strength to countless worlds. Thanks to her, all would have known the freedom to evolve past the limits the incompleat put on themselves and others in compensation for their weakness. Liberation from all the expectations and trappings and manipulations and hypocrisies of “civilized” fools.

Glissa clenched her fists. Copper on copper ground together. Sand ground under her heels as she strode on.

In truth, she’d been nothing more than a nursery guard. A kept spouse keeping Norn’s house in order, worrying over germs in the womb while the self-proclaimed “Mother of Machines” stood on her parapet, conducting the actual invasion efforts.

Efforts that failed. Efforts that set back everything their New Phyrexia had worked towards.

And just like Norn’s incompetence had stolen the future of the Swarm, just as Norn’s cunning (and the interference of that worm, Tezzeret) had stolen Karn and Glissa’s place at the helm of Phyrexia years ago.

More pounding. Glissa touched the wind-cooled copper of her palm to her forehead, to ease the sensation.

If Norn was wrong to seize control, and to force herself on all the burgeoning beliefs of New Phyrexia, was I truly any better?

Hadn’t she been acting the mother to Karn then? Hadn’t she betrayed the swarm’s disdain for individuality by taking on that role? Hadn’t they excised Yawgmoth from their dogma of predators and prey for his failures? Didn’t making any one phyrexian the father or mother of machines run contrary to what she aspired to?

No. It was not the same. I sought to install leadership to oversee that nature was left alone to run its course. It was not for the glory or honor that came with such a role, but for the functionality. The practicality of it.

A rationale as fragile as the facade, but it would do for now.

That Glissa had believed Norn would ever hand her back any fraction of that power in earnest was laughable. She should have been suspicious when so many of the caretakers of the incubating and converted proved to be members of Norn’s Alabaster Host.

But she had persisted in her role, down in the depths of the spheres. A better caretaker than most of the Orthodoxy's host, at least. Even now, she had to move mountains to gather the hands needed to tend to the remaining pods. She had been so subservient to those ends during the invasion that she had not even been present on the surface to say a final farewell to Lyese, before the Zhalfirins stole her away.

Not been present for a final farewell.

Maybe it was justice, for her folly.

Glissa halted, inspecting the sands around her. She might as well have not moved, for all the change in scenery her strides had brought.

Her muscles tensed, and for a single, thrilling moment, Glissa warred with the impulse to attack the ground with her claws, and tear a new hole through the facade to Mirrex below. It would be a delicious catharsis , but she had to be a builder now, and tearing the facade down would only be denying Phyrexia space that it would badly need in the days ahead.

W aste not, want not.

Slobad was at work on a scheme to reinforce this outermost sphere into a surface they could actually build something meaningful upon. The facade had been made at first out of little but scrap metal and malice. A structure as mean as the spite that had motivated it, and just as flimsy. Norn’s mouthpieces had claimed constructing the Facade was a strategic decision. One to expedite the task of defeating the Mirran rebels by demoralizing them. Any fool could have guessed it would only aggravate. Solidify the Mirran resolve and spur them to fight all the fiercer. Norn had to have known that, but she was, in the end, a spiteful creature. A cruel creature.

It was by malice the mirrans had their suns taken from them. Had their suns blotted out.

And now those suns were lost to Phyrexia.

Maybe that was justice.

Glissa shuddered. That was not a phyrexian thought. Strength was the only justice in the multiverse. Triumph was the only vindication that held any value in the world.

And yet, Glissa could not help but feel Lyese would have found a justice in what had happened. She had always had a strong sense of justice, especially when it came to punishing the guilty. Especially after her parents had died.

Glissa blinked.

Parents? The only parent the suns of Mirrodin had was the core. And she was certain none of the goblin myths had mentioned any parent other than the great mother. Certainly not a mother and father, as Glissa felt certain Lyese had had.

Lyese is a sun, not a daughter.

Or was she a moon?

Again, Glissa tilted her eyes to where the sky was not. Lyese continued to be nowhere in sight.

Lyese had wanted to be a wife. A mother. Glissa could never empathize with that, but she wanted it for Lyese. She wanted Lyese to be happy.

Glissa scowled. Why did she know that? Where did it come from? The notion had vexed her for years, and not a single comple a ted mirran goblin had ever corroborated these notions of Lyese. They did not even know the name.

And why did she miss Lyese?

Because Lyese was strong and bright and beautiful.

She is a sun.

It is a sun.

A strong, beautiful sun.

But strong as it was, if Glissa didn’t know where Lyese was, then how could she protect it when it needed protecting? How could Glissa embrace her when she cried? How could-

Glissa grabbed at her shoulder with metal-shod fingers and gripped it tightly.

Where is this coming from?

The pain was just inconvenience for her body, but it centered her.

It was all the losing that was causing her to lose focus. Losing Karn. Losing authority to Norn and the machinations of that shit-licker Tezzeret. Losing the invasion. Losing Benzir. Losing Lukka, and so many of the Swarm’s other beautiful predators.

Losing Geth, even, had stung. Grasping, treacherous buffoon though he was, Geth had been familiar, even when New Phyrexia was not, and Glissa was quickly running out of familiar things to anchor herself when everything became heavy. She would work with Ixhel to keep this new, reduced Phyrexia intact, but she would never forgive Atraxa’s little maggot of a child for re-purposing Geth.

Everything familiar is falling away.

Glissa drove her claws deeper into her shoulder.

The pain centered her.

...

The pain helped her focus.

…

…

Glissa’s eyes snapped open.

Someone was coming.

She did not move, or make any further outward indication she noticed that the ground was vibrating, just slightly. That there was a shifting in the grains of sand in the distance behind her. A predator did not scare so easily, and…

...

...and besides, she recognized the tread of the creatures approaching her.

They were welcome.

So she waited, breathing steady. She tilted back her head, eyes scanning the sky.

Just in case.

“Glissa?”

“Is something wrong, Slobad?” She kept her back turned, but she could picture the two figures behind her. One made of solid-forged steel, guided by the keenest mind left on the plane. One huddled and bristling, but bulging with muscle that put the steel body of the other to shame. Smaller creatures bustled and skittered at this second figure’s feet.

“Just came to see you, huh? Everything alright?”

S he didn’t answer. D idn’t know what to say to that. So she let them approach, turning only when they were within five paces.

Vorinclex was still technically shorter than Slobad, even though he’d been eating and growing at a voracious pace since the Zhalfirins had separated his head from his body. It was a w ound that would normally have been trivial for him to regenerate from , but the Zhalfiri ns’ cursed time mage had cast an enchantment on Vorinclex that slowed his normally prodigious healing to less than a crawl. The spell had persisted beyond Phyrexia’s banishment to this void, and the nominal praetor of the Vicious Swarm was still no larger than a juvenile vorrac.

But he was growing, at least. Growing, and more than a match for most any creature left in, above, or below the Hunter’s Maze.

S curr y ing about Vorinclex’s legs were small, hunched, raptor-like creatures of chrome, poking at the sands and sniffing the air. T wo of them were perched on Vorinclex’ back.

Glissa gave a tight smile as one of the little chrome raptors trotted up to her, and examined her legs with small tilts of its head. Norn hadn’t tried to make a parent of Vorinclex, but he had insisted no one else was suited to raise Jin’s cannibal larvae into proper phyrexians.

Slobad coughed. “Glissa? How are you?”

“Did you smell me all the way up here?” Glissa did not like ignoring Slobad, but she still didn’t have an answer for him. Instead she ran a hand along Vorinclex’s snout. He growled appreciatively, though she knew, and he knew that she knew, that he had no tactile feeling in his steel bone carapace. “Stronger and sharper with every day. I knew that meddling mage couldn’t suppress your prowess for long.”

S lobad shook his head. “ Not Vorey. Myrabrask saw you, huh? Sent a message down to the other myr in the F urnace.”

Glissa spun around, grinding the sand beneath her heels and glaring at the nearest monument. It was in bad repair, even by the standard of the facade, sitting crooked in the sand like some titanic tree, a broad mask in the shape of Elesh Norn’s own face crumbling atop it.

And there, in the upper reaches of the porcelain metal, a dark-red form skulked, perched on the mask like a bird, half hidden with a single beady eye fixed on Glissa from atop a curved, beak-like head.

“From master of the forge to a skulking snitch,” Glissa hissed. “I wish you hadn’t put him back together, Slobad.”

Slobad shrugged. “Waste not, want not, huh? He’s been handy, hasn’t he?”

Glissa grunted, and turned away from the monument. She didn’t trust anything sneaky enough to get so close without her notice.

Still, she didn’t begrudge Slobad finding a use of Urabrask’s parts. He remained as good at skulking in the periphery as he’d been in his previous life, and honest to a fault. The information he’d gathered on the still-power-hungry portions of the Thane and Orthodoxy factions around the core kept their outer layers one step ahead of any scheming.

“So there’s nothing wrong?” She looked up from Vorinclex.

“Nothing you don’t already know about, huh?”

“Right.”

Glissa raised her gaze further, back to the sky above Slobad. On top of the utter upheaval among what was left of the Thanes and the basilica phyrexians, t here were growing concerns about how many of their offloaded resources were forever lost across the multiverse to the nigh-countless planes that Realmbreaker had linked together. Phyrexia had, in effect, gutted itself to empty out armies across every world in reach, banking on the prediction that what they spent would be replenished by the worlds they claimed. Very little had been brought back, relative to what Phyrexia sent out by the time the invasion tree had been hijacked, and the enemy had swapped P hyrexia’s place in the multiverse with this pocket of nothing where Zhalfir sat for centuries in stasis.

The lingering unrest between the spheres and the factions therein was almost trivial next to these logistical issues. The orthodoxy and the thanes did not have enough military might to exert the kind of authority they coveted. The former had spent themselves more completely than any other faction in the invasion, and the latter where as divided by in- f ighting as ever, the deaths of multiple thanes having done nothing to make their sphere more united.

The introduction of several not-fully-compleated, or even completely incompleat creatures from other planes was another issue. Branches that led out to the multiverse led right back to Phyrexia, and not every creature from the planes beyond that currently inhabited their isolated world had been brought their by their invasion forces. Ezuri, of all creatures, had allied with Vishgraz to gather these disparate planar orphans into a loose group that remained incompleat and as-of-yet unaffiliated with either the thanes, the orthodoxy, or Glissa’s even more tenuous coalition of Forge, Swarm, and Engine.

Slobad tapped a steely finger against his arm. The sound rang like a bell, soft and clear over the silent dunes. “Another council soon, yeah? See if we can’t talk our way to peace?”

Unlikely.

“Peace is a fever dream of the flesh,” Glissa answered. “I’ll settle for antagonistic coexistence at this point, so long as those fools don’t rip what’s left of Phyrexia to pieces.”

“You gotta talk to Ixhel at some point, huh?” Slobad tapped a nervous finger against his side. “Geth’s gone.”

“Geth’s gone,” Glissa echoed. She scooped up the Jin-raptor closest to her and set it in Slobad’s hand. The little creature tapped its snout against the goblin’s forearm, and started to climb its way up to the shoulder. “And a child holds the key to controlling the Thanes and the Orthodoxy both.”

“I’ll take Ixhel over the Alabaster Host worshiping some scarecrow made out of Norn’s guts, huh?” Slobad was flexing his arm up and down, making an obstacle course of the limb for the Jin-raptor. The goblin heads adorning Slobad’s shoulder moaned petulantly as the chrome creature clambered closer.

“A low-hanging fruit,” Glissa replied with a tight smile.

They hadn’t even found Norn’s pieces, in the end. Glissa had hoped, in small part, that she might at least be able to take out her frustrations on the Grand Cenobite’s corpse, but not a trace remained. She would have put a bounty out on the pieces, but the remainder of the Orthodoxy had put that exact call out already, and as far as anyone could tell from the wailing that still pervaded that inner sphere, no one had delivered.

“Three out of five spheres is more than we could have hoped for already,” Slobad remarked with a shrug, leaving the little raptor dangling from the lower lip of one of his shoulder-heads. The little thing squeaked and rasped as it pulled itself up, and started pecking the heads on the nose.

“More than we could have hoped for, and yet not enough.”

“When did you become the pessimist?” Slobad asked.

“I’m ever-evolving.”

“Still, well done so far, huh?”

Glissa nodded. She had thankfully engaged in plentiful diplomacy with the Progress Engine, even before Norn’s ascendancy over the other factions. Vorinclex’s constant and vitriolic spats with Jin-Gitaxias had made it necessary to pay that faction especial attention to ensure the sniping across territory had not unduly slowed the Grand Evolution. That groundwork had paid off in the past few months in securing gitaxian cooperation in negotiations with the inner spheres.

Slobad, in turn, had been vital to securing the cooperation of the fickle Furnace host. He and his newer, even more hidden Myrabrask.

Still, difficulties abounded. The gitaxians couldn't decide whether they loved or hated councils to discuss the way forward. One day they would be clamoring for an audience with every faction to proclaim they had divined some great advancement that would bring Phyrexia back to a state of flourishing. The next someone would press them on their research and the shrimp-spined fools would slink away to their labs and hiss that they did not wish to be disturbed. 

The Furnace layer remained taciturn and sullen. Preoccupied with their craft to the point of obsession. With Norn gone the personalities with the...loudest sway seemed content to treat Urabrask’s remains as figurehead and Slobad as a tolerant (meaning ignorable when it suited them) leader, following the hidden praetor's final dictates to persist in their quiet building and development. 

“We all have so much to offer,” Glissa said, half to herself. “If only we could act in harmony. If only we could converge naturally.”

Slobad tilted his head, quizzically. The raptor at his shoulder echoed this movement.

“Norn was wrong to partition New Phyrexia,” Glissa said, louder. “She was wrong for this desperate, sad attempt to ape the glory of the nine spheres. What has it benefited the Grand Evolution? Or the Great Synthesis, or the Great Work, for that matter? It was all for her vanity and the vanity of the Orthodoxy to be placed at the physical center, to keep Phyrexia divided into its singular colors, rather than letting them mix and make each other stronger. Divide us and lord over us, that’s what she did. We were meant to grind up against each other. To come together as a strong whole.”

Slobad nodded, though his lips were tight. “Is that what Phyrexia is?”

“It’s what it should be.”

“But is it what we are?”

It was Glissa’s turn to purse her lips. Old P hyrexia had been a parasite, ultimately, thriving only where it was able to steal and invade to claim the resources of others. What were the first phyrexians, after all, except for weak, arrogant, xenophobic, aristocratic flesh that had stolen the stronger flesh of other cultures, other bodies, to prop themselves up?

T he pounding in her head was back. Throbbing. Searing.

That was an incompleat way of looking at things, of course. The strength to steal for one’s own benefit was, after all, strength. Doesn’t the predator steal the life and vitality from the prey it consumes? Would anyone ever suggest that a predator apologize for taking that which it is strong enough to take?

Something nudged Glissa’s shoulder, nearly bowling her over and breaking her train of thought. Vorinclex had lunged at her, and was pouncing again, jaws wide.

She laughed and threw her body into a spin. Her foot landed along the side of Vorinclex’s face, and sent him sprawling sideways in the sand. The jin-raptors scurried all around them, flailing their arms and chirping shrilly.

Vorinclex swiped at her with one paw, then another. She dodged both, and when he swiped again, she knocked it aside with a savage counter-blow.

She hooted. “Such soft blows, cub!”

Vorinclex lunged again, but she seized him around the neck and threw herself onto the ground, dragging him to the sand with a heavy THUD.

They lay there entangled for a long minute, Glissa’s arms locked firm around Vorinclex’s neck.

“Better to – hrk – act than to stew in useless thoughts,” Vorinclex grunted.

“Better be strong if you wish to act against me,” Glissa grunted in return.

Vorinclex laughed at that. Most creatures would not know his laugh from the other fierce vocalizations of beasts, but he was Glissa’s own beating heart, and she knew.

The raptors knew too, and they swarmed the both of them, chirping and pecking.

The two disengaged and rose to their feet. Glissa gathered two of the raptors as she rose, and tossed them onto Vorinclex’ back, where they clung.

“A gathering then, soon.”

“Yeah.” Slobad dropped his shoulder-riding raptor onto Vorinclex’ back as well. “With Forge and Engine leadership, plus Ixhel and Ezuri. We’ll need to make sure the gitaxians behave this time, huh?”

Glissa nodded. “ The progress engine can posture all they want, but we have resources, and we’re the only factions willing to work with him and not above him. Unctus is too proud to acknowledge equals, but Malcator isn’t as fool-headed– he’ll wrangle the m into line.”

“And we trust Malcator to get the others in line?”

“I trust Malcator to know the value of having his house in order,” Glissa flexed her wrists. Both her arms looked the same now, for the first time in a long time. Her sickle lacked practicality on this new front, and she suspected, would antagonize those she wished to bring into the fold.

“Malcator’s not the only loud voice in the Progress Engine.”

“Yes, but he is the most stubborn by leagues. Unctus doesn’t have the pull to displace him, and he knows it. Threx just wants to get back to his work. We’ll have the surgical bays on our side.”

Vorinclex growled, just low enough for Glissa to detect, at Threx’s name. The chrome butcher had been all too keen to get his own claws on Jin’s children.

“Optimistic,” Slobad said.

“It’s that or defeatist. I thought you believed in New Phyrexia.”

“I’ve got brains enough to know Phyrexia’s the only thing that can save any of us. Not so sure Phyrexia can be saved though.”

“What choice do we have but to try?”

“You’re right, Glissa. You know I know that’s right, huh?”

Glissa smiled. “I know. Go back, Slobad. I’ll find you both when I return.” She tapped her forehead against Vorinclex’s. “Go. Eat and grow. I need you strong again soon, and there’s nothing worth consuming up here.”

“No.” Vorinclex nudged back against her head. “Nothing but memories. Those won’t sustain you, either.”

“No, but I’ll linger here a little longer all the same.”

Vorinclex grunted, but turned trudged away.

“Stay close”

The little chrome creatures clustered near to his sides, running at a pitter-patter jog to keep up with his longer strides. In the spheres below, Vorinclex left the larvae to hunt and forage on their own, but around the surface, or the remains of the Basilica, he kept them nearby. Norn’s ruinous interference into the Swarm’s evolutionary aspirations had made him protective, arguably to the point of detriment, in the production of new predators.

Glissa grit her teeth. Vorinclex resented as much as she did the way Norn had wasted Lukka. A fine predator, and a grand addition to the swarm. So much potential for evolution, and Norn had thrown him away to die in a pointless exercise against a whole world of beasts. Of course even an apex predator would die if pitted against a whole world. Norn had done it just to spite them. So she would have an example to point to when she needed to set the other factions against the Grand Evolution. ‘See how this planewalker who chose the path of the swarm fared,’ she would have said. ‘See how their path pales besides the glory of the orthodoxy.’

Well Norn had gotten what she deserved in the end. All her plotting and bluster and now she was pieces and parts – porcelain rubble on who-knows-what world that would do no more conquering.

Glissa wondered if her pieces were on Zhalfir, rotting under the light of...

“Slobad?”

The goblin stopped short, and turned about to face her. He’d waited a few seconds longer than Vorinclex had, but was turning to leave when she called out. Vorinclex kept his pace, stalking away with a muted urgency.

“Yeah?”

“Who was Lyese?”

Slobad shifted. His unease was not phyrexian. Not really. But he was a greater help and reassurance than anything else on this plane, and Glissa would take that, even if it came with the unease of the flesh. Even if he cried at times, when he thought no-one was watching him .

It was rare to see a phyrexian cry, but the bodily structures that allowed the process were left in place for most compleated sapients who had the capacity originally. Jin-Gitaxias, during a long-ago convening of the praetors, had explained it thusly to Vorinclex, in his usual haughty way:

"We've found it sensible to allow this biological release for imperfect emotions that might otherwise build up to tear one of the compleat apart on a psychological level. While it might do us good to remove the capacity for such a buildup entirely, eventually, at present it is too much a liability to have a large portion of our population susceptible to."

"Not that you would concern yourselves with such complexities," He had added unnecessarily, as was his habit.  "Working as you do with beasts."

“I’d tell you if I could, huh? Geth knew...but I don’t know if Vishgaz still has those memories. And besides...” Slobad grimaced. “Geth said they would break your heart. He was very happy about that, actually.”

“My heart is too strong for that.”

“Maybe.”

They stared at each other. Slobad. Vorinclex. Glissa would never let any harm come to these two. She had lost more than she could remember, but as long as she had them, she would persevere.

“Not today then,” She whispered, barely loud enough for Slobad to hear.

“Lyese is safe, though,” Slobad said. “At least...Geth told me she’d been sent away, and away from here must be some bit of safe, huh?

“Even after the invasion?” Glissa asked.

Slobad only lowered his head.

“Right. It is not in our nature to hope. Only to do.”

“We do what we can,” Slobad said. “Waste not, want not.”

Then he was off, following the prints Vorinclex had left in the sand. The onetime-praetor was gone already, disappeared into a hole at the base of a many-armed monument in the distance. Glissa turned away. She could tell by Slobad’s heavy, halting tread that he was stopping every few paces to glance back at her.

To make sure she was alright.

Alright was debatable, and beside the point. She was, at least, not without a pack. This was good. The scriptures, so far as she understood the interpretations of factions outside the Swarm, had little to say on the concept of being alone. The compleat were sufficient in all things, it was true, but outside the cowardly work of sleeper agents, it was pre-supposed in most texts that phyrexians worked among and besides phyrexians, and that in their inevitable spread across the multiverse, phyrexians would all be, always, among their peers.

All will be one.

It was good to not be alone. To have others. To have a pack.

A cluster of mites scuttled across the sands, some distance away. The creatures were slowly learning how to mold the sands of the facade into burrows and nests.

Glissa let out a slow breath.

I am not alone, but this new life is lonely, all the same. 

She’d come out here in the past, after Norn had erected the facade. There had been something comforting about the suns. The artificial light of the Hunter’s Maze had been a great achievement for the Swarm, but it was not the same as the moons...as the suns...as that daughter and child and…

...and what?

At times Glissa even missed the blue and the red and the white suns. She had come up here to the surface before to ponder them too, on rarer occasions. And their names…

Bruenna? Bosh? Raksha?

These were not the goblin names for those suns either, but Glissa was less sure that they had ever been the names of the suns, though something in her crotus-enhanced brain connected them nonetheless. 

A wave of nausea gripped Glissa, and she hugged herself closer, half by reflex to steady herself, and half consciously, copper claws pinching her arms. 

These spells had come in waves, nigh-paralyzing lows that she couldn't control, punctuating the longer, more stable periods. Standing there on as solid a surface as the facade could offer, she felt as if the ground beneath her had given away entirely. 

By the spheres, but I miss Lyese!

Glissa breathed, and spread her arms. Slowly, she flexed each hand, then her arms, then her shoulders. She was strong. She had her pack. All was not lost for her or for Phyrexia. 

So why do I care so much about a sun?

Glissa brought her hands back to her side.

Why does its absence feel like part of myself is lost?

Oil ran freely from her eyes, streaming harder than ever.

Why my worry for the sun's safety, its health, its...happiness? Glissa hardly fretted as much over these things for her own comrades, the closest of her pack excepted. 

A tremor hit Glissa’s knees. She would not fall. She would not kneel here. Still, she brought her hand to her mouth and gripped her jaw with talons of copper.

So why?

The flow of oil splashed down onto the white sands. Dark shapes formed in the pools and soaked into the grains.

Why do I miss Lyese?

"Lyese" is unofficial Fan Content permitted under the Fan Content Policy. Not approved/endorsed by Wizards. Portions of the materials used are property of Wizards of the Coast. ©Wizards of the Coast LLC.

[mattiapennucci]

Viaggiare significa muoversi da un posto all'altro per scoprire cose nuove. Non si tratta solo di visitare luoghi, ma anche di conoscere culture diverse e incontrare persone nuove. Ogni viaggio è un'opportunità per provare cibi tipici, ascoltare storie locali e vedere panorami incredibili. Viaggiare ci spinge a uscire dalla nostra routine e affrontare situazioni diverse, il che ci aiuta a crescere come persone. Inoltre, ci permette di prendere una pausa dallo stress quotidiano e di ricaricare le energie. Infine, viaggiare crea ricordi speciali che possiamo condividere con amici e familiari. In poche parole, viaggiare è un modo per esplorare il mondo e scoprire di più su noi stessi.