Plätz vo Züri, testo originale con traduzione in italiano di Efisio Contini ( e nota su futura musica, storie e paesaggi)

Plätz vo Züri

Kennsch de glatti Cheib wo jede Tag im Niderdorf

D Schue buzt vo de andere Lüt?

Han eifachs gfühl die Frölichkeit wo all die andere z lache bringt

Dekt bloss sini Einsamkeit diehme nüzts im nüt.

Und Du, Du seisch du segsch elei und für dich schint d Sunne nöd.

Chum gib mer dini Hand und ich füere dich a plätz in Züri

Wod sache gsesch das d Meinig ändere wirsch.

Sicher kennsch au d Bluemefrau wo d Rose ime Chörbli treit.

Verchaufts verschenkts und denkt sich nüt debi,

Doch niemert wür dra denke ire eini zschenke

Uf si wartet niemert bloss es par Fläsche Wii.

Und vilich kennsch de alti Ma wo öppe Frauechleider treit.

Er isch nöd schwul es het en andere Grund.

Sit em Tod vo siner Frau da leit er iri Sache a

Den isch si da für in si lebt füre par Stund.

Und Du, Du seisch du segsch elei und für dich schint d Sunne nöd.

Chum gib mer dini Hand und ich füere dich a plätz in Züri

Wod sache gsesch das d Meinig ändere wirsch.

Gell du kennsch de glatti Cheib wo jede Tag im Niderdorf

D Schue buzt vo de andere Lüt?

Er isch öppe den recht im Stoss und d lüt hend all de Plausch a im

Den chert er wider zue sich denn blibtem wider nüt.

Und Du, Du seisch du segsch elei und für dich schint d Sunne nöd.

Chum gib mer dini Hand und ich füere dich a plätz in Züri

Wod sache gsesch das d Meinig ändere wirsch.

 

 

 

Posti di Zurigo

 

Conosci quel buontempone che ogni giorno al Niederdorf

Lucida le scarpe dei passanti?

Quell’allegria che trasmette alla gente

Nella solitudine di casa sua non gli è più d’aiuto

 

E tu dici che sei solo e che il sole per te non splende mai

Dammi la tua mano e ti porto in certi posti di Zurigo

Dove vedrai cose che ti faranno cambiare idea

 

Di sicuro conosci la fiorista col cesto di rose

Le vende e le regala senza pensare a niente

A nessuno viene in mente di farle un regalo

Non ha nessuno che l’aspetta, solo qualche bottiglia di vino.

 

E forse conosci il vecchio con gli abiti da donna

Non è gay, ha un altra ragione

Da quando è morta sua moglie porta addosso le sue cose

Così lei rivive in lui, è qui per qualche ora

 

E tu dici che sei solo e che il sole per te non splende mai

Dammi la tua mano e ti porto in certi posti di Zurigo

Dove vedrai cose che ti faranno cambiare idea

 

Conosci quel buontempone che ogni giorno al Niederdorf

Lucida le scarpe dei passanti?

Ogni tanto tira su il gomito e la gente si diverte

Poi si chiude in se e a lui non resta niente

 

E tu dici che sei solo e che il sole per te non splende mai

Dammi la tua mano e ti porto in certi posti di Zurigo

Dove vedrai cose che ti faranno cambiare idea

. . .

 

Efisio Contini, musicista, compositore, arrangiatore e produttore discografico, abita a Zurigo, suona e arrangia musica, crea,  racconta storie, parla, scrive ed esplora svariate lingue. Qualche volta collaborerà con Errant Magazine, perché lui, italo-svizzero, cittadino del mondo, insieme alla sua chitarra , al suo talento, al suo gruppo e alla moglie spettacolare musicista e “Jokerwoman” , rappresenta perfettamente lo spirito di questo magazine, ed è molto vicino alle ragioni e ai motivi di Errant Editions. Questa magnifica traduzione dallo svizzero-tedesco in italiano l’ha fatta lui, ed incarna il senso dei Paesaggi/Landscapes, tema iniziale del nostro magazine.

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ARTELITTERA LOGO  Ci siamo incontrati alla Fiera del libro di Francoforte e abbiamo capito di avere visioni simili, vicinanze, in particolare la voglia di varcare confini, di aprirci a tutte le lingue e allargare lo sguardo, senza dimenticare mai le forti radici. Errant Editions è sulla piattaforma di Artelittera, nuovissima e molto bella, e comincia ad “esserci” con Borges aveva un tumblr di Angelo Ricci. Presto ci sarà anche con altri testi  e siamo davvero molto contenti di questa collaborazione. Sulla piattaforma si possono “assaggiare” capitoli dei libri ( ed è una proposta per editori cartacei e digitali), e poi decidere o meno di acquistarli.  La piattaforma di Artelittera è molto attenta all’arte, alla storia, e ha una nicchia specifica di destinatari di testi accademici e specializzati e di saggi raffinati e molto interessanti, ma vuole ampliare sempre con accurata selezione anche verso testi di altro tipo, e verso…

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Paesaggi/Landscapes di Angelo Ricci

 

Paesaggi/Landscapes

Caruggi di una Genova postbellica che ricordano l’Italo Calvino de Il sentiero dei nidi di ragno e che rimandano alla Grasse definitiva di un Prokosh che si cela nell’entroterra di un midì francese che restituisce la carnalità marsigliese delle donne di Jean-Claude Izzo. Paesaggi che, senza soluzione di continuità, aprono le porte alla cattiveria silente di alberghi inquietanti che fanno da sfondo al bolaniano Il terzo reich, prodromo senza fine delle ramblas sanguinarie dei Consigli di un discepolo di Jim Morrison a un fanatico di Joyce. Costa del sol e Cote d’Azur, a loro modo assassine e messaggere di morte letteraria, ma non per questo meno vera, o forse più angosciante, di un film dove Burt Lancaster percorre una via di purificazione attraverso le strade d’acqua delle piscine tradotte nel filmico Il nuotatore, tratto da The swimmer di John Cheever. Percorsi tragicamente affrontati, con la stolida e hollywoodiana forza che ricorda l’immobilità estrema delle solitarie piscine di David Hockney, cantore estremo di una pop art che abbandona la ripetizione wahroliana dei miti very sixties di una Campbell’s Soup o di un Mao Zedong prossimamente assiso in colloqui nixoniani e kissingeriani, anteprime apocalittiche di evacuazioni di collaborazionisti dal tetto dell’ambasciata americana di Saigon nell’aprile del 1975. Paesaggi narrativi indocinesi che non riescono ad affrancarsi dalle banlieus (o downtown) statunitensi, luoghi di affermazione catartica di un Bronx delilliano che fa da sfondo (ma anche da anteprima) agli omicidi rock di Great Jones Street e alle neomillenarie paure de L’uomo che cade, tragica definizione di una Cosmopolis che non ha più alcuna via di salvezza né di fuga, se mai ne ha avuta una.

Paesaggi narrativi e territori di confine, parentele estreme di un messicano DF (Distrito Federal) che violenze bolaniane conducono alle estreme conseguenze di un 2666 senza fine, dove la stessa anima di Baudelaire si perde nell’infinito niente. Gialle zolle di un deserto che prende le mosse da un una pampa borgesiana che (con)fonde i suoi confini australi con le case di una periferia di una Buenos Aires che porta a compimento le solitudini accettate di una Patagonia chatwiniana che unisce solitudini sudamericane a certezze europee (e molto alla Sotheby).

Paesaggi e territori, narrazioni e storie, “oasi d’orrore in deserti di noia”.

Uno snuff film che fa da sfondo a una Perdita Durango che si trasfigura in luogo di perdizione letteraria.

Confini, sogni, incubi che delimitano storie e narrazioni che frontiere non hanno e non possono avere. Mai.
Angelo Ricci.

Il Pinterest di Angelo Ricci

Angelo Ricci è amanuense, esploratore digitale per Errant Editions, direttore della collana dei Social Media Landscapes, co-fondatore di Errant Magazine e molte altre cose da seguire, in tanti “luoghi” del web belli e accoglienti, in particolare qui

 

Famous blue raincoat

I have always wanted to visit New York. Ever since I was a teenager, I have been deeply fascinated by the gravity, the grace, the immensity of this city. A maze in which I wish I could get lost.

It is a cold December night. The snow has just stopped falling, and it has already started taking a dirty, greyish quality.

I cannot sleep and suddenly this room, on the 25th floor of a disputably trendy design hotel, is suffocating me. I can’t breathe.

I light a cigarette and open the long glass window, careful not to make any noise, not to wake him up. Our hotel overlooks the crossroad between West 29th and West 30th Streets on 6th Avenue.

The room as a steel quality, essentialist. It’s grey inside and greyish outside. I suddenly realise I need to get out, even if it is late, even if he’s sleeping, even if outside must be freezing.

I put my UGGs and my long peacock-blue coat over my PJs and head to the elevator, taking my I-pod with me.

The air is sharp as a knife, cutting my skin, clearing my thoughts. Breaking my heart.

As I head towards Time Square, I put my headphones on. I already know what I am looking for, as my frozen fingers scroll down my playlist. Famous blue raincoat by Leonard Cohen.

It’s four in the morning, the end of December

I’m writing to you now just to see if you’re better

New York is cold, but I like where I’m living

There’s music on Clinton Street all through the evening…

We had dreamt about travelling the USA, while drinking wine – red for you, white for me, even if you were always teasing me, telling me that wine lovers have to try everything – and reading Fante, Bukowski, Sylvia Plath.

We were never really talking about New York – I was more a New England kind of girl, fantasising about visiting Amherst and the house of Emily Dickinson, about pretending to be a student while walking through the Harvard campus. You were always telling me I reminded you of a college student, and you were convinced you had met me before in another life, while we were both at high school. You loved when I dressed like a schoolgirl, with hoodies and old jeans or pleated miniskirt with ankle socks. You loved braids and ponytails. And I would have made anything to make you smile – that special smile that started from your cat eyes and ended up in the tiny wrinkles around your thin lips.

You were more a DC type of guy – you loved it there, because that’s where you met her for the first time. And that’s where you two used to go, in your early years.

You loved the public libraries, where you could dig into your beloved American history books. And you loved the scent of the city: crab cakes, history and power. And her.

You would have made a wonderful politician, had you believed more in yourself. Hadn’t you always felt overshadowed, almost threatened by her. Her success. Her smartness. Her skyrocketing career. Her self-esteem.

I hear that you’re building your little house deep in the desert

You’re living for nothing now, I hope you’re keeping some kind of record.

Approaching Time Square, I am again struck by all the artificial lights, the billboards, the people around, even at this time of the night. As I pass by the tourist shops and restaurants, the Yankee’s and Bubba Gumps, Leonard Cohen keeps lullabying me. Except the song is not soothing, neither comforting me. Each note, every word is a stab on my open heart. Still recovering. Still bleeding. Still tore apart.

Maybe I should grieve in my own way, not choosing instead over and over again to listen to the song you sent me in your last email, when you ended things. Without a “I am sorry”. Just like that. With this song, that is haunting me ever since I set foot in New York. Every painting at the MoMa reminded me of you. I wonder where is your little house in the desert now, if you are sheltered and lonely enough, as you claimed you needed to be. Apart from me. But with her. I wonder if you still have the painting you made for me and you never gave me. I wonder if you have ever read one of the books I gave you. At Penn Station I have bought a vintage edition of How To Kill a Mockingbird. Like the one I got you. You never told me if you liked it.

Yes, and Jane came by with a lock of your hair
She said that you gave it to her
That night that you planned to go clear
Did you ever go clear

Did you ever go clear? With me, with her?

I keep on walking, heading towards the Winter theatre, where I have been to watch Mamma Mia! just yesterday – you would have never approved. I was always so scared of your opinions, you always seemed to me so sure of what was right or wrong, and I tried to be who you wanted me to be, I tried so hard..you didn’t like my writing, didn’t even want to read it. You just liked the fact that I wrote and I wanted to do so for a living, but you wanted me to be some Fante or Bukowski or some Japanese writer – clearly I wasn’t. You wanted me to dare to write about the unknown, to stop writing about surreal situations, about feelings and emotions, memories and regrets. And I was always afraid to show you my stories, just my poetry. But you never said anything. I never knew if you had read any of my poems.

Ah, the last time we saw you looked so much older
Your famous blue raincoat was torn at the shoulder
You’d been to the station to meet every train
And you came home without Lili Marlene

I feel so ridiculous, so incongruous, here, alone in a crowd of people, with my flannel pajamas, listening to the same song again and again, tasting salty tears. I am such a mess.

Truth is, I should have never believed what you said. I have – had – this stupid habit of falling in love with words. And yours were different, exciting. I felt like you needed me. I started reading your books and listening to Johnny Cash and dreaming with you (without you?) a dream of a life together, without him, without her, touring the States, living of paintings and books and good wine and freedom and love, in pursuit of that happiness that seemed too far from us.

You never stopped loving her. You were hurting because she was growing apart, obsessed with her career, and somehow I think I reminded you of what she was when she was younger. How could I ever compete with her? So beautiful, so smart. So perfect.

And you treated my woman to a flake of your life
And when she came back she was nobody’s wife.

New York was a mistake. I would have loved it before knowing you. Before loving you.

Now it’s an oppressive, threatening place, with the skyscrapers trying to suffocate me. I feel cyanotic. My heart is drumming, my hand are freezing, and I feel I am going to be physically sick.

Was I just a flake for you, or rather a fluke? Why couldn’t you love me the same way you loved her?

I would have done everything for you, even the silliest, craziest thing. When we met I was already shrinking to a hollow, shallow shelf: with you it was a fever indeed, hotter than a pepper sprout, as your beloved Johnny Cash sings. That fever consumed me, and you left me shrunk, totally empty. Nobody’s lover. Nobody’s friend. Nobody’s wife.

Well I see you there with the rose in your teeth
One more thin gypsy thief
Well I see Jane’s awake —

She sends her regards.
And what can I tell you my brother, my killer
What can I possibly say?
I guess that I miss you, I guess I forgive you
I’m glad you stood in my way.

If you ever come by here, for Jane or for me
Your enemy is sleeping, and his woman is free.

After you ended things, I must have listened to this song a hundred thousand times, trying to figure out what you meant to tell me: where you the man with the raincoat? Where you taking his side, pitying him, him, who didn’t know how to love me, who didn’t understand me, but was always by my side?

And who was Jane? Myself, of her?

Were you sorry for your betrayal? Were you regretting that I happened, that we happened? At the end of the day, I wasn’t even left with a lock of your hair. Nothing, but emptiness and grief. Clearly, mourning becomes me.

Yes, and thanks, for the trouble you took from her eyes
I thought it was there for good so I never tried

I am shivering and it is indeed four in the morning. The street is empty. I hope he hasn’t woken up. How could I possibly explain this to him? How can I possibly tell him that, after all these years, I am still mourning your loss, and I miss you as I have missed you since the day of that infamous email?

As I cross the Fashion district, I stop and sit under the giant needle with the huge button to catch my breath.

You always told me that I had grown up too fast and there was a sadness in my eyes you wished to erase. You used to say you wanted to give me some lightness, to teach me how to smile again, even laugh at your stupid jokes. What you did instead was taking my willingness to smile away – for good.

I have almost reached my hotel, and no, it’s not the Chelsea hotel. This hideous night is almost over.

I don’t know if you’ll ever come back, if you’ll ever go clear, if I’ll ever forgive and forget you.

It is almost dawn and, as I pass the sliding doors and enter the hall, I bid farewell to these long painful hours – and to you – borrowing the words of another Leonard Cohen’s song:

Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye….

Sincerely, ACF
Manuela La Gamma (alias Ophelinha Pequena)

Manuela La Gamma, daydream believer always trying to find herself and her Heimat, lives lost in her world of books, dreams and stories. She firmly believes in heteronyms and in what Tabucchi called “the confederation of souls”: that is why she chooses to write as Ophelinha Pequena, uncrowned queen of impossible and unrequited love, a romantic and démodé heteronym who has been defined, borrowing Churchill’s words, “a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma”.

In her daily life, she is chronically insomniac, precarious by necessity. When she grows up she would like to be a writer. Meanwhile, she is a blogger at Impression chosen from another time.

You can follow her here
 

Social Media Landscapes. Angelo Ricci. [with some notes]

Racconti che si incrociano in un flusso infinito. Ecosistemi narrativi e narranti che riproducono incessantemente quel desiderio di storie che l’umanità da sempre porta in sé.
Secoli sembrano passati dalla rivoluzione cyberpunk che, agli albori del web, celebrava l’autoriprodursi della realtà virtuale.
Millenni sono invece realmente trascorsi dal giorno in cui, per la prima volta, un homo sapiens (o addirittura un uomo di Neanderthal, tanto per condividere ancora una volta le visionarie ossessioni di Philip Dick), nel buio di una grotta, tracciava sulle pareti umide i disegni di una battuta di caccia.
E se, come scrisse E.M. Forster in Aspetti del romanzo, proprio quel giorno segnò l’inizio del raccontare umano, così oggi, passata anche la visione profetica, ma venata da eccesivo pessimismo, del cyberpunk, ecco che possiamo iniziare ad osservare il punto d’arrivo (che, sempre e comunque, è anche un punto di partenza) di quella insopprimibile esigenza umana del raccontare e del raccontarsi.
Paesaggi narrativi quindi si pongono oggi alla nostra attenzione. Paesaggi narrativi complessi, condivisi, intrecciati, social landscapes appunto. Paesaggi narrativi di cui siamo, in un affascinante gioco di specchi borgesiano, nel contempo spettatori e protagonisti.
Frammenti di un discorso (grezzi e anche sofisticati, completi e anche discontinui, personali e anche forieri di analisi strutturali) che continuano inesauribilmente ad esprimersi in quello che Saramago definì “il mare infinito di internet”. Ma sempre e comunque frammenti narrativi che si organizzano all’interno di quei luoghi ben definiti che creano (e sono creati) dalla rete.
Una casa editrice digitale oggi è non solo artefice di contenuti, ma è essa stessa parte, protagonista, osservatrice della rete. L’insondabile percorso dei flussi trasfigura l’organizzatore e il creatore dei contenuti in luogo di partenza ma anche di arrivo di quegli stessi contenuti.
Nodo vivente di quell’ecosistema narrativo e narrante che è la rete, un editore digitale non può più (anzi, non deve proprio) pensare di essere elemento pedagogico unidirezionale, ma deve (ri)pensarsi come parte bidirezionale di quell’ecosistema, pronto quindi ad attraversare la rete, ma anche, e soprattutto, a lasciarsene attraversare.
La collana Social Media Landscapes di Errant Editions nasce esattamente con questo scopo. Visioni, attimi narrativi, analisi brevi e incisive che lasciano spazio a tutto il mondo inesplorato che sta al di là di quelle colonne d’Ercole che delimitano le visioni tradizionali.
Non un banale approccio how to, non un tedioso metodo manualistico, bensì una narrazione che si inserisce in quella narrazione più ampia che è la rete.
La rete è un racconto. L’unico modo per analizzarla è quello di raccontarla a nostra volta.
Angelo Ricci
 

Stories that intersect in an endless stream. Narrative ecosystems   that constantly reproduce that desire for stories  mankind always carries.
Centuries seem to have passed from cyberpunk revolution that, at the dawn of the Web, celebrated  the reproduction of virtual reality.
Thousands of years have actually passed since the day when, for the first time, a homo sapiens (or even a Neanderthal, just to once again share the visionary obsessions of Philip Dick), in the darkness of a cave, hlaid down on the damp walls the drawings of a hunt.
And if, as  wrote E.M. Forster in “Aspects of the Novel” that day marked the beginning of narration, so today, also came the prophetic vision, but tinged with pessimism  we can begin to see the point of arrival (which always and in any case, it is also a starting point) of the irrepressible human need of stories and telling narrative then pose to us today. Landscapes complex Narrative landscapes require our attention, complex , shared and interwined narrative landscapes ,social landscapes, we can say.  Narrative landscapes in which we are, in a fascinating game of mirrors ( as Borges  would have liked) , in the same time, spectators and players.
Fragments of a conversation ( raw and sophisticated, complete and even discontinuous, personal, and involving structural analysis) which  continue inexhaustibly to express themselves in what Saramago called “the endless sea of ​​the Internet.” But always narrative fragments that are organized within those places that create well-defined (and created) by the network.
A digital publisher today is not only  creator of contenst, but is itself part,  protagonist, and observer of the web The unfathomable flows path transfigures the organizer and creator of contents in place of departure as well as arrival of the  same content.

Living core  of the narrative and narrating ecosystem that is the Web,  a digital publisher can not (indeed, must not) think to be pedagogical  unidirectional element but must (re) think itself  as bidirectional part of that ecosystem ready to cross the web , but also, and above all, to allow itself  to be crossed.
The  Social Media Landscapes Project by Errant Editions has  exactly this purpose. Visions, narrative moments, brief and incisive analysis leaving spaces for the whole unexplored world that is beyond the Pillars of Hercules which border the traditional views.
Not a banal ” how to”approach, not a tedious method as in  textbooks, but a narrative path that fits into the larger Narration, the whole Web
The Web has a story. The only way to analyze it is to tell it in our turn.

Angelo Ricci

La narrazione del web. L’edizione speciale degli eBook di Angelo Ricci deve essere ricordata.. Un richiamo che ha un senso importante, seguendo il tema con cui iniziamo il lavoro di contenuti, esplorazioni, visioni e scritture attorno, dentro e accanto all’Errant Magazine. Angelo Ricci è co-fondatore di questo magazine , ha un ruolo importante in Errant Editions, e condivide il progetto del “collettivo errante” al quale fornisce un apporto prezioso, che permette una costante crescita anche nella “consapevolezza digitale” e non solo.  All’interno del numero zero del magazine ci saranno altri interventi di Angelo Ricci e, credo di poterlo dire con certezza, ci saranno richiami frequenti a quello che lui ha narrato nei suoi testi brevi e incisivi su Pinterest e Tumblr. Perché ha disegnato percorsi, strade. Non hanno sempre una destinazione ma diramazioni. Possibili colorazioni, sapori, storie da incontrare e da saper  vedere. Questo lavoro di Angelo Ricci, unito a contributi e visioni del web, della musica, dell’architettura, delle arti visive, della narrativa e della poesia, delle passioni e dei viaggi, saranno le bussole che accompagneranno la storia di questo magazine in formato eBook e di questa web-Zine .

Francesca Mazzucato

….

A deep narration of the web. The special edition of the eBook  written by Angelo Ricci. must be remembered. This has  an important sense, following the theme with which we start the work of contents, explorations, visions and writings around, in and alongside Errant Magazine. Angelo Ricci is co-founder of this magazine, he has an important role in Errant Editions, and shares the design  and the grounds of the “errant collective”: Angelo Ricci provides a valuable contribution,  very important for us and for a a steady growth  in  “digital awareness” and beyond. In the first issue of the magazine there will be other interventions of Angelo Ricci, and I can say with certainty, there  will be frequent references to what he has narrated in his short texts about Pinterest and Tumblr, because he  has designed paths and roads. Not always with a destination but branches. Possible colors, flavors,ways to meet  stories and they are very important, we must look for stories and write or propose them.  This work of Angelo Ricci, together with contributions and visions of the web, music, architecture, visual arts, fiction, economics , poetry, passion and travel,  emotional landscapes, performances, will be the right compass to accompany the history of this magazine in eBook format and  the story of this web-Zine.

Francesca Mazzucato