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“things only exist if they are told/narrated”
(maybe of Alessandro Baricco);
“le cose esistono solo se vengono raccontate”
(probabile, di Alessandro Baricco).
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This photographic series of mine, taken in the Gran Camposanto of Messina, could be considered a continuation of my two previous series on the same theme, taken in various monumental cemeteries in Sicily (for those who want to learn more: flic.kr/p/2rRmE35 - flic.kr/p/2qBy35g ). The monumental cemetery of Messina, one of the most important in Europe, is very large, spanning 22 hectares, and conceived as an urban park, with the idea of an open-air gallery of modern and contemporary art. My interest in this place has roots that go beyond the beauty that is widely found among its works, beautiful sculptures (in marble, in bronze), stories described on the tombstones, architectural structures (the Famedio, a kind of mausoleum; the Cenobio, in the highest part of the cemetery, known as the "conventino"), a section of it called the "English cemetery", but my interest arises above all from the presence of the victims of the terrible earthquake of 1908: at 5:21 am on December 28, 1908, seismographs recorded the occurrence of an earthquake of exceptional intensity and great magnitude, lasting 37 interminable seconds. Coinciding with the earthquake, a terrible tsunami also occurred. Studies report that it was not the earthquake that triggered it, but rather it was caused by a large underwater landslide that occurred off the coast of Giardini-Naxos; When I was sixteen, I was told by word of mouth that during that tsunami, a mother lost her child, who was torn from her by the enormous series of waves that overwhelmed them. They were at the window of a house overlooking the sea in Giardini Naxos, undoubtedly awakened and frightened by the earthquake that had occurred about ten minutes earlier. It is one of those tragedies that belong to our oral memory. The number of victims is estimated to have been between 80,000 and 100,000 people, more than half the population of Messina and a third of that of Reggio Calabria. The tragedy sparked a wave of international solidarity, led initially and immediately by sailors of the Russian fleet, and shortly thereafter by the British, as they were present near the Strait of Messina. Immediately after the disaster, the entire "coterie" of artists then present in Taormina (the town where I live and work) decided to move, combining humanitarian and relief intent with that of testimony, each with their own means of expression: the photographer Baron Wilhelm von Gloeden and his studio assistant, my great-grandfather Gaetano D'Agata, left, bringing with them heavy photographic equipment, to document the apocalypse of Messina with crude realism, I talked about the two photographers here: ( flic.kr/p/2mVA5Ui ), the painters Robert Kitson and Carlo Siligato also left (the latter being my great-grandmother's cousin), he was Robert Kitson's life partner, he was a talented painter who graduated from the Academy of Fine Arts in Venice, and, before meeting the English artist Kitson, he had been one of the most photographed models by Wilhelm von Gloeden himself; I have described their stories here (flic.kr/p/2mYnnzi), the two painters set out with their notebooks, Kitson created historic and touching watercolors, capturing scenes of rubble and survivors, Siligato was close to him both in art and in material relief efforts; the union of this group, which left Taormina and arrived in Messina, was sealed by an extraordinary human event: among those ruins, Kitson and Siligato found an orphaned child, and so decided to adopt him, little Francesco. Kitson, Siligato, von Gloeden, and my great-grandfather Gaetano D’Agata shared a profound vision of art and life, so in the face of the tragedy in Messina, they moved as one to document, photograph, paint, and help. Another cousin by marriage of my father, Prof. Giacomo Altavilla lost his parents in the tragic Messina earthquake. He himself was miraculously saved when a sharp object pierced his skull. He survived, but always wore a plaster on his head because the wound never healed. He was adopted by a Danish family and became honorary consul of Denmark in Taormina. That terrible tragedy created a wonderful human chain of help and solidarity from all over Europe, which has much to teach us about what is happening in our times, where the recurring words are nationalism, hatred and war. The earthquake struck many areas bordering Messina, in the countryside of Castelmola (in the "Francisi" district), in the hinterland of Taormina. The mausoleum dedicated to an intelligent, benefactor and enlightened woman of English origins, Lady Florence Trevelyan, who had died the year before, collapsed. I talk about her here (flic.kr/p/qjn32z).
Now, for some brief and concise observations on what I photographed, I didn't dwell on the beautiful and interesting architectural works present. While photographing with a telephoto lens "an incredible expanse" of little angels, representing the immense pain of those who suffered the loss of those little souls, I was completely unexpectedly overcome by a sense of profound prostration. A desire to cry took over, though I couldn't, a feeling of pain and suffering in seeing that scene. I thought of something similar and at the same time different from those who have experienced the so-called "Stendhal syndrome." It wasn't the beauty of those angels that caused me that discomfort, it was probably because they were "a reflected source of profound pain." When I stopped framing them with the telephoto lens, everything passed. Who hasn't been fascinated by the "Angel of Staglieno," also known as the "Angel of Monteverde" or the Angel of the Resurrection? In the Gran Cimitero, I found a sculptor who imitated him, with a smaller-scale copy (the one in Staglieno, including the base, is about three meters tall, while the one I photographed is much smaller); the terrible earthquake caused massive collapses of buildings in Messina and the surrounding area, and the cemetery also suffered damage. I photographed a testimony from that time, a statue (wearing a fez) whose pedestal had shifted, partially coming off its base; I photographed the bronze face of a Navy lieutenant who died in a tragic accident with his ship in the English Channel. I immediately felt close to that bronze portrait, it evoked my Flickr avatar, Corto Maltese, a character created by Hugo Pratt; Among the illustrious figures present, I have given space only to Giuseppe La Farina, an Italian patriot and politician born in Messina (and died in Turin), a central figure in promoting Italian unification and supporting Giuseppe Garibaldi's Expedition of the Thousand (I hope, sooner or later, to be able to publish the photos taken at the mausoleum of the massacre of Garibaldi's men in Fantina). A compassionate hand, on the graves of many small children, had (long ago) placed small toys, stuffed animals, Lego bricks, rather than candles or flowers. Finally, I have published some faces present in the ancient tombs. It must surely be some distortion of my "photography skills," but in looking at those faces, I perceived that there was a kind of vital light in them. It seemed to me that those faces were still alive and vibrant, not frozen by time, the "temporal gap" did not exist in their gazes…
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Questa mia serie fotografica, realizzata nel Gran Camposanto di Messina, potrebbe considerarsi la continuazione delle due mie precedenti sul tema, realizzate in vari cimiteri monumentali della Sicilia (per chi volesse approfondire: flic.kr/p/2rRmE35 - flic.kr/p/2qBy35g ). Il cimitero monumentale di Messina, è uno dei più importanti d’Europa, è molto vasto, si estende per ben 22 ettari, concepito come parco urbano, con l’idea di una galleria d’arte moderna e contemporanea all’aperto. Il mio interesse per questo luogo ha radici che vanno oltre la bellezza che si trova ampiamente tra le sue opere, bellissime sculture (in marmo, in bronzo), storie descritte sulle lapidi, strutture architettoniche (il Famedio, una specie di mausoleo; il Cenobio, nella parte più alta del cimitero, conosciuto come “conventino”), una sua sezione chiamata “cimitero degli Inglesi”, ma il mio interesse nasce soprattutto per la presenza delle vittime del terribile terremoto del 1908: alle ore 05:21 del 28 dicembre 1908 i sismografi registrarono il verificarsi di un terremoto dall’intensità di eccezionale e grande magnitudo, della durata di 37 interminabili secondi, in concomitanza col terremoto si verificò anche un terribile maremoto, studi riportano che non fu il terremoto ad innescarlo, ma piuttosto fu causato da una grande frana sottomarina realizzatasi al largo di Giardini-Naxos; quando avevo sedici anni mi fu tramandato a voce che durante tale maremoto, una madre perse il suo bambino, che le fu strappato dall’enorme serie di ondate che li aveva travolti, poichè si trovavano alla finestra di una casa prospiciente il mare di Giardini-Naxos, certamente svegliati ed impauriti dal terremoto verificatosi circa dieci minuti prima, è uno di quei drammi che appartengono alla nostra memoria orale. Si stima che il numero delle vittime fu tra le 80.000 ed le 100.000 persone, più della metà della popolazione di Messina ed un terzo di quella di Reggio Calabria. La tragedia mosse una catena di solidarietà internazionale, essa fu guidata inizialmente e da subito, dai marinai della flotta russa, e poco dopo da quella inglese, poiché presenti nelle vicinanze dello Stretto di Messina. Subito dopo il verificarsi del disastro l’intero “cenacolo” di artisti allora presenti a Taormina (cittadina dove vivo e lavoro) decise di muoversi, unendo l’intento umanitario e di soccorso a quello di testimonianza, ciascuno con il proprio mezzo espressivo: partirono il barone fotografo Wilhelm von Gloeden ed il suo assistente di studio, il mio bisnonno Gaetano D’Agata, portando con loro le pesanti attrezzature fotografiche, per documentare con crudo realismo l’apocalisse di Messina, ho parlato dei due fotografi qui: ( flic.kr/p/2mVA5Ui ), partirono anche i pittori Robert Kitson e Carlo Siligato (quest’ultimo cugino della mia bisnonna), egli era il compagno di vita di Robert Kitson, era un pittore di talento diplomatosi all’Accademia di Belle Arti di Venezia, e, prima di incontrare l’artista inglese Kitson, era stato uno dei modelli più fotografati dallo stesso Wilhelm von Gloeden; le loro vicende le ho descritta qui (flic.kr/p/2mYnnzi), i due pittori partirono coi loro taccuini, Kitson realizzò storici e toccanti acquerelli, catturando scene di macerie e dei sopravvissuti, Siligato gli era vicino sia nell’arte che nelle azioni di soccorso materiale; l’unione di questo gruppo partito da Taormina, giunti a Messina, è suggellato da un evento umano straordinario, tra quelle rovine Kitson e Siligato trovano un bimbo rimasto orfano, decidono così di adottarlo, era il piccolo Francesco: Kitson, Siligato, von Gloeden ed il mio bisnonno Gaetano D’Agata, condividevano una visione profonda dell’arte e della vita, cosicchè di fronte al dramma di Messina, si mossero come un unico corpo per documentare, fotografare, dipingere, ed aiutare. Un altro cugino acquisito di mio padre, il prof. Giacomo Altavilla, perse i genitori nel tragico terremoto di Messina, egli stesso fu salvo per miracolo dacchè un oggetto penetrante gli perforò la teca cranica, egli sopravvisse ma portò per sempre un cerotto sul capo perché quella ferita non rimarginò mai, fu adottato da una famiglia Danese, diventò console onorario a Taormina della Danimarca: si era creata per quella immane tragedia una meravigliosa catena umana di aiuti e solidarietà proveniente da ogni parte d’Europa, che ha molto da insegnare a quanto accade ai tempi nostri, dove la parola ricorrente è nazionalismi, odio e guerra. Il terremoto colpì molti territori limitrofi a Messina, nelle campagne di Castelmola (in contrada “Francisi”), nell’entroterra di Taormina, crollò il mausoleo dedicato ad una donna intelligente, benefattrice ed illuminata, di origini inglesi, morta l’anno prima, Lady Florence Trevelyan, ne parlo qui ( flic.kr/p/qjn32z ). Ora, delle brevi e sintetiche osservazioni su quanto ho fotografato, non mi sono soffermato sulle pur belle ed interessanti opere architettoniche presenti; nel fotografare col teleobiettivo “una incredibile distesa” di piccoli angeli, rappresentanti dell’immenso dolore di chi ha subito la perdita di quelle piccole anime, sono stato colto in maniera del tutto inaspettata da un senso di profonda prostrazione, era subentrato un desiderio di piangere senza purtuttavia riuscirvi, una sensazione di dolore e di sofferenza nel vedere quella scena, ho pensato a qualcosa di affine ed al contempo diversa da chi ha provato la cosiddetta “sindrome di Stendhal”, non era la bellezza di quegli angioli a procurarmi quel disturbo, era probabilmente perché “fonte riflessa di profondissimo dolore”, quando ho smesso di inquadrarli col teleobiettivo, tutto è passato; chi non è rimasto affascinato nel guardare “l’Angelo di Staglieno” detto anche “l’Angelo di Monteverde o l’Angelo della Resurrezione”, nel Gran Cimitero ho trovato uno scultore suo epigono, con una copia in scala ridotta (quello di Staglieno, compreso di base è alto circa tre metri, quello da me fotografato, di dimensioni molto più contenute); il terribile terremoto causò a Messina e dintorni enormi crolli di palazzi, anche il cimitero subì dei danni, ho fotografato una testimonianza di allora, una statua (col Fez sul capo) il cui piedistallo si è spostato uscendo in parte dal suo basamento; ho fotografato il volto in bronzo di un sottotenente di Marina, morto in un tragico incidente con la sua nave nelle acque della Manica, quel ritratto in bronzo l’ho subito sentito vicino a me, rievocava il mio avatar su Flickr, Corto Maltese, personaggio creato da Hugo Pratt; tra i personaggi illustri presenti, ho dato spazio solo a Giuseppe La Farina, patriota e politico italiano, nato a Messina (e morto a Torino), figura centrale nel promuovere l’Unità d’Italia e nel sostenere la spedizione dei Mille di Giuseppe Garibaldi (spero prima o poi, di riuscire a pubblicare le foto fatte al mausoleo dell’eccidio dei Garibaldini di Fantina); una mano pietosa, su molte tombe di piccoli bimbi, aveva posto (da tempo) dei piccoli giocattoli, pupazzetti di peluche, mattoncini del Lego, piuttosto che lumini o fiori; infine, ho pubblicato alcuni volti presenti nelle vecchie tombe, sarà sicuramente una mia qualche deformazione del “fare fotografie”, ma nel guardarli, quei volti, percepivo che c’era in loro una specie di luce vitale, mi sembrava che quei volti fossero li ancora vivi e palpitanti, non cristallizzati dal tempo, il “gap temporale” non esisteva nei loro sguardi…
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- February 4th: The rain has stopped, and here the procession has taken a sharp detour, leading, with a singular maneuver by the devout archers, to leave the port arches behind and head towards the centre of Catania;
- giorno 04 febbraio: la pioggia è cessata, qui la netta deviazione della processione ha portato, con una singolare manovra dei devoti tiratori, a lasciarsi alle spalle gli archi della marina, ed a dirigersi verso il centro di Catania.
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Religious devotion, at times, in Sicily seems to take on the face of women, like that of the two Sicilian saints Agata and Lucia along the Ionian coast of Sicily, or the face of Rosalia, on the opposite side, in Palermo. The lives of Saint Agatha and Saint Lucia are closely linked, even though they never met. Agatha was martyred in 251, Lucia was not yet born, she was born 32 years later. On February 5, 301, she went to Catania to pray at Agatha's tomb to invoke her intercession, hoping to obtain the healing of her mother, who was seriously ill. Agatha appeared to her in a dream, confirmed her mother's healing (her mother was healed), but also confided in her that she would be martyred because of her faith in Christ: Lucia was martyred on December 13, 304, during the persecutions of Diocletian. What has been said as an incipit of the photographic story that I present here, created on the occasion of the celebration that Catania dedicates to its Patron Saint Agatha, described as the most important religious celebration in Catania, also considered the third Catholic religious celebration in the world (first are the “Semana Santa” in Seville, and the “Corpus Domini” in Cuzco in Peru), a ranking that takes into account the huge number of people who participate every year. The celebration of Saint Agatha takes place on several dates, from 3 to 6 February, on 12 February and on 17 August: the February celebration is linked to her martyrdom, the August celebration commemorates the return to Catania of her mortal remains, initially taken to Constantinople as spoils of war by the Byzantine general Maniaces, and remained there for 86 years. The young Agatha lived in the 3rd century, she belonged to a rich patrician family of Catania, since she was young she had embraced the cult of the Christian religion, the governor Quinziano (or Quintiliano) fell in love with her, Agatha to escape him hid in his house in Palermo, Quinziano managed to find out where she was hiding, so he had her taken to Catania, here his attempts to bend Agatha's will and make her give in to his flattery were in vain, after her umpteenth refusal he changed his intentions, accused her of being of the Christian religion, condemned her to death, not without first having led her to martyrdom, he amputated her by tearing off both her breasts, in this way in addition to the torment of physical pain, the psychological one was added, humiliating the girl in her femininity, then he gave her death by dragging her on burning coals, Agata was 20 years old. After her death, the cult of her began to spread, even the pagans began to venerate her figure, there is news about her origins starting from 252, the year after her death: the inhabitants of Catania were proud of this young woman who rebelled against the will of the dictator. The feast of Saint Agatha begins on February 3, there is the procession "for the offering of wax", the two eighteenth-century carriages of the senate pulled by horses come out along the streets of the city, "the candlestick" make their appearance; on February 4th the celebration begins with the “Mass of Dawn” which is celebrated in the cathedral, after the reliquary bust of the Saint and the silver casket, they are placed on the “float” (or “fercolo”), to be carried in procession in its “external tour”, the procession begins by crossing the “Porta Uzeda” and thus reaching the arches of the marina, the procession then circumscribes the historic center of the city, going to the places where Agatha’s martyrdom took place; : On February 5th the “Pontifical Mass” is celebrated, on this occasion by lining up in the cathedral, you can go and see the reliquary bust of the Saint, as evening comes, the bust and the casket are placed back on the heavy float for the last procession, which goes along the “internal tour” (or “noble tour”), which crosses the historic center of Catania, a procession preceded by the passage of lit candles carried on the shoulders of devotees (of various weights and sizes, some reach exceptional dimensions and weight, historically these candles illuminated, when electricity did not exist, the passage of the Saint), then the “candlestick” pass, they are gigantic and heavy wooden “candlestick”, in baroque style, painted in gold, each one represents an ancient corporation (butchers, fishmongers, bakers, pork butchers, greengrocers, etc.), finally the float with Saint Agatha passes, the long-awaited moment, with the reliquary bust that it contains inside some parts of her body, the other parts of her body are inside the casket, so, with both on the float, Agatha's entire body can travel the streets of the city of Catania. The float is pulled by hand, by the many devotees who wish to participate spontaneously in this very particular rite, using two large cords more than 200 meters long, to the end of which are connected four handles. The photographs were taken on February 4 and 5, of this year 2026, they are not organized in series taking into account either the year or the days; I made portraits of the devotees, the "citizens" (synonym of "devotees") of Catania towards this young martyr, who has become a symbol of those who oppose violence against women, and protector of women suffering from breast cancer. I captured in some images, the custom of some devotees, to carry with them images of loved ones who passed away too soon (photos placed on candles or printed on the characteristic white habit, called "sacco (bag) ", which is part of the characteristic way of dressing of the devotees). Finally, I conclude with some brief observations on this traditional religious and popular feast, year 2026:
a- This year, during the "outer tour" or "plebeian tour," it rained. I don't recall photographing the Saint Agatha procession in the rain in past years, but the presence of umbrellas was a pleasant surprise for me.
b- Devotees carry candles on their shoulders, sometimes very heavy, weighing 50 kilos or even more than 100-120 kilos. These enormous candles are padded with foam rubber, placed by the devotees themselves, to prevent excessive pain when touching the shoulder carrying them.
c- Devotees carrying very heavy candles, flameless or with a burning candle, rely on the presence of another devotee, who, anticipating the procession, warns those present of the arrival of "a heavy load." This is to avoid accidents along the way, both for those on the road and for the bearer himself. Sometimes, the assistant devotee supports part of the weight of the candle itself.
d- Aware of the risk of people slipping in the streets after the devotees pass by with burning candles, releasing a considerable amount of melted wax onto the ground, on the afternoon of February 5th, before the ritual of lighting the large candles begins, the municipality of Catania sprinkles Catania's main street, Via Etnea, first with water from tankers and then immediately after with sawdust, which, mixing with the water, prevents it from being lifted into the air by the wind (risking irritation to the airways and eyes);
e- As the float of Saint Agatha passes by, countless smartphones are now raised in the air, to take with them, almost every present, a memento of "this beautiful magic." I couldn't resist the temptation to "seize upon" this modern-day custom, also because I'm fascinated by the well-groomed female hands;
f- although I have not respected the temporal presentation of the photographs, I will insert a small comment in the caption, with the day during which it was taken, whether the 4th (during the “plebeian tour” or “external tour”), or if during the 5th (“day of the “internal tour” or “noble tour”).
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La devozione religiosa, a volte, in Sicilia sembra assumere il volto delle donne, come quello delle due sante siciliane Agata e Lucia lungo la fascia Ionica della costa sicula, od il volto di Rosalia, sul versante opposto, in quel di Palermo. Le vite di Agata e Lucia sono tra loro legate in maniera strettamente indissolubile, pur non essendosi mai conosciute, Agata morì martirizzata nel 251, Lucia non era ancora nata, nascerà 32 anni dopo, il 5 febbraio del 301 si recherà a Catania a pregare sul sepolcro di Agata per invocare la sua intercessione sperando così di ottenere la guarigione di sua madre, gravemente malata, Agata le appare in sogno, le conferma la guarigione di sua madre (sua madre ebbe la guarigione), ma anche, le confida, che per lei ci sarà il martirio a causa della sua fede in Cristo: Lucia fu martirizzata il 13 dicembre del 304, durante le persecuzioni di Diocleziano. Quanto detto come incipit del racconto fotografico che qui presento, realizzato in occasione della festa che Catania dedica alla sua Santa Patrona Agata, descritta come la più importante festa religiosa di Catania, considerata anche la terza festa religiosa cattolica al mondo (prime la “Semana Santa” di Siviglia, ed il “Corpus Domini” di Cuzco in Perù), graduatoria che tiene conto del grandissimo numero di persone ogni anno vi partecipano. La festa di Santa’Agata si svolge in più date, dal 3 al 6 febbraio, il 12 febbraio ed il 17 agosto: la ricorrenza di febbraio è legata al suo martirio, quella di Agosto rievoca il ritorno a Catania delle sue spoglie mortali, portate inizialmente a Costantinopoli come bottino di guerra dal generale bizantino Maniace, e li rimaste per 86 anni. La giovane Agata visse nel 3° secolo, apparteneva ad una ricca famiglia patrizia di Catania, sin dalla giovane età aveva abbracciato il culto per la religione cristiana, di lei si invaghì il governatore Quinziano (o Quintiliano), Agata per sfuggirgli si nascose in una sua casa a Palermo, Quinziano riuscì a sapere dove si nascondeva, quindi la fece condurre a Catania, qui i suoi tentativi di piegare la volontà di Agata e farla cedere alle sue lusinghe furono vani, all’ennesimo suo rifiuto egli mutò i suoi propositi, la accusò di essere di religione cristiana, la condannò a morte, non senza averla prima condotta al martirio, le amputò strappandole entrambi i seni, in tal modo oltre allo strazio del dolore fisico, si aggiungeva quello psicologico, umiliando la ragazza nella sua femminilità, poi le diede la morte trascinandola sui carboni ardenti, Agata aveva 20 anni. Dopo la sua morte si iniziò a diffondere il culto verso di lei, anche i pagani iniziarono a venerare la sua figura, si hanno notizie sulle sue origini già a partire dal 252, anno successivo alla sua morte: gli abitanti di Catania erano orgogliosi di questa giovane donna che si ribellò al volere del dittatore. La festa per Sant’Agata inizia il 3 febbraio, si ha la processione “per l’offerta della cera”, escono lungo le vie della città le due settecentesche carrozze del senato trainate da cavalli, fanno la loro comparsa “le candelore”; il 4 febbraio la festa inizia con la “Messa dell’Aurora” che si celebra nella cattedrale, dopo il busto reliquiario della Santa e lo scrigno d’argento, vengono messi sulla “vara” (o “fercolo”), per essere portati in processione nel suo “giro esterno” (o “giro plebeo”), la processione inizia attraversando la "Porta Uzeda" e giungendo così agli archi della marina, la processione quindi circoscrive il centro storico della città, recandosi nei luoghi ove avvenne il martirio di Agata; il 5 febbraio si celebra la “Messa Pontificale”, in questa occasione mettendosi in fila nella cattedrale, si può andare a vedere il busto reliquiario della Santa, col sopraggiungere della sera, busto e scrigno, vengono nuovamente messi sulla pesante vara per l’ultima processione, che percorre il “giro interno” (o “giro nobile”), che attraversa il centro storico di Catania, processione preceduta dal passaggio dei ceri accesi portati in spalla dai devoti (di vario peso e dimensioni, alcuni raggiungono dimensioni e peso eccezionali, storicamente questi ceri illuminavano, quando non esisteva l’energia elettrica, il passaggio della Santa), poi passano le “candelore”, sono dei giganteschi e pesanti "candelabri" in legno, in stile barocco, dipinti in oro, portati in spalla, ognuna rappresenta una antica corporazione (macellai, pescivendoli, panettieri, pizzicagnoli, fruttivendoli, ecc.), infine passa la vara con Sant’Agata, il momento tanto atteso, col busto reliquiario che racchiude al suo interno alcune parti del suo corpo, le altre parti del corpo si trovano all’interno dello scrigno, in tal modo, con entrambi sulla vara, tutto il corpo di Agata può percorrere le strade della città di Catania. La vara è trainata a mano con due grosse funi, dai tantissimi devoti che desiderano partecipare spontaneamente a questo rito così particolare, le due grosse funi sono lunghe più di 200 metri (una posta alla destra della vara, l’altra posta alla sua sinistra), al cui capo sono collegate quattro maniglie. Le fotografie sono state realizzate il 4 ed il 5 febbraio di quest’anno 2026, esse non sono organizzate in serie tenendo conto né dell’anno, nè delle giornate; ho realizzato ritratti dei devoti, dei “cittadini” (sinonimo di “devoti”) catanesi (e non) tutti legati “ed innamorati” di questa giovane martire, diventata simbolo di chi si oppone alla violenza sulle donne, e protettrice delle donne ammalate di cancro al seno. Ho colto in alcune immagini, l’usanza di alcuni devoti, di recare con se immagini di persone care scomparse troppo presto (foto messe sui ceri o stampate sul caratteristico saio bianco, chiamato “sacco”, che fa parte del modo caratteristico di vestire dei devoti). Infine, termino, con alcune osservazioni “in pillole” di questa festa tradizionale religiosa e popolare, anno 2026:
a- quest’ anno durante il “giro esterno” o “giro plebeo” è arrivata la pioggia, non ricordo di aver fotografato negli anni passati la processione di Sant’Agata sotto la pioggia, per me la presenza degli ombrelli è stata una piacevole novità;
b- i devoti portano in spalla ceri a volte molto pesanti, di 50 chili ma anche più di 100 – 120 chili, questi enormi ceri presentano delle imbottiture con gomma spugna, posizionate dagli stessi devoti, per evitare che il contatto con la spalla che li regge, diventi eccessivamente doloroso;
c- i devoti (o le devote) che portano in spalla ceri molto pesanti, senza fiamma, o con il cero che arde, si avvalgono della presenza di un altro devoto o devota, che anticipandone il passaggio, avvisa i presenti dell’arrivo “di un carico importante”, questo per evitare incidenti durante il percorso, sia per gli astanti, sia per il portatore stesso; a volte l’aiuto devoto regge parte del peso del cero stesso;
d- consapevole del rischio di scivoloni nelle strade, da parte delle persone, dopo che sono passati i devoti coi ceri che ardono, liberando un notevole quantitativo di cera sciolta per terra, il pomeriggio del 5 febbraio, prima che inizi il rito dell’accensione dei grossi ceri, il comune di Catania cosparge la via principale di Catania, via Etnea, prima con l’acqua delle autobotti, subito dopo con della segatura, che amalgamandosi con l’acqua impedisce alla stessa di venire sollevata in aria col vento (rischiando di irritare le vie aeree e gli occhi);
e- al passaggio della vara di Sant’Agata, oramai innumerevoli sono gli smartphone sollevati in aria, per portare con se, quasi ogni presente, un ricordo di “questa bellissima magia”, non ho saputo sottrarmi alla tentazione di “cogliere al volo” questa consuetudine dei nostri tempi, anche perché affascinato dalle mani femminili, così ben curate;
f- pur non avendo rispettato temporalmente la presentazione delle fotografie, inserirò in didascalia un piccolo commento, col giorno durante il quale è stata colta, se il 4 (durante il “giro plebeo” o “giro esterno”), o se durante il 5 (giorno del “giro interno” o “giro nobile”).
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I hardly ever look at tourist brochures, but my sister gabbed a stack of them and was looking through the pile. She wanted to go rafting. I took a look at the trips and noticed there was a combination trip going to Lower Antelope Canyon in the morning and then rafting in the afternoon when it was warm. We decided that was good and she booked it. I'd seen amazing pictures of Antelope Canyon but had never been there and didn't even know where it was. As it turns out, it's on Navaho land right outside of Page, Arizona. We pulled into the parking lot, piled off the van and a young Navaho guide led us to a narrow crack in the ground. We climbed down on some steps they had installed. Wow, what an amazing place! I didn't go very far before I had to start taking pictures. Not long after by my way of reckoning, my sister came looking for me -- the bus was leaving and why was I taking so darn long... Everyone else had walked the length of the canyon, gone out the other end and walked back to the parking lot while I'd only gone maybe a hundred feet into the canyon. We went off to lunch and I told her I wanted to go back the next day without the tour - for $20 (plus $6 for parking) you could buy a four-hour photo pass and photograph to your heart's content. Happily I got to do that while she went on a tour of Upper Antelope Canyon which is the more regimented touristy part of the canyon on the other side of the highway...
It has been a while since my last upload to this set. Life has taken some twits and some turns, Some good, some bad, some easy, some hard. But after the ups the downs, the ins the outs, I am back. I have some much stuff to upload its ridiculous. This is continuing from my last shoot with Angel in September, but not to fear we have some new stuff coming up. Hope you enjoy.
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(They are my cats, Sandy and Milo!)
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Does the afterlife exist? Mystics like Padre Pio, Natuzza Evolo spoke with the souls of the deceased, not knowing that they were “deceased”, they did not distinguish them from normal people (they understood it later). The Marian apparitions to Bernadette, to the three shepherds of Fatima, those of Medjugorje, were they real? And how much have they influenced the history of humanity? My profession has led me to meet people who have told me about their “uncommon experiences”. A few years ago, a young man of about 30 years old, reported his “near death” experience, hospitalized in very serious conditions in our intensive care unit, he told of when he saw doctors and paramedics from above, busy around his body, he then found himself inside a tunnel, at the end there was a light. Now “Francesco” is fine. A couple of months ago, still in intensive care, I talked with a patient of about 50 years old, who survived three almost consecutive cardiac arrests, after that event, he told me, he had unexpectedly discovered a deep faith; discharged, he is now in good health. A few days ago, again for professional reasons, I met a lady in her 60s, accompanied by her 26-year-old son, she told me that, in her troubled life, in addition to having undergone numerous surgical operations, she had been subjected to numerous cycles of chemotherapy, during one of these sessions, she had a cardiocirculatory arrest (probably caused by anaphylactic shock), at that moment she could clearly see the whole scene from above, everyone was doing their best to revive her, she saw a nurse pushing a trolley in the corridor, unable to enter the room where her body was, because half of the door was blocked by a latch, preventing the passage of the trolley, she kicked the door violently which opened thus managing to pass; she saw a doctor who, in the grip of excitement, was unable to put on her coat (these events, the lady told me, had a positive response); the story continued, she rose higher, light, as if floating on the waves of the sea, she saw a cone of light that fell on her like confetti, she felt a sensation of well-being, she saw her grandfather, who held her head and caressed her hair, she looked up and saw some figures, they seemed to have wings, she thought that perhaps they were angels, suddenly she felt herself being “sucked and banged” inside her body. Now the lady, after that experience, no longer fears death. She put her hand on mine, without touching it, just a few seconds, she began to talk about some of my personal facts, at that moment, they seemed to me to be a bit banal and obvious observations, but then, looking me in the eyes, she stated with certainty that in my family, there was a person called Angelo (in reality her name is Angela), she was not wrong. She told me that, months before Eros Ramazzotti's song "Un angelo disteso al sole" came out, she was singing that tune, including the lyrics. She showed me on her smartphone, a selfie of her taken in the car, on the windshield you could clearly see a “luminous face”, she said that her Guardian Angel, Saint Michael the Archangel, had appeared to her. (The lady was also hospitalized in the “La Maddalena” clinic in Palermo, she met the mafia boss Matteo Messina Denaro, she told me an anecdote of hers, but that’s another story). This story, like the one told by Francesco, are part of those numerous cases defined as “pre-death” or “NDE” acronym derived from the English, Near Death Experience. A scientific hypothesis interprets these phenomena as the result of chemical reactions that are triggered in the brain in moments of deep psycho-physical stress, in oxygen deficiency, with the release of endorphins (they generate sensations of euphoria and well-being) and other neurotransmitters, which can determine overall a hyperfunctioning and strengthening of the senses in the cerebral cortex. I am fascinated by the story of when the physicist Albert Einstein, while discussing with Gustavo Adolfo Rol (a famous Italian psychic), placed his hand between the lamp and the table, saying "you see, when matter manifests itself, it casts a dark shadow, because it is matter, whereas God, being pure spirit, when he materializes cannot manifest himself if not through light: light is nothing other than the shadow of God". I have posted a series of photographs taken in November and December of this year, the first part are shots taken according to the dictates of street / beach photography, some examples of earthly reality, to then enter into the "hypothesis of that otherworldly and parallel reality, not perceptible by our senses" accompanied by the presence of Angels, Beings of Light, who "should" always be close to us throughout our existence, after all the mystic Natuzza Evolo recognized the "plainclothes priests" by the presence of their Guardian Angel, because he was placed on their right.
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Esiste l’Aldilà? Mistici come Padre Pio, Natuzza Evolo parlavano con le anime dei defunti, non sapendo che erano dei “trapassati”, non li distinguevano dalle normali persone (lo capirono successivamente). Le apparizioni mariane a Bernadette, ai tre pastorelli di Fatima, quelle di Medugorje, erano reali ? E quanto hanno inciso nella storia dell’umanità? La mia professione mi ha portato a confrontarmi con persone che mi hanno raccontato di loro “esperienze non comuni”. Qualche anno fa, un giovane di circa 30 anni, riferì una sua esperienza di “premorte”, ricoverato in gravissime condizioni nella nostra terapia intensiva, raccontò di quando lui vide dall’alto medici e parasanitari, indaffarati attorno al suo corpo, si trovò poi dentro un tunnel, in fondo vi era una luce. Adesso “Francesco” sta bene. Un paio di mesi fa, sempre in terapia intensiva, ho conversato con un paziente di circa 50 anni, sopravvissuto a tre arresti cardiaci quasi consecutivi, dopo quell’evento, mi riferiva, aveva scoperto inaspettatamente, una profonda fede; dimesso, adesso è in buona salute. Pochi giorni fa, sempre per motivi professionali, ho conosciuto una signora sui 60 anni, accompagnata dal figlio di anni 26 anni, mi raccontò che, nella sua travagliata vita, oltre ad aver subito numerosi interventi chirurgici, è stata sottoposta a numerosi cicli di chemioterapia, durante una di questa sedute, è incorsa in un arresto cardiocircolatorio (probabilmente causato da uno shock anafilattico), in quel momento vedeva distintamente tutta la scena dall’alto, tutti si prodigavano per rianimarla, vide una infermiera spingere un carrello nel corridoio, non riuscendo ad entrare nella sala dove si trovava il suo corpo, poiché mezza anta della porta era bloccata da un chiavistello, impedendo il passaggio del carrello, lei diede un calcio violento all’anta che si aprì riuscendo così a passare; vide una dottoressa che in preda alla concitazione non riusciva a mettersi il camice (questi eventi, mi riferì la signora, ebbero un riscontro positivo); il racconto continuò, lei salì più in alto, leggera, come galleggiando sulle onde del mare, vide un cono di luce che scendeva su di lei come fossero coriandoli, lei percepiva una sensazione di benessere, vide suo nonno, che le teneva il capo e le accarezzava i capelli, guardò in alto e vide delle figure, sembrava avessero delle ali, pensò che forse erano gli angeli, improvvisamente si sentì “risucchiare e sbattere” dentro il suo corpo. Adesso la signora, dopo quella esperienza, non teme più la morte. Mise la sua mano sopra la mia, senza toccarla, solo qualche secondo, incominciò a parlare su alcuni miei fatti personali, in quel momento, mi sembrarono osservazioni un po’ banali e scontate, però poi, guardandomi negli occhi, affermò con certezza che nella mia famiglia, c’era una persona che si chiama Angelo (in realtà si chiama Angela), non si era sbagliata. Mi riferì che, mesi prima che uscisse la canzone di Eros Ramazzotti “Un angelo disteso al sole”, lei cantava quel motivo, incluse le parole. Mi mostrò sul suo smartphone, un suo selfie fatto in auto, sul parabrezza si vedeva distintamente un “volto luminoso”, lei disse che le era apparso il suo Angelo Custode, San Michele Arcangelo. (La signora fu ricoverata anche nella clinica “La Maddalena” di Palermo, fece la conoscenza del boss mafioso Matteo Messina Denaro, mi raccontò un suo aneddoto, ma questa è un’altra storia). Questa storia, come quella raccontata da Francesco, rientrano in quei numerosi casi definiti di “premorte” o “NDE” acronimo derivato dall’inglese, Near Death Experience. Una ipotesi scientifica interpreta tali fenomeni come il risultato di reazioni chimiche che si scatenano nel cervello in momenti di profondo stress psico-fisico, in carenza di ossigeno, con rilascio di endorfine (esse generano sensazioni di euforia e di benessere) ed altri neurotrasmettitori, potendo determinare nell’insieme un iperfunzionamento e potenziamento dei sensi nella corteccia cerebrale. Sono affascinato dalla vicenda, di quando il fisico Albert Einstein discutendo con Gustavo Adolfo Rol (famoso sensitivo italiano) frappose la sua mano tra lampada e tavolo, dicendo “vedi, quando la materia si manifesta, proietta una ombra scura, perché è materia, invece Dio essendo puro spirito, quando si materializza non può manifestarsi se non attraverso la luce: la luce non è altro, se non, l’ombra di Dio”. Posto una serie di fotografie eseguite nel novembre e dicembre di quest’anno, una prima parte sono scatti realizzati secondo i dettami della street /beach photography, qualche esempio di realtà terrena, per entrare poi nella “ipotesi di quella realtà ultraterrena e parallela, non percepibile dai nostri sensi” accompagnata dalla presenza degli Angeli, Esseri di Luce, che “dovrebbero” starci sempre accanto durante tutta la nostra esistenza, d'altronde la mistica Natuzza Evolo riconosceva i “sacerdoti in borghese” dalla presenza del loro Angelo Custode, perché messo alla loro destra.
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My new novel:
B♭ (Be Flat)
Dropping more content! 😃
(Still not finalized yet.)
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Scene: Madison Square Garden 2
A low murmur swept down the avenue in front of the Garden as a black lead sedan and a fleet of white motorcycle escorts slowly rolled in. Four armored limousines followed, flanked by NYPD and state police SUVs. Behind them trailed a line of communication trucks, ambulances, and news vans—no more than fifty vehicles in all, but the weight of their presence was overwhelming.
The motorcade moved as if traffic signals held no meaning. The street had been completely shut down, and the convoy advanced in perfect synchrony. Police radio chatter leaked from the vehicles, while the blocked-off sidewalks were crowded with reporters clutching cameras and riot police standing firm. Near the center, three jet-black SUVs carried CAT operatives, their eyes scanning the street like silent sentinels from behind suppressor-equipped rifles.
On top of the limousines, state-of-the-art jamming devices disrupted all outside signals. Trailing them was a “Roadrunner” communications command vehicle bristling with antennas, maintaining real-time encrypted communication with the command center beneath the Garden.
At the tail end were fire department rapid response units, a hazmat vehicle, and two ambulances. The arrival of a presidential candidate was no longer a mere movement—it was a military operation. The city responded like a living neural network, absorbing and adjusting to the convoy’s every move.
Onlookers lined the barricades—civilians raising smartphones overhead, and journalists with grim faces behind their lenses. No one spoke. The crowd stood in solemn silence, bathed in the red and blue pulses of rotating lights, watching as the procession swept past like a scene from a film. But this wasn’t a movie. The silence was real. No one dared crack a joke.
Sniper teams were stationed on rooftops around the Garden. Occasionally, the word “clear” crackled over the comms. Inside the building, only those who had passed facial recognition were permitted to take position. In the chilled surveillance room where Jack sat, hundreds of camera feeds rotated every few seconds across the screens.
Inside the presumed presidential limousine, darkness cloaked everything—no figures visible behind the glass. Yet everyone on-site knew those clear windows hid layers of invisible defense. That silence, designed to preserve life, carried with it a deadly order that blanketed the entire convoy.
Overhead, two Black Hawk helicopters glided in low and began to hover above the Garden. They were escape vessels, should the worst occur—but more than that, they were a reminder that this place was, for tonight, a battlefield.
In the command room on the Garden’s B3 level, Jack sat under the blue glow of the monitors, listening intently to the radio in his ear.
“Eagle has arrived. Parking complete on B3. Zebra point passed. T-minus 45 seconds to approach.”
The voice in his earpiece made him bite his lip unconsciously. The coffee in his cup had long gone cold.
Onscreen, the divided camera feeds displayed the barricades on Seventh Avenue, snipers in standby, and now—the black limousine sliding into the underground garage.
The air tightened. Time became tangible. The tick of the second hand grew louder in everyone’s ears. Jack’s fingers trembled slightly as they reached for the radio button.
Scene: Madison Square Garden 1
Jack shifted the donut box in his hand and pressed the button for B3. The air in the elevator was cold, and he wiped the sweat from his brow as he watched the lights descend. The contrast with the heat above made his vision blur slightly.
Stepping out, he turned right. Immediately on the left was the briefing room door, where a security man in a rumpled suit greeted him.
“Everyone’s already waiting.”
Jack stood before the sensor and calmly turned his face toward it. A few seconds later, a mechanical chime signaled access approval, and the heavy fireproof doors slid open.
Once inside, Jack offered a small smile.
“I brought donuts. Make sure everyone gets some later.”
The security man grinned behind his sunglasses.
Beyond the thick soundproof door, 32 monitors glowed blue in the dim room. Staff members moved briskly and silently between the machines. The hum of servers filled the space, punctuated only by the occasional alert. In the center was the commander’s seat, surrounded in a ring by workstations. The wall-sized screen displayed rapid live cuts from over 400 arena cameras—spectator stands, lobby, corridors, VIP lounge, loading dock, backstage, utility room, underground passages…
If a single rat appeared in those tunnels, they’d be able to track it straight to the sewers.
Jack sat in the commander’s chair and flipped the switch on the gooseneck mic in front of him. Its flexible neck trembled as the red indicator light came on.
“I’ve got donuts. Sorry, no glazed. There’s Boston Cream, Chocolate Frosted, Strawberry Frosted, and Old-Fashioned. No coffee, so grab your own.”
“Old-Fashioned for me,” came Ben’s voice from the loading dock. He adjusted the transparent tube of his earpiece and muttered into his collar.
Jack gave a faint smile, then grew serious again as he leaned toward the mic.
“Eagle is about to arrive. Entering through Ben’s loading dock. Three minutes to VIP room. Fifteen-minute briefing. Then onstage. Let me remind you—tonight marks the official nomination of the presidential candidate at the National Convention. First Republican convention held here in over twenty years. Also, his fiancée, Eleanor Blake, is with him. Stunning and brilliant. Try not to fall for her. The only ones you’re allowed to admire are bulky bruisers in tactical gear. And don’t forget, VP candidate Cole Harrison is here too—he’s the leash on our foul-mouthed Justin. No matter what he says, don’t punch back. I’ll be the one getting punched later.”
Jack checked his watch.
“One minute out. When Justin’s team heads home, dig into the donuts. Over and out.”
From the monitor showing the VIP lounge, Daryl spoke up behind him.
“Jack, better check in with Elijah at the hospital. Make sure he’s on standby.”
Without turning, Jack raised his hand and called out.
“Elijah, you copy? Daryl thinks you’re chilling at Starbucks.”
Laughter came through the speaker, followed by the chaotic background noise of Bellevue Hospital.
“Daryl, how’d you know? I was just thinking of getting Jack fired.”
Swiveling in his chair, Daryl laughed back at the screen.
“Let’s hope Justin doesn’t end up in your ER.”
Jack cut in.
“All stations, go. Justin’s here. Stick to the plan. Let’s move.”
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Scene: Madison Square Garden 3 — Justin, Eleanor, Cole
The door of the limousine opened from within, and Justin Bradford stepped out with a short sigh.
“Damn. It’s suffocating down here. Even a stray dog would turn up its nose at this parking garage.”
He brushed off the hem of his suit jacket with one hand, casting a grimace toward the concrete gloom.
Vice presidential candidate Cole Harrison followed quietly behind. Eight years older than Justin, Cole had once stood by Justin’s father, Lysus Bradford—through every rally and protest, until the day Lysus, still registered as a Democrat, was gunned down by a sniper. Cole had admired Lysus deeply for his commitment to voicing the will of the unheard.
Justin yawned, wide and unfiltered. Cole spoke gently beside him.
“This was the safest option. Too many unknowns outside. It’s dangerous.”
“Cole, you’re the biggest unknown we’ve got.”
“And that makes two of us, Justin,” Cole replied with a small, knowing smile.
The click of white heels echoed faintly as Eleanor Blake stepped onto the stained concrete. She wore a pale beige coat over her dress and moved with quiet elegance. Though her brow creased slightly at the stagnant air, she quickly replaced it with a smile and walked toward Justin.
“Justin,” she said, her voice gentle yet firm, “no more jokes at the staff’s expense. These people would lay down their lives for you.”
Justin gave a small, lopsided smile and brushed a kiss against her cheek.
“For their sake, I better live up to it.”
Flanked by security, the three of them began walking down the dim corridor. Faint LED lights flickered overhead. Dirty walls, cold silence, and a chill that crept under their skin accompanied them.
“These hallways always get to me,” Justin muttered.
“I understand,” Eleanor said softly. “But this is the safest route.”
“That’s exactly why we should be grateful,” Cole added. “It’s this kind of space that protects us.”
Eventually, they reached the elevator reserved for dignitaries. The face recognition system chirped quietly as it confirmed their identities.
“Just a few more steps to the VIP lounge,” said one of the agents.
Justin glanced back at Eleanor and shrugged.
“Let’s shake the Garden tonight.”
She touched his arm lightly and smiled.
“I’m counting on you, Justin.”
The three of them stepped into the elevator, the doors closing quietly behind them as it carried them upward.
Scene: Totto Ramen — Ana, Mika, Motorcade
— Red, Yellow, Blue —
It was just after 7 p.m. when a light rain began to fall on East 52nd Street.
Ana leaned against the wall of an old building next to Totto Ramen, absently watching the changing traffic light at the intersection to her right. The air was heavy with humid heat clinging to the concrete, making even the pedestrians seem to move slower than usual.
The signal turned green. As she dabbed her forehead with a handkerchief and squinted into the distance, she spotted Kana on the far side of the crosswalk, waving and running toward her with a smile.
Then, suddenly, the air shifted.
From the far side of the intersection, a fleet of black SUVs glided in, soundless and ghostlike. In the few dozen seconds between the lead vehicle’s arrival and the armored limousine at the rear disappearing, the entire intersection was sealed off—no one passed.
As the convoy disappeared down the avenue, the signal changed again. Foot traffic resumed. The city inhaled.
Kana reemerged from the crowd and waved once more.
After wrapping up their exhibit, Ana and Mika had packed their gear into Mika’s car and headed into Manhattan. Ana’s husband, Arjun, worked at LuminaTech Innovations—a hybrid company based in Williamsburg specializing in AI, cloud services, and cybersecurity. Though it was his day off, he’d had a meeting in Hudson Yards and was on a separate schedule from Ana.
Totto Ramen was nearby, and ever since Mika had first brought her there, it had become a favorite for Ana and Arjun alike.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. It’s been such a lovely day,” Mika said, slightly out of breath.
By “lovely,” she meant the two sharply dressed men from that morning, still lingering in their thoughts.
Ana answered with mild disinterest.
“Was it? That your type, Mika?”
Mika shrugged and smiled.
“Mm, I like someone close enough that I can run home to my parents if I need to.”
They laughed as they slid open the ramen shop’s wooden door and took seats at the counter. The place was bustling with Asian families enjoying their weekend. Familiar Japanese drifted from the far end of the counter.
Ana’s iPhone buzzed. It was a video call from Arjun.
She tapped the screen. His apologetic face appeared.
“The meeting’s running long. Go ahead and eat without me.”
Ana smiled gently.
“Be careful. A whole swarm of black cars just swept through here.”
Arjun responded immediately.
“They’re probably heading to the Garden. There’s supposed to be a Republican convention tonight. The candidate’s making his appearance.”
Mika, having caught the gist, nodded deeply.
“Yeah, it’s felt weird all day. The city’s tense—not your usual weekend.”
—————————————
Scene: Red Hook 1 — Amir and Rafi
Red Hook stood apart, even within Brooklyn.
Shielded by the shadows of skyscrapers, the red-brick warehouses, worn by wind and rain, groaned softly in the breeze. Each gust from the sea layered fresh salt onto the air, leaving streaks of rust blooming along the warehouse doors.
Beyond a broken fence, a long-unused warehouse door creaked open.
Amir stepped inside, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The smell of oil soaked into the concrete filled his nostrils.
“Let’s start here,” he said.
Rafi nodded without a word.
They had first come to this place five winters ago.
Having lost everything in Gaza at the hands of Israel, the two had fled legally through Egypt and Turkey, eventually arriving in Tapachula in southern Mexico. There, they made contact with a smuggler known as a coyote.
Rafi paid $12,000 per person to the traffickers—using cryptocurrency hacked through North Korean channels. The coins had been stolen through a North Korea–linked hacking syndicate. Amir wrote the code himself and erased all trace of the transaction. They had crossed borders not with blood, but with digits.
Later, under cover of night, they slipped beneath a border fence and entered the United States by land.
The night sky over Texas was a shade of dark blue they had never seen before. Low and clear, the deep blue held a fleeting kind of hope. But that hope was far outweighed by the hatred that had taken root in their hearts.
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Set in New York City.
1
www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54599616429/in/dateposted...
2
www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54628511025/in/dateposted...
Note: I gave a brief explanation of this novel in the following video:
youtu.be/3w65lqUF-YI?si=yG7qy6TPeCL9xRJV
iTunes Playlist Link::
music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b/pl.u-47DJGhopxMD
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Notes
1. "Bombay Blood Type (hh type)"
•Characteristics: A rare blood type that lacks the usual ABO antigens — cannot be classified as A, B, or O.
•Discovery: First identified in 1952 in Mumbai, India (formerly Bombay).
•Prevalence: Roughly 1 in 10,000 people in India; globally, about 1 in 2.5 million.
•Transfusion Compatibility: Only compatible with blood from other Bombay type donors.
2. 2024 Harvard University Valedictorian Speech – The Power of Not Knowing
youtu.be/SOUH8iVqSOI?si=Ju-Y728irtcWR71K
3. Shots Fired at Trump Rally
youtu.be/1ejfAkzjEhk?si=ASqJwEmkY-2rW_hT
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僕の新しい小説。
B♭ （ビーフラット）
さらに投下します。😃
(まだ決定ではありません。)
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場面 マディソンスクエアガーデン２
ガーデン正面の通りがわずかにざわめき、先導の黒いセダンと白バイク隊がゆっくりと進入してきた。次いで装甲に覆われたリムジンが４台つづき、市警と州警のSUVがその脇を固め、後方には通信車両、救急車、そして報道バンの列…… 全部でざっと５０台にも満たないが、その重厚感は圧倒的だった――。
車列は信号すら意味をなさず、完全に遮断された通りを、隊列の呼吸に従って前進していく。警察無線の交信が車外に漏れ、通行止めの歩道にはカメラを構えた記者と機動隊員が混じり合っていた。中腹には「CAT」と呼ばれる武装部隊が乗る漆黒のSUVが３台並び、サプレッサー付きライフルを持った隊員が、まるで車内から通りをスキャンするように視線を動かしている。
リムジンの天井には、最新の妨害電波装置が搭載され、外部通信を一時的に遮断する。さらにその後方を、アンテナが林立した“ロードランナー”と呼ばれる通信司令車が追走し、ガーデン地下の指揮室とリアルタイムで暗号通信を続けている。
車列の最後尾には消防局の緊急対応車、化学物質対応車、そして２台の救急車が控えていた。大統領候補がこの都市に足を踏み入れるというのは、もはや“移動”ではなく、“軍事行動”のようだった。街全体が、ひとつの生きた神経網のように、その動線を受け止めていた。
歩道の柵沿いには、スマートフォンを高く掲げる市民と、顔を強張らせた報道カメラマンたちが入り混じっていた。群衆は押し黙り、ただエンジンのうなりと回転灯の光に照らされながら、目の前を通り過ぎる車列を見守っていた。まるで映画のワンシーンのようだが、空気は静まり返り、誰一人として軽口を叩く者はいない。
ガーデン周辺の屋上には狙撃班が配備され、時折、無線越しに「クリア」の声が交錯した。建物内の全階層には顔認証を通過した要員だけが配置され、冷房の効いたジャックのいる監視室では、数百台のカメラ映像が数秒ごとに切り替わっている。
大統領候補が乗ると目されるリムジンの車内は暗く、ガラス越しに人影すら映らない。だが、その曇りのない窓には、目に見えない幾重もの防御層が仕込まれていることを、現場の誰もが理解していた。命を守るために設計された沈黙と、殺気を孕んだ秩序が、車列全体を覆っている。
背後から、２機のブラックホークが上空をなめるように飛来し、ガーデンの屋上でホバリングを始めた。万が一の脱出手段であり、また、この場が“戦場”であることを暗に示す存在だった。
ジャックは、ガーデン地下三階の指令室で、モニターの青白い光に顔を照らされながら、無線に耳を傾けていた。
「イーグル、地下駐車場レベルB3にて停車完了。ポイント・ゼブラ通過。接近までTマイナス45秒」
耳元のイヤーピースから流れるその声に、彼は無意識に唇を噛んだ。手元のカップに入ったコーヒーは、すでにぬるくなっていた。
モニターには分割されたカメラ映像がずらりと並んでいる。第七通りのバリケード、スタンバイ中の狙撃手、そして今、地下駐車場の入口に黒いリムジンが滑り込む様子が映し出されていた。
空気が一気に張り詰めた。誰もが秒針の音を意識し始め、静寂の中に微かな緊張が走った。ジャックの指が、わずかに震えながらも無線の送信ボタンに触れた。
場面 マディソンスクエアガーデン１
エレベーターに乗ったジャックは、手にしたドーナツの箱を持ち替えると、地下三階へのボタンを押した。冷房の効いたエレベーター内で下っていくランプを見上げたまま、額の汗を拭った。熱した地上からの温度差で多少視界が滲んでいた。
降りて、右手に行くと、すぐ左側にブリーフィングルームの扉があり、よれたスーツを着たセキュリティーの男性がジャックに挨拶した。
「みなさん、もうお待ちですよ」
ジャックはセンサーの前に立ち、静かに顔を向けた。数秒後、「アクセス承認」の電子音とともに、重たい防火扉が左右に開いた。
クリアするとジャックは、口元を緩めていった。
「ドーナツ買ってきたよ。あとでみんなで食べてくれ」
セキュリティーの男性は、白い歯を見せ、サングラス越しに微笑んだ。
厚い防音扉を越えると、薄暗い空間に32面のモニターが青白く光っていた。スタッフが機器の合間を縫って、言葉少なに忙しなく行き交っていく。室内には低く唸るサーバーの音と、時折アラート音だけが響いている。部屋の中央には指揮官席、その周囲に円を描くように並んだワークステーション。壁面いっぱいの巨大スクリーンには、アリーナ内400台以上のカメラがライブ映像を忙しなく切り替え、流し続けている。客席、ロビー、通路、VIPラウンジ、搬入口、ステージ裏、電気設備室、地下通路….
もしも地下通路にねずみが一匹現れたら、下水溝まで追跡できるはずだ。
ジャックは指揮官席に腰を下ろし、前方に据え付けられたグースネックマイクのスイッチを押した。しなる首元がわずかに揺れ、赤いインジケーターが点灯した。
「みんな、ドーナツを買ってきた。残念ながらグレーズドは売り切れだった。ボストンクリーム、チョコフロステッド、ストロベリーフロステッド、オールドファッション、以上だ。コーヒーもないからな。勝手に飲むように」
「ジャック、俺はオールドファッションな」
搬入口にいるベンが、耳に伸びたセキュリティイヤピースの透明なチューブを整えながら、襟元に指を添え、モニター越しに呟いた。
ジャックは軽く微笑み返してから、声を整え、目の前のマイクに向かって、真剣に伝えた。
「まもなく、イーグルがやってくる。ベンのいる搬入口から入り、３分でVIPルームへ。１５分の打ち合わせ後、アリーナへ登壇する。もう一度確認するが、今夜は大統領候補の指名が正式に確定する全国党大会だ。共和党は、２０年以上振りにここで開催するらしい。それから、フィアンセのエリノア・ブレイクもいっしょだ。容姿端麗な才女だ。見惚れるなよ。お前らが見惚れていいのは筋肉隆々の荒くれものだけだ。さらに副大統領候補のコール・ハリソンもいっしょだ。口の悪いジャスティンのお目付役だ。何を言われても決して殴り返すな。俺があとで殴られるからな」
ジャックは腕時計を見た。
「あと１分で到着だ。ジャスティン一行が帰宅したら、ドーナツをたらふく食べてくれ。以上だ」
画面左側に映ったVIPラウンジに見入っていたダリルが、ジャックの背中にいった。
「ジャック、病院のイライジャにも確認したほうがいい。ちゃんと待機しているようにってね」
ジャックは背を向けたまま、腕を上げて返答するとイライジャに問いかけた。
「聞こえるか、イライジャ。お前がスタバでくつろいでると疑われてるぞ、ダリルに」
イライジャは、笑いながら即答した。背後に、ベルビュー病院内の忙しないアナウンスが走っている。のんびりしたイライジャの声とは正反対だ。
「ダリル、なんでばれた？ そろそろジャックの首を飛ばそうと思ってさ」
椅子を回転させたダリルは、右手のモニターに目を落としながら、イライジャに笑いながらいった。
「お前のところに、ジャスティンが運ばれないことを祈るよ」
ジャックは、二人の会話を遮った。
「全員、スタートだ。ジャスティンが到着した。打ち合わせどおりに。頼んだぞ」
場面 マディソンスクエアガーデン３ ジャスティン、エリノア、コール
リムジンのドアが内側から開き、ジャスティン・ブラッドフォードは短くため息をついて足を踏み出した。
「まったく、息が詰まるな。地下駐車場なんて、野良犬でも嫌がる」
スーツの裾を片手で乱暴に払いつつ、顔をしかめて辺りを見回した。その後ろから、副大統領候補のコール・ハリソンが静かに車を降りた。彼はジャスティンより8歳年上だったが、かつてはその父、ライサス・ブラッドフォードのもとで行動を共にし、彼が民主党に籍を置き、狙撃により命を落とすその時まで、傍らで支え続けていた。ライサスが声なき国民の想いを代弁しようとする姿に、コールは深い感銘を受けていた。
大きなあくびをこぼしたジャスティンに、コールは穏やかに言った。
「セキュリティ上の最善策だ。外は、あまりにも不確定要素が多い。危険だ」
「コールの言動の方がよほど先が読めないけどね」
「ジャスティン、そのままお前に返すよ」
ジャスティンの皮肉に、コールは軽く微笑みながら冷静に返した。
エリノア・ブレイクの白いハイヒールが、駐車場の暗いコンクリートに静かに降りた。淡いベージュのコートを羽織った彼女は、ヒールの音も控えめに、優雅に車外へ降り立った。地下の濁った空気に微かに眉を寄せながらも、すぐに笑みを浮かべ直し、ジャスティンに歩み寄った。
「ジャスティン、スタッフにつまらない冗談はやめてね。みんな、あなたのために命を投げ出す人たちよ」
彼女の声は柔らかいが、芯のあるものだった。
ジャスティンは少し顔をほころばせ、エリノアの頬に軽いキスをした。
「命か…なら、俺もその期待に応えないとな」
セキュリティーに囲われた三人は地下駐車場の薄暗い通路へと歩みを進めた。所々薄汚れた壁と天井のLEDライトが冷たく落ちている。冷たさと静寂が辺りを覆っている。
「この手の通路は、いつ見ても気が滅入るな」
ジャスティンが呟いた。
「気持ちはわかるけど、ここが最も安全なルートよ」エリノアが柔らかく返す。コールが間を埋めるように言った。
「こうした環境だからこそ、私たちが守られている。感謝するべきだ」
しばらく歩くと、要人専用エレベーターの前に到着した。壁の顔認証システムが稼働し、認証音が静かに鳴った。
「VIPルームまであと少しです」
セキュリティーのひとりがジャスティンらに告げた。
ジャスティンは背後のエリノアをちらりと見て、肩をすくめていった。
「今夜、ガーデンを震わそう」
エリノアが彼の腕に軽く触れ、優しく笑いかけた。
「期待してるわ、ジャスティン」
三人は静かにエレベーターに乗り込み、VIPルームへと向かった。
場面 トットラーメン アナ、ミカ、車列
—— 赤、黄色、青 ——
イースト52丁目に小雨が舞い始めたのは、午後七時を少し過ぎた頃だった。
アナは、トットラーメンの隣にある古いビルの壁面にもたれ、右手に見える十字路の信号をぼんやりと眺めていた。蒸し返すような湿気がコンクリートにまとわりつき、行き交う人々の足取りもどこか重たかった。
信号が青に変わった。額の汗をハンカチで拭いながら、アナが目を細めると、十字路の向こうにカナの姿が見えた。彼女は手を振りながら、笑顔でこちらに駆け出してくる。
そのとき、空気がふいに変わった。十字路の向こうから、黒いSUVの車列が音もなく滑り込んできた。先頭車両の到着から、最後尾の装甲リムジンが去るまでの数十秒間、交差点は完全に封鎖され、誰も通ることができなかった。
車列が去ると、信号が切り替わり、ふたたび人の流れが戻り、動き出した。
カナがその人波の中からふたたび現れ、手を振った。
展示を終えたアナたちは、ミカの車に荷物を積み終えたあと、マンハッタンへ移動していた。
アナの夫アルジュンは、ウィリアムズバーグにあるAI・クラウド・サイバーセキュリティを手がける複合企業「ルミナテック・イノベーションズ」に勤めている。今日は休日だったが、彼だけハドソンヤードで会議があり、アナらとは別行動だった。
トットラーメンはその近くにあり、以前ミカに連れてきてもらってから、アナたち夫婦のお気に入りになっていた。
「おまたせ。今日は朝から素敵だったね」
息を切らせながら駆け寄ったミカが、そう言った。
“素敵”というのは、今朝の高級スーツをまとった二人の男のことだ。
アナは興味なさそうに答えた。
「そうね。ミカはああいう男性が好み？」
ミカは首をすくめ、笑って言った。
「うーん、かなり遠い存在かな。私は、すぐ実家に帰れるくらいの距離感が好き」
二人は笑い合いながら、ラーメン店の引き戸を開け、カウンターに並んで腰掛けた。店内は週末のため、アジア系の家族で賑わっていた。ミカの聞き慣れた日本語が遠くのカウンターから聞こえてくる。
アナのiPhoneが震えた。アルジュンからのビデオ通話だった。
画面をタッチすると、アルジュンが申し訳なさそうな表情で映った。
「会議が延びてる。少し遅れるから、先に食べててくれ」
アナは、静かに答えた。
「気をつけて来てね。さっきすごい車の軍団が流れていったわよ」
アルジュンは、即答した。
「今日はガーデンで、共和党の大会があるらしい。次期大統領候補が立つらしいよ」
傍で聞いていたミカが深々と頷きながら、同意した。
「なんか朝から物々しいのよね。いつもの週末と違うわ」
ーーーーーーーーー
場面 レッドフック１ アミール、ラフィ
レッドフックは、ブルックリンの中でも異質だった。
高層ビルの影に守られ、風雨に洗われた赤レンガの倉庫と錆びた港湾クレーンが、風に軋んでいる街だ。やってくる潮の匂いが重なるたびに上塗りされ、倉庫の鉄の扉に赤錆を浮かせていく。
鍵の壊れたフェンスの向こう、何年も使われていなかった倉庫の扉が静かに開いた。
アミールは一歩踏み入れ、光のない空間に目を慣らした。コンクリートに染み込んだ油の臭いが鼻をついた。
「ここから始めよう」
その声に、ラフィが黙って頷いた。
ふたりが初めてここにやってきたのは５年前の冬だ。イスラエルによってガザ地区ですべてを失った二人は、合法的にエジプトからトルコを経由し、メキシコの南部タパチュラへ行き、コヨーテと呼ばれる密入国請負人と接触した。ラフィは密入国業者へ一人あたり１２，０００ドルを支払った。すべて、北朝鮮経由でハッキングした仮想通貨での支払いだ。金の出どころは、北朝鮮系ハッカー集団を通じて奪ったコインだった。アミールの手でコードが組まれ、記録は消された。彼らは、血を流さずに数字を流して国境を超えたのだ。その後、国境のフェンスを夜に潜り、陸路でアメリカに入った。
テキサスの夜空は、彼らが見たことのないほど青黒かった。低く、澄んだ深い青の美しさは、彼らの胸にいくらかの希望を与えていたが、それ以上に憎しみの強さが上回っていた。
ーーーー
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これまでのメモ
1
www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54599616429/in/dateposted...
2
www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54628511025/in/dateposted...
舞台はニューヨークです。
www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54599616429/in/dateposted...
追記 この小説を多少説明しました。
youtu.be/3w65lqUF-YI?si=yG7qy6TPeCL9xRJV
iTunes Playlist Link::
music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b/pl.u-47DJGhopxMD
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メモ
1
「Bombay型（ボンベイ型、hh型）」
•特徴：通常のABO血液型を持たない（A、B、Oに分類されない）特殊な型。
•発見地：1952年、インド・ムンバイ（旧ボンベイ）で初めて確認。
•発生頻度：インドでは1万人に1人程度だが、世界的には約250万人に1人とも。
•輸血制限：同じBombay型しか輸血できない。
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2024年ハーバード大学首席の卒業式スピーチ『知らないことの力』
youtu.be/SOUH8iVqSOI?si=Ju-Y728irtcWR71K
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Shots fired at Trump rally
youtu.be/1ejfAkzjEhk?si=ASqJwEmkY-2rW_hT
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After trying out some slide film to cross process, I loaded up my crappy yardsale-found camera with some Lomo Redscale film. It had a difficult time not reflecting back a lot of the light on the other side of the film, so there are some blue hues in the shots that look almost like light leaks.
Anyway, I was still satisfied by a lot of the results and this extremely cheap, plastic camera keeps on surprising me! The first of these upcoming shots are from my girlfriend's sister's wedding and after that most of them are from this past autumn.
Taken with Luminox 356SL analog camera. Lomography Redscale XR 50-200 film (not sure what actual film they've redscaled when selling this product, but I'm guessing it usually has a ISO value of 400). 5 years expired.
Negative scanned with Epson Perfection V500 Photo, cropped and downsized for the web.
I've not really been interested in still life photos until I picked up my new (now 6 months old) Canon EF 85mm f/1.8 USM lens. It does a great job at creating a narrow depth of field and I began experimenting with it over the Christmas holiday while I was down in southern Florida. To see the entire collection of still-life closeups that I've posted thus far, go to www.flickr.com/photos/stevefrazier/sets/72157652915649641
Sitting on a glass shelf, this decorative rhinoceros with a bird sitting on its back is made of clay and quite heavy. The whiskers on its upper lip are made from wire. For some reason, this critter makes me smile every time I see it. :D
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© Stephen L. Frazier - All of my images are protected by copyright and may not be used on any site, blog, or forum without my permission.
Steve Frazier's main photography website is stevefrazierphotography.com
Contact me at stevefrazierphotography@gmail.com
I shot this fox several months ago but only posted a shot in the series that I thought might be most enjoyed...I ignored others that had an emotional connection as well...... I came back to the shoot and found this one.......I love it for the feel...hope you guys do too.
Leipziger Buchmesse 2015 / Leipzig Book Fair 2015
2015-03-14 (Saturday)
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2015#185
Lumina95 (Melanie) 917679 as ____ from ____
Thank you for any group invites which I'd be glad to accept. However, if I can't check the content of such groups ("This group is not available to you") I'd rather not add any of my photos. Thanks for your understanding.