Travelling is Writing, Writing is travelling

by Aldo Quagliotti (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

A leap into the unknown Spain

When travel becomes the uncritical condition of immobility, having researched elsewhere, with other means, the movement from one’s self and from ones ruminant thoughts becomes worth it. I know that very well and as an avid reader I threw myself to follow, in the end, one itinerary: that of writing, of the only voice flowing in one direction from our vocal cords in complete silence, listening, anchored on just to one categorical imperative,that of a tale without frills and authentic up to the improbability of the opposite. I am sitting in Granda and I am managing in my intent not to speak, only in one body, of travel, sex or writing but to question- rather fortunately- on how inseparable the dimensions proposed, that we find in writing are. I am enjoying the reading of the book, which is a fun bounce back from page to page, flowing through the linguistic oddities that the writer uses, that eco in long sentences, extraordinary and capturing. These streets are paragraphs of ink someone else wrote down, some time ago. Their writing capture the attention and hypnotize the curious eye so that the whip of their tongue may wind like ivy in the conscience of those who are reading. Every experience that is told becomes an excuse to call back out a voice, never forgotten, of the “I” that redeems its dignity too neat to be true, too bulky in a world that requires something very different. These alleys design their stages in complete freedom of expression, careless of the rules that violate the precise and roaring speech, finely cut and in contrast with the ordinary reading one would expect. The courage portrayed in exposing ones self to the point of not being traceable anymore-having got rid of all the skeletons in the wardrobe. Place speak louder than any plastered man on earth. They articulate themselves in obscure plots we can only try to decipher. The plot of the book, try it to believe it, is made up of a collage of reports and primers, with warnings shouted loudly and virtuosity so inviting to the eye, by not being able to afford the luxury of returning to be themselves without a point of bitter regret, if not contempt, towards one’s own person. But it is the rawness of the descriptions, their realism – once again – to successfully determine the well known failure of history. I can’t stop thinking that this scorching sun goes well with a growth free from laissez-loopholes. The Alhambra whispers to me with a constant buzz in the consciousness that requires, in some way yet unknown, to ask those questions left in “forgotten box”, not mature yet and maybe, deep down, destined for oblivion more than exorcism. The eloquent azure sky clearly, knows how to annoy and irate, how to intimidate and orientate the discussion so that every argument will inevitably confirm its thesis, although- once overcome this resistance and this need to admit once in a while It does not feel omniscient, reading becomes mitigated with the reward that is greatly wanted and appreciated- by being presented with a unique way of writing, inimitable and incomparable for every semicolon put and removed. Travelling is therefore a challenge first of all with one’s self, even before the linguistic side of it: it is an eternal challenge with the taste of hybris of those who, desire to find something else whilst reading, as insatiable curious people don’t deprive themselves, at the cost of suffering gnashing most nerve-wracking, of navigate in waters that are not ones of their house.