The Bright Well

Living on the top of the hill has been the priviledge of historians since the beginning of times. And talking about history, western history, how do we know when Jesus was born, how can we estimate with a precise rate the date of his birth. The three men who followed a star before witnessing the holy day, it is said, were some kings or Magicians, Astroligists and wise men from distant nations. Western world has no annals concerning the sky for the last millenaries. Today, China is the only location where those documents can be found. Ends , because of its historians works and observations, we can estimate Jesus might be born around 4 AD eastern. In a global world, what can local scientists, local historians do, facing planetologists and global historians with a complete knowledge about each part of the small planet. Western world in the nineteenth century was creating new sciences, news areas for brains to expand. Nowadays, computer sciences, nanosciences are new sciences, indeed. But question mark for the global world knowledge. Oecumenia is populated, billions of intellingent minds,  with the melted blood in its belt and like the three mages, once again they know  better than the priests of the City where the King is.

Mid-eighties. Eighty-six, I would say. We were teenagers and the walkman we all had were colorful plastic boxes.  One of the tune,  "Saving all my  love for you", Whitney already a hit and a beauty.  Of course, boys,  we wanted our flyjacket and sunglasses, like all the young mavericks we were.  Booster put an end to a wondeful dream, and  I remember us  in front of the TV set, without  a word, just  lost in the silence,  waiting for the images to tell us where the Challenger was.   Eastern clouds  soon burnt  our trees.  On the other side of the globe, TV was giving a wonderful show, Monkey to the West.  The emergence of a global conscience. And under the sky of Halley, a boy was walking a cave in Pottenstein.  We're like onions, made of thousand emotions, sugar and tears.  And each day brings its load of pleasures and surprises. Evening, Layne! Take a look at the golden globe in the ultramarine sheet over us. White rabbit in it.  Time for the girl of the moon.  Back in seventies, I loved the green freesbies and the rice krispies with marshmallows.  And stil today, as I did, I do.

What a prodigy! What a difference it makes since Mr. President has come! The whole world join hands and thanks the folk of America for they got the wisdom  that enabled to make them the great nation we loved  since we were born. And for it is a new deal, a new word given, and a new policy, people of the earth, every tribe and all the clans have a sip of oxygen. That's what you give, that's what we get, oxygen, in a world full of pollutants. And the energy of the men, gathering so as to help you, grows as their will is high.
And experiencing the brotherhood, experiencing the strenght of mutual action, the great fraternity that sealed the birth of a nation, today , and for the years to come, men will experience the birth of a world where frontiers won't be walls to enclose but hedges to invite birds from the border to have a nest, wild animal hunted outside to enjoy our civilisation.
Mr. President, we owe you many a thanks, and since you have pledged on the altar of God, and good Abraham, himself before you,  the mind of man will live some great days, again.

Before or after Berkeley, Uncle Frank gave an interview, and explained that, when a lad, he once guessed all the cards of a game for a young girl, and doing so, once in his lifetime, made the experience of some magic, apparently some divination. From this moment on, we can read in his works, the presence of auspice and reading.
How do we look at the world, do we often take a glance to the stars, the supernovae, exoplanets ? Are we still men, able to feel the meaning of life? Friends are people who hurt you, because friends are true and want you to become another man than the one you are with your leakages. A friend of mine, who likes to read my notes, never forgets to let me share his feelings, his thoughts about what I'm writing. I thank him. Where does he seat? I don't know. Why doesn't we eat together? I don't know either. But, the more he writes me, the more I love him. What love is that? Agape , it is. Not that he wants me to be converted to his views, but just makes me think of his views, and grants me the access to a larger part of the human sight. And for this help, I owe him more than he can guess. Next, he'll keep on providing me his booknotes. And I'll keep on waiting for the titles of the books he's chosen for me. Let's call him Umberto, because it's a nice first name for such a maze master.