65363234

MyGen Profile GeneratorTiziana Rinaldi Castro was born in Italy in 1965. She has been living in the US since 1987. She graduated in Film and TV and then in Ancient and African Religions at New York University. For the past sixteen years she has been working with the New York Lucumì and Yoruba communities towards the retention of the African cultural and religious heritage in the Diaspora. In 1992 she published her first book of poetry: "Dai Morti", Edizioni Ripostes.She then moved to South East Colorado, in an Apache and Chicano community at the feet of the mighty Volcano Uahatoya. She lived for seven years, taught History of Art at the University of Southern Colorado and wrote her novel: “The long return journey”.In the wake of the Twin Tower tragedy she has returned to New York with her two daughters and has married again. She presently teaches Classical Mythology at Montclair State University and Italian at New York University and continues writing. She has published her second novel: “Two things bitter and one sweet”, with Edizioni EO, and she is working on her third....................................................... ............................................................ .................................... .......................................................Tizia na Rinaldi è nata a Salerno nel 1965. Dal 1987 vive negli Stati Uniti d’America, dove si è laureata in Cinema e poi in Antropologia alla New York University. Da quindici anni lavora e lotta, in qualità di antropologa e di iniziata, a fianco della comunità Lucumì di New York e della Nazione Africana Yoruba, per il mantenimento della cultura e della medicina africana e la salvaguardia dei diritti religiosi dell’America nera. Nel 1992 ha pubblicato: "Dai Morti" un dialogo in versi, presso le Edizioni Ripostes e poi si è trasferita nel sud Est del Colorado, dove ha vissuto e insegnato in una comunità apache/chicano ai piedi del vulcano Uahatoya e dove ha scritto il romanzo: “Il Lungo Ritorno”. Nel 2001 è tornata a New York insieme alle sue due figlie nel 2001 e si e' risposata. Attualmente insegna Mitologia Greca alla Montclair State University e Italiano alla New York University. E' uscito il suo nuovo romanzo “Due cose amare e una dolce"" presso le Edizioni EO.......................................................... ............................................................ ............................................................ ............................................................ ...................................................... ............................................................ .........................I look at length at the giant photograph in front of Lele’s bed. It is a photograph of Asturia, her older sister: she is pointing her finger at something to the right of the picture, while she turns her head to the left, towards the person of whom she is trying to call attention. Her hair covers her cheek. The smile on her wide mouth, the shape of the eyes, the straight, severe, elegant nose, her long neck and any other negligible detail all suggest to the viewer her unhesitant beauty, her audacity, finally her fatal helplessness. The blue sea curtain inflates towards the interior as a sail each time a draft forms, only to deflate and stick to the window glass when the wind recedes. There she is: it’s Lele this hemp distending and collapsing as the sail of a boat lost at sea: one moment does the wind point her towards a direction, promises her a course, propelling her towards any point from where it is maybe possible to set sail not by mistake, not out of desperation, not only to avoid thinking of the dead sister, and a moment later the wind forsakes her, leaving behind a whirlpool that pounds boat, sail and steering wheel against a vertical and parched air, a glass wall where all is flattened again and Lele fails to breathe and the shadow of the dead sister adheres to her body and strangles her.I roll Asturia’s giant photo up and I look around to locate something to cover it with. The sea blue curtain, left alone by the wind, waves softly in the air. I draw it out of the pole, flatten it on the bed and roll it around the picture, as a flag encompassing the remnants of a soldier. These are gestures infinitely bigger than I: I am the man incapable of indicating to the words the emotion that builds inside of me houses, nourishes monsters, unfolds trajectories and parches the water ‘til desert. Were I not able to untangle through notes and musical phrases what is quiet and without peace inside of me or the inner latitudes susceptible to infinite variations where it all sediments before emerging anew, I’d be a dead root, but music is within me and patiently awaits to steep with all things sinking. And thus, with her picture and her hemp sea blue curtain I am the row emotion, discerning finally the uselessness of a life lived without resolution and the perfection of an instant consciously breathed. Asturia died laughing.