I announced that Tea time would be transformed and evolved but that basically it would always remain the same in a timeless place. I remember with love the box of unwrapped chocolates with Poirot and all the never-published drawings that lie in my archives. We were in the Palm Court sitting in the Louis XVI armchairs sipping white tea. It seems like an eternity has passed, but as it should be in the timeless room and clocks, things have happened between one sip and the next. I want to tell you one today. Like old times. Do you want? If you have been reading me for years, you know how much the interminable adventure of a new home has shattered, defeated and torn me. Not for the change, the tiredness or the futility of not having a kitchen for eight months. As for the fact that in those months (not to say years) of perennial construction site I lived the last moments with my dad. My life was in total disrepair. Figuratively and otherwise.

A few days ago I looked around and I was homesick. Even more nostalgia than what I feel every day I mean. I turned between large and small spaces to realize that everything was so still. All so silent. Everything so fake perfect. And staring at that ceiling, as I always do, I told myself that to make Dad come back a little bit, I just had to do one thing: knock down some walls. I should have destroyed an old thing and made it new. I should have given birth to something that was inside of me. And this was inside of me. A box of Poirot’s chocolates at the Palm Court. To eat slowly and also greedily. In a few hours, the new Hyperuranium was outlined, which I want to take elsewhere. And that I want it to become Victorian Hyperuranium. I have foreseen that there is a checkered floor of different types. The Fornasetti wallpaper from the Opera, the birds and the one with the small blue flowers from the late 19th century. The Chester armchairs, the kitchen like that of Downton Abbey and the curtains. Even the salon as in Penny Dreadful’s Dorian Gray and I stop (before I call the mental health emergency).
And with the help of my beloved cousin Guido, a fascinating mind and architect, I began to outline a tea room. A Palm Court without now. Spaces that take me so back in time and able to stun me that I almost feel ready for the other seven planets and for the final arrival of the Aliens, who I hope will appreciate white tea or tea flowers.

In this new video – I’ll stop boring you with my Victorian Iperuranio so much I’ll do it with some photos and videos in the near future – I chat about the types of tea. The process of processing tea which is the determining factor for the differentiation and the macro-category within which all the different and infinite varieties are grouped.
In tea I found a moment of meditation, reflection and atonement, too. I found myself sniffing lucha (green tea) and feeling almost drunk – I don’t even know what it means – of serenity. There are so many legends beyond Bodhidharma’s and amazing tales that you never stop learning. I think it all started with Jeong Kwan. The first episode of the third series of Chef’s Table overturned my ideas, hyperuranium and thoughts. It hadn’t happened for years that something hit me so deeply. As it was with Dolls and Samaria. As was the first time in 2001 A Space Odyssey. As it was with Mulholland Drive and a few other moments. Like the dwarf from Twin Peaks between the red curtains and the black and white floor. Chess? No. But they look like us.

Now it almost seems that by breaking down these walls and rebuilding them while sipping a cup of tea, I may be returning to the old me. I know that it does not exist and nothing is ever the same – fortunately – but I like to think that that old me actually corresponds with the happy point that I have rarely managed to touch. Grasp no. But touch, yes.

I will not throw Pupils to grow tea leaves like Bodhidharma but I will draw some with Ombretta to grow that happy spot.

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