The Colored Papers Game
The Colored Papers Game, multimedia e-book by Paulo Santoro, is the english version of "O Jogo dos Papeletes Coloridos" - to be released worldwide by March, 2019. Experience here the complete first chapter!
"I wrote and I published in Brazil two multimedia ebooks, “O Jogo dos Papeletes Coloridos” and "O Centro do Universo" (in a free translation, "The Colored Papers Game" and "The Center of Universe") - besides on-line stores based in Brazil, they are sold worldwide through iTunes, Google Play, Amazon, etc..
Now is time to issue this inovative e-books in english version - the first will be The Colored Papers Game, by March, 2019.
Watch here the booktrailer-teaser:
Both are digital books that gathers multimedia text, 14 musics and videos in the first ebook, 18 in the second, and can be accessed by many digital devices, tablets, smartphones, desktops, readers. It brings paintings, watercolors and other fine arts that I've made, plus songs I wrote for each work, linking them with a character, event or chapter of the book. The final step was create videos .
As result, we have text, image, music and movement, everything integrated, consistent, made by the same author, the same person, leading in fact to a a new reading experience." Paulo Santoro, author.
Watch the booktrailer above, read the full first chapter below:
The Colored Papers Game
The day before
At the park
The Day Before
ONE could not wait until getting all those people out of there. They were his assistants, highly dedicated people, chosen among his best followers, but he needed to keep a trace of control and discipline. He needed to take some time, as short as it was, to rest, to be in the least adequate condition of attention and promptitude of spirit for tomorrow’s clash, expected for a long time, the final battle, the ultimate dispute, a space reserved for only one winner.
It was time to employ his indisputable leadership in a more explicit manner. Suddenly, he stood up, dropping pencils and reams of paper — it was easy, there were piles of it all over the place.
“It’s okay, people. let’s stop, we all need to rest,” ONE said, moving his arms forward, as if shooing away pigeons in a town square. “The matters we haven’t yet solved to this day, well, it won’t happen now!”
Then, he proceeded to grab briefcases, purses of one, jacket and papers of another,
helping and inducing the stampede out of the door. He wished he was by himself at his suite, to dive on his bed, give himself the chance of relaxing a bit. If they had been able to cease the growing political and social tension of the world out there, the revolving volcano always ready to explode, he was perfectly aware that it would be for a limited time, very limited, and that this time would end tomorrow, and he knew it. He also knew that TWO had the same perception. He thought and smiled for a moment — he was probably trying, likewise, to get his people out of his office.
He was almost pushing the last assistants out, and the last one, in charge of the
production and inspection of the correction and publication of all the graphs produced before they were disclosed externally, still comes back, picks up the jacket and some other things from the regular hotel chair, underneath the side window and, that’s it, he did it, everyone went to their rooms. He was free.
His schedule was very busy, as it was the context in which he lived in: it was the day before an important deciding moment, in an overall severe political situation, with everyone’s expectations reaching a dramatic level and he, himself, reaching his career’s highest. He now carried the weariness of years of disputes, rivalries, persuasions and discussions in uncountable councils, clashes, interviews, dialogues, lectures, dissertations, provocations…
And now, it was time, the final proposition and consequent voting would happen
tomorrow; all the people — literally everyone — waited for that. He was ready.
He locks the door, finally alone. He needs to rest, he now feels his body heavy. He turns around to return to the room, he passes by the chair next to the window, at the suite’s anteroom, where seconds before her assessor rescued her purse and jacket. What is that man doing sitting there?
Serious and concentrated, he leafed through a small black notebook, which seemed to be made out of leather, until he stopped at a certain page. Despite the distance, ONE clearly saw his own full name, the baptism name that contained all his other
intermediate names, long ago abandoned, in the name of communication speed and
space saving. Next, on the side, his date of birth. Well, these were public data, always presented on his resumés in the mass communication centers, everyone knew that, because he was a public figure of high relevance and interest.
Does he look familiar? The physiognomy appears to have been seen many times before, in diverse places, but it’s not known, he was never introduced…Anyways, how did he get there?
The heavy body, the urgency of resting for the next day’s battle and now, still having to deal with that…
Next to his name and date of birth, ONE also read his birth time. Well, that was an odd, rare, very rare information. How did he get it? And who knew it? His mother, father, an aunt and himself, at most, and him, as a result of the universal and insatiable juvenile curiosity of knowing, asking, asking again one million details. How was it right there, on that notebook?
This surprise ONE experienced was bigger than the other, of the fact of being able to
read such detail from that distance, on that small and old pocket booklet. By the way, very old, it probably was many years old. More than one thousand years old. Actually, it seemed to ONE that it was thousands of years old. The tired body started to complain again, requiring some rest. It starts to weight a ton…
The man, serene, takes a blue pencil from his pocket. The weird part was that, faced with the unusual situation of both of them enclosed in that suite, ONE stopped for a long time, staring at that regular pencil, hexagonal, without engraving on its side, with the carefully sharpened tip, cut as in the old days, with a knife or pocket knife, leaving irregular cuts, that moved from the long body of the pencil towards the top edge, in a directed beam of sculptural minimal cuts .
He was surprised with his own attention to such exuberant details, in the rich curved shapes that those cuts suggested — how much time of contemplation, on that uncomfortable situation, before a stranger, had he been? Three, four seconds? A minute?
He felt like he was losing clear notion of the passage of time, assigning such sensitive illusion to the tiredness of the almost 48 hours of unstoppable work with his team, going over every detail of his proposal, choosing every word, every phrase construction, trying to foresee each question and prepare the foolproof and overwhelming answer, to add up the greatest number of bruising statements, of what would be, right on the next day, the maximum strife of his life, for which he had prepared very much — and of the future of his followers, his friends, of all his people.
The man would have to forgive him, but frankly, from now on there were no more
interviews, data checking, dates, taxes, tariffs, routes, deadlines, courses, sequences and evolutions, strategies and goals, structures and hierarchies, guidelines and adhesions. By the way, he needed to request more attention from his assessors to avoid a “sassy” reporter, in the last — very last — minute. He needed, he definitely needed, needed for real, to rest, the body weighted as it never had before, curved to the anxiety, tension, exhaustion, of the last monumental days.
…well, perhaps someone from the team — the ultimate betrayal — had eased his entry? Speaking about that, entry from where?
The man, still serene, indifferent, as if that situation was normal, mundane, as if every day, strangers shared such exiguous space, without the possibility of existing
disturbance, discomfort, inconvenience, the man now prepared for taking the first note.
Decided to not even allow the start of a resolution, ONE approaches him, beating the small distance that kept them apart, or even better, the medium distance…actually…they are so close yet so far apart…
While walking, he remembered a similar feeling, that one, of illusion of the distance,
many years before at the park, on the first time he saw again his distant childhood
passion, now an all set woman who would become his wife. He didn’t know why he
remembered this detail at that moment, perhaps he wanted to think about his wife, on that inappropriate moment, and why not?
Dividing the distraction with his memory, ONE neatly saw, with telescopic clarity,
details of the edge of the tiny turned piece of paper, worn down, sort of rotten, a result of the constant touching. The man began to write.