Who isJohn Oldman
John Oldman was born in 1962 aboard a ship, in international waters during an ocean navigation, en route to the port of La Rochelle, in the Bay of Biscay, in western France.
From an early age he had interests of various kinds frequenting various intellectual circles, but it was later esotericism that interested him most, characterizing every study of him during his life.
As a boy, with his family, he lived in various countries, thus having the opportunity to get in touch with historians and anthropologists who ineluctably attracted him and invited him to attend esoteric circles which would lead him to become interested in occultism and the mysteries of the ancient
sapiential doctrines which, as he often asserts, pass on "true knowledge" through initiatory means. He writes very little, on the other hand committing all the time he manages to have available in book research and field investigations.
Despite his belief that initiatingly handing down wisdom "mouth to ear" is a precious asset, he suddenly begins to write and in 2021 he publishes his first book, part of a trilogy, entitled "Journey through time between the spire of Romitone - The captain Leale Martelli" with which he begins an esoteric historical narration relating to the epic of a small group of Knights Templar, full of a very strong occultism that reveals unthinkable backgrounds of human existence itself and its origins, which are lost in the mists of time , by creators not of this world who left or forgot on our planet objects and technologies unknown to us today.
John Oldman considers himself a modern Knight Templar since the order of the Knights of the Temple has always kept great secrets, because of which, for example, the Albigensians or Cathars were persecuted and exterminated centuries ago.
Today he continues his work as a writer considering knowledge one of the greatest riches that man, who is worthy of bearing that name, can receive as a gift.
John Oldman supports the International Association for Solidarity in Asia
The pen
a writer's magic wand. If that of Harry Potter contains a phoenix feather, in it there is instead, like Daimon, part of the essence of his master: the author. As a writer and poet I keep the taste of transferring intimate sensations into stories or verses through the writing gesture. It's part of me. It establishes a contact between my thoughts and the paper on which, as if by magic, my dreams as an author find their representation in the handwriting, traced in ink, by the pen I hold between my fingers. Thinking about it, it's a charm. A dance of signs that follow one another under the order of my will. Like an orchestra conductor who moves his baton swaying in the music, like a magician who creates a spell at his behest, gives life to a spell. For me, this is writing, to be able to ensure that what lies in our conscious and conscious heart can rise from the depths to the mind and then descend back along the arm, the hand and through the pen reveal itself in the material world in the form of a calligraphy, as if it were the fingerprint of our soul.
The Candle
is critical. A ritual that I love. The flame of him is known to purify and inspire, creating with its sweet light an intimate atmosphere that predisposes to the abandonment of hectic living and leads to an almost meditative concentration. Change the speed of things and everything slows down. You observe the flame, you create inspired, you write the photograph of the moments that excite you. They belong to you, they are your manifest being.
The incense
A ritual is not a ritual without lit incense. Writing is for me even more a meditation. I fish from the depths.. Every sentence is a string of the DNA of my soul. Incense, the ancients said, are the perfumes and essences for the gods. Ovid in "The Metamorphoses" used to say “……… The Phoenix does not feed on fruit or flowers, but on incense and fragrant resins ………” “…… .and she dies exhaling her last breath among the aromas …… ….”. Thus I interpret a death of the material being in favor of a blossoming of consciousness welcomed in celebration among the scents of incense essences.
The silence
It is the essential music for the perceived inspiration to take a recognizable form and begin to be heard in the mind. It rings out, so rustling like a light breeze, then growing like a symphony. It rotates and crosses me and everything in my studio: the bookcase, the paintings, the desk I lean on as I write. Every book, every painting, every piece of wood in the room observes and participates. They are me.
