First World War Centenary Italy: of madness and time

Stories and News No. 755

Once upon a time, a hundred years ago, there was a magician.
A wry and clever magician.
“He is the time,” somebody said, “look, he is the time.”
For some time passing is magic.
Good or bad it is, it depends on each occasion by the public.
Because magic stands inside the intent, nothing new, but the deception’s light will always shine in the watching eyes.
On 24 May 1915 the wry and clever magician, which some claimed to be the time, took his wand in one hand and with the other grabbed the first transited word there.
Madness, that was his random choice.
Really, it was a mere accident that such a word was invited on stage.
Because you should be completely crazy to choose it with clear awareness.
Madness.
The man waved his magic weapon of mass distraction and gave a clean blow to the word.
Hitting the letters, of course.
Phonetics and semantics of the term; also synonyms were brought in, from the most common craziness to the least used senselessness, as well as verbs built around it, from maddening to madding, then coming back to the initial word.
Madness.
That is the miracle of the magician and illusionist of this world, professional or not.
Above all, not.
The word was intact.
But from that moment the capacious audience’s eyes and their weak imagination began to read something different.
Pride and heroism, homeland and honor, duty and valor, victory and yes, death.
Because in most cases the best illusions are so cynical to display real crumbs inside the fake cauldron.
Finding the perfect farce in the misleading alliance.
Die as heroes, die for your homeland, die with honor and so on praising.
Until the end of the show.
Again for a single decease.
The death of the magician.
Some say he was the time, surely, some even say that the magician was a masked time.
But if he was the time, well… time really never dies.
A second later, a day after, a month, even a year… look, go ahead and take one hundred years, time back from nowhere and everything starts again.
Like magic.
Of a magician.
There are some convinced that time is a magician, particularly skilled and mocking one.
So cheeky to grasp a repeatedly exposed word over a century for what it is and always will be.
Madness.
And then going on stage, taking the wand and hitting the word with a bang.
In letters and sounds, of course, but also all the horrific stories that follows it like a slave shadow.
So the magic is back.
With a convinced public to see again the same old illusion.
Heroism and pride, honor and homeland, valor and duty, victory even if it was a defeat, and already death, of course.
Provided that the sadistic coupled yet worked.
Winning or not, die with honor, die as heroes, die for your homeland and so on raving.
“That is the real nature of time,” some murmur.
A capable magician making madness not only acceptable.
But even something to celebrate...

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Tunis Museum attack: Italy arrest suspect Abdelmajid Touil innocent?

Stories and News No. 754 

According to the italian PM the man arrested in Milan was in Italy on the day of the massacre...

Once upon a time there was the monster.
The monster on the home page, yes, of course.
But not only this.
It would be too easy.
To put things in the right place.
Impossible, where the monster is now everywhere.
Downloaded directly into more or less defenseless hearts of the easy words thirsty people.
With or without the consent of the recipient.
Especially without.
With or without the consent of the monster itself.
Surely not.
It will take several generations to erase the indissoluble marriage between ‘black’ and ‘enemy’, ‘evil’ and ‘dirty’ from the minds of myopic horizons persons.
Imagine what it will take for the link ‘immigrant’ and ‘everything worse you might think of others’.
But if the creature with the grim look and the hissing voice was innocent?
And if the ‘grim’ word meant ‘I’m angry’, ‘you have no idea how angry I am’?
If you knew you would be a different person.
And if the ‘hissing’ word meant ‘I have lost my speech’, and ‘if I had one you would not understand the same’?
On the contrary, you would live in a different world.
If he was innocent: go, come on, correct the article.
Not so much, an adjective there, an adverb later.
But do not pretend that the narrative became unexpected.
Human between letter and letter.
Inhumane in the words themselves.
If he was innocent: courage, hurry up, change the home page.
That is, every pages, or ‘the sadistic reign of copy paste from above’.
In short: the house of the monster.
Who is at home and, let's face it, suitably, even if he is actually present.
Or not.
If he was innocent there would still be a doubt.
Well, how we worship it, the blessed son of our distrust.
A deceptive harlot that, unlike the unfortunate massacred souls for a few euro on legalized orcs couches, does not sell herself, but her only son.
The doubt, yes, yet it, the common doubt that remains as a perennial sentence on the last human begins on this earth.
You need courage to manifest the same suspicions regarding the neat and shining, golden-haired and clear pupils divinities, pardoned by an idiot fate that gives a walkover to the dishonest contender.
It takes love too.
And maybe even a good dose of unconsciousness.
Once upon a time there was the monster on the home page.
Or even the second and the third ones.
It is the same.
Because discovering his innocence.
Many, sadly too many, will not find any difference...

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Miners trapped underground: my father’s job

Stories and News No. 753

Right now, in Colombia, the rescuers are trying to save seventeen miners who were trapped in a flooded gold mine.
It seems to have no more than three days…

Once upon a time there was a school.
A normal school, far from favored.
By fate as the administrator of the so-called public affairs.
In the normal school there was a equally ordinary class.
On the other hand, normal or excellence it is, where there is a class here comes a teacher and them.
The sons.
Of mothers, of course.
Of life in general, every color and profile, able to survive the darkened reins of his majesty the prevailing moral.
Of course, fathers’ sons.
"What job does your dad?" The teacher asked.
"Our father fills the others pot," the children of the waiters boldly answered.
"Our father, however, erects bed and shelter to the lives of others", the children of construction workers declared with enthusiasm.
"Our father is a hunter of possible futures," the excited children of migrants confessed.
"Our father, however, try to win the game, despite the referee had already whistled the end and sealed the defeat", the children of the unemployed proudly stated.
"Our father is coming back, just on daylight will be here," the optimistic children of convicts swore.
"Our father, however, will not come back, we must go back to him", the children of divorced dads authoritatively explained.
"Our father is never coming back no matter what we do, but that does not mean we will remain silent," orphan children boldly exclaimed.
"Our dad is better not coming back at all, wherever he is," the children of harassing fathers clearly murmured.
"Our father is us," the children of immature fathers claimed.
"Our dad is the real Robin Hood of humanity: he steals the nature to feed his own people", the many children of agricultural workers shouted in chorus.
"Our father, however, is the world most invincible Jack Sparrow: he can find treasures in the waves with a fishing net as sword ", the persuaded children of employees of the sea replied.
"And what about you?" the teacher asked to the last group of children. "What does your father?"
One among all stood up.
Back there.
On the last benches.
Usually among the most undisciplined, yet mysterious region.
Where the eye beyond the teaching posts of this world goes only to scold.
Or sometimes, to love.
"Our dad work to die," one of the children of the miners hopefully said, "but maybe not today."
Maybe someone will save him.

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Anti homophobia day 2015: The against nature kingdom

Stories and News No. 752

On May 17 the world celebrated the International Day Against Homophobia and Transphobia.


Once upon a time there was a kingdom.

As a kingdom, at the head of the latter there was a king.
A king who had taken being a king very seriously.
Let’s just say a lot.
Infinitely so.
Someday the king who had taken himself very seriously, let's say Infinitely much, decided to finish.
What? You may ask.
Well, the king was tired of all this permissive relativism with the obsession for moral drift and lustful transgression, that’s it.
He was the king and the kingdom belongs to the king, until proved otherwise, this was his thought watching the mirror that morning.
So, he made a proclamation.
Any citizen who was caught in acts against nature would be instantly executed.
The supreme judge of the kingdom, which was a fussy and upright man, promised to enforce the edict in six days.
Literally.
What followed was a true genocide.
The first day all aviators and each paratrooper, hostesses and stewards, pilots of aircraft of all sorts and the astronauts too, delighted people with the hang gliding and even those who preferred hot-air balloons and airships to powered aircraft, all were destroyed.
Because humans are not flying creatures.
And because flying is against nature.
On the second day all the most incredible athletes, who dedicate themselves to any specialty and distinguished with any kind of world records were slaughtered.
Because if a man would arrogate the right to overcome the human boundary, it means he is daring to fight against his own nature.
On the third day all artists, whatever discipline they loved expressing with were killed.
Storytellers and poets, dancers and singers, painters and even graffiti virtuous, each devoted soul to the noble invention was swept away.
Because art is life.
And because create life is not mortals stuff.
So extremely against nature.
The fourth day the daydreamers were murdered, at least those who had survived previous killings.
Because nature wants us to dream with closed eyes, protected by sleep.
Because imagining alternatives to human reality, even changing scenarios, actors and outcome of the story, is dangerous.
You end up wanting to change too much.
With the risk to stop dreaming and think to really change the world.
This is a privilege of the gods.
So, against nature.
The fifth day was the most difficult of all, because the judge was convinced that, following the logic of his own making, would have to kill all the children.
Because each one of them was stained by any previous sin.
Because all children want to fly and run like wind, creating the world that makes them happier with admiring perpetually dreaming eyes.
Children are so against nature.
On the last day, with blood dripping hand after deletion of all the people, the judge went to the king.
"Did you do what I ordered?" The monarch asked.
"Yes, my king, I've almost finished."
"And what did you miss?"
The judge killed the king.
And then he took his own life.
Because he remembered there was a time.
Where both had flown, or only desired to do it, defeated death, or only equally dreamed, changed the world, or the kingdom, but in their case they had done really.
Tormenting and killing humanity.
The only real against nature crime.


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Illegal immigrant saves life of a woman: what cannot be taken

Stories and News No. 751

Rome, Italy.
Sobuj Khalifa, a 32 years old man, rescued yesterday a 55 years old woman who had jumped into the Tiber River.
He is a Bangladesh citizen.
A foreigner, a stranger, an immigrant.
Moreover without papers.
So an illegal immigrant too.
Police awarded the man with the residence permit...


They said.
Oh, they said a lot.
They said that once there they would have taken away a lot from me.
The name, to say some.
Replaced by a flood of epithets, most often insultingly.
In the intent, if not in the exact sense.
However, like magic, stories are always born in the intentions.

They said, really.
They said so much.
They said that finally arrived they would have taken my rights.
Nothing special, the least human.
What remains.
Which should remain.
Despite you particularly like to steal most of my life.

They said, I remember.
They surely said.
That many would have tried to tarnish my past and, when I had turned to prevent the abuse, they would have pinched the opposite horizon.
Read as well as the most precious of the landings for forced migrants.
In short, the future.
Making me to live in a cell composed of hardened bars by the least scratched among modern metals.
The present.
That for me, just for me, it should have always been the same.
In order my ‘today’ would have feed their ‘ever’, what sadistic caption said.

They said, I know.
They eagerly said, in fact.
They would have done everything to exhausting myself with the worst illusion.
That anyone, even the weakest and most obtuse among the persecutors of this world, would be able to take me.
What cannot be taken.
If you have carried it with you.
Wherever you came from.

They said, and had almost convinced me.
That I had nothing left.
Luckily we survived.
Me.
My humanity.
My courage and love for my fellow creatures.

Luckily for me.
And, look at the case, a woman in the river.


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