Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Death row execution lethal injection 43 minutes story

Stories and News No. 664

In the U.S. penitentiary in McAlester, Oklahoma, a man sentenced to death by lethal injection unexpectedly woke up and after long minutes of terrible suffering he died shouting from cardiac arrest.

We are in every story. In ours, it is obvious.
In those who we love live. Equally obvious.
In the affairs of those who we dream and admire.
Yes, we are also present there. As unexpected protagonists.
Because without us they would not have any reason to exist.
Privileged lives in the firmament of human divinity.
Very human, to be honest.
We are also in the stories of the people who take advantage of us.
Making money on our blindness.
They see it better when we raise our head, but this happens every day that passes less frequently.
Read as the much underrated last resort of unwitting slaves.
In short, revolution.
We are therefore in all the stories.
Even those who we consider incredibly alien to us.
It is so as well if we ignore them.
Imagine if we discovered them.
Because reading means tying.
The words to the mind and the consequences of them to what remains.
In all the stories, good or bad, we are there.
Standing, from behind, with open eyes or with fingers stuck in your ears, hands at work or with the consciousness hidden behind the heart.
During a lifetime, the infinity of the saints celebrated in the public square or in a horribly stretched hour stories go on stage and we follow them.
As in the last 43 minutes of Clayton D. Lockett.
We were also there, willy-nilly.
We are those who have not batted an eye because the man is a murderer, he was found guilty and the fault of the convict justifies the failure of the executioner.
We are among those who oppose the death penalty, let alone the cruel corollary to the inhumane practice of torture.
And in the midst of such extremes of an imaginary court we dance.
Taken from our personal history.
Fleeing away from it sometimes.
We are therefore inevitably jurors and judges.
The executioner.
The offender and the victim.
We are the indifferent syringe.
We swim undeterred or disgusted in the deadly liquid.
We kill.
And at the same time we feel compassion.
Because we have been in all the stories before us.
And in all the stories we've been everything.
That's why today, at this very moment, more than ever in the second that will come we may write something better.
Maybe we have to...


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Thursday, April 10, 2014

Gay marriage in Italy: the forward escape

Stories and News No. 663

Following Grosseto’s Mayor decision to approve judging Court’s resolution about the transcript of a same sex marriage, the Italian Episcopal Conference has declared: "Marriage is the union between a man and a woman, who come stable together in a public form, with an openness to life and education of children. The attempt to deny this reality through the Courts is a jerk, a dangerous forward escape... "
That’s dedicated to all the fugitives of this world.

Here we are.
Honestly, we were here.
Invisible to most people, as the essence of our lives.
The spontaneous feeling like the suddenly color.
But this doesn’t mean we do not exist.
That we cannot suffer.
Running, only running you might understand.
Seeing really.
What to be us means.
Us, open eyelids forever.
With gaze perennially beyond what the eye shows.
Innocent witness to the mediocre reality.
Straight legs, the never relaxed muscles.
The arms in defense of what remains.
Shaking belly by courage.
And the chest as the last shield in the field.
To protect the precious treasure.
The heart?
No, we are not in a romantic novel, here.
We have never been worthy of.
But the treasure exists, it is definitely there.
You cannot expect that it can be described with two phrases, no matter how sincere they are.
Yes, it's true.
We're on the run.
Since our first cry, that was silent.
The breath in the throat was too much sine then.
Fast creatures.
Read it as the escapees from the world of slowness.
Here we are.
We are there.
Well, we were, there.
Delicate shadows among the horizon's mirages.
Forward, as far forward as possible, we go.
But it is not a choice.
It never was.
Being born and run.
Only living is.
Just like let live.
Happily.
The others...


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Friday, April 4, 2014

Journalist killed in Afghanistan: Anja Niedringhaus missing photos

Stories and News No. 661

The German journalist of the Associated Press, Anja Niedringhaus, 2005 Pulitzer Prize in Breaking News Photography, was killed in Afghanistan.
In recent years, the woman brought her camera in many places where war and internal strife have left behind suffering and poverty.
From Afghanistan to Iraq, from the Gaza Strip to Israel, from Pakistan to Turkey.
These words are for her…

Yes, they are important.
They must be viewed with care.
Taking all the time.
Because between aggressors and offended there is always space.
Sufficient space to do something.
Even putting an end to the carnage.
However, to do so we need to understand.
We need to see.
Well, run, Anja, run and shoot.
Actually, no.
Stand still where you are, very still.
Because this time needs a steady hand.
Or maybe because sometimes deserving attention life comes to you.
Does it sound easy, telling so, right?
It is not.
It's never easy to be found in your house, where the truth is knocking on the door of your home.
Because it really takes courage to build it where the former lives.
The so overlooked truth.
Of the images.
Yes, I’m talking about them.
In the world that has made them as the most deadly weapon of distraction.
Mass distraction?
No, the individual, just the individual.
Detaching him from the essential, his similar one and vice versa.
Well, those images are not worthy of the name and Anja has always known.
As well as a hot embrace stolen by an accomplice paparazzo, to give luster to the nth alleged celebrity, deserves no comparison with also the shortest moment of intimate encounter between two purely disinterested bodies.
Read as to really make love.
Now the album of captured stories reached the end of its days.
A single snapshot seems now head on the others.
Your picture, Anja, possibly with the camera, in plain sight.
However, if this is the time of remembrance, then we’ll remember what we could not see through your eyes.
The countless remnants of lives in motion, that invaded your mind as your heart, surviving the flashes.
Not less true than the others.
Quite the contrary.
Goodbye to you, Anja.
And to all the valuable missing photos...


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Thursday, April 3, 2014

Illegal immigration what is it really video

Stories and News No. 660



What is illegal immigration?
Really.
When I enter a country illegally, I make a criminal action.
I'm guilty.
That’s what the law said.
I was wrong.
I did something unacceptable.
That should not be made.
It should be punished.
I have to be punished.
A reminder to me and the others.
So that the guilty action will never be made again.
I am not ironic or sarcastic, there is no hidden implication in my words.
I am convinced.
But...
Let's be honest, come on.
Image that I were a supermodel with blue eyes and blonde, brunette or red but also with important measures. Watch me now passing the borders illegally.
Come one, you would find a paper for me.
A paper? I would suddenly be in some movie or music video strictly half-naked.
And if by chance I could arrive with my boat on the shores of your coast and at the same time I could prove to be special at sports, you will be soon able to accept me.
Read it as the paradox of the sport clandestine.
If then, I would arrive without any paper, but being an oil sheik decided to invest my money in your country, who would dare to report me at the police station?
That is the same for the Chinese entrepreneur or the Russian business man.
I could go on, but I guess it's clear where this is going.
If I am an illegal immigrant…
I'm guilty.
Because I went illegally in a foreign country.
But my real guilt is another one, right?
I apologize for this.
Forgive me if at the moment I can only offer my poverty.
Because when you complain about me, I know that this is what offends you.
My poverty.
If only I had been born less poor...


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Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Third gender story of the minor anecdotes

Stories and News No. 659

The news comes from Australia.
As you can read on Internet today, Norrie’s request was granted by the High Court, while it was denied by the registrar.
The right not to have any reference to his gender on the identity papers.
Norrie was born male, after became de facto female, until reaching the recent conquest.
Neutral.
So, here is the minor anecdotes' story…

Once upon a time there was a man.
Actually, no.
A woman.
Or maybe I'm wrong again?
Okay, that is not essential in the story.
I go on.
Once upon a time there was someone.
There was...
If I say was, though it is common way, could mean that someone is no longer alive now.
How should I know it? How could I be sure about this? I have no idea how the story will finish.
If I knew, what fun would I have telling it?
So, from the beginning.
Once upon a time there is someone.
Once?
Why limit myself already in the incipit?
It is not wise, indeed, it is not forward-looking.
It could affect the best route, that would drive the narrative toward desirable destinations for those who yearn to successfully storytelling.
Read as the remaining pages.
Okay, let’s start over.
There is someone.
Someone is going somewhere.
What did I say before?
No limits, especially at first.
There is someone going everywhere.
And suddenly someone meets her...
Oops, I did it again.
Try to understand. Meeting a girl is what shakes the plot, to me.
But what am I here?
Nothing, it's not my story.
I must not make this mistake.
Worse, this pity.
Fairly widespread, indeed.
Convincing ourselves that everything happens around us.
I immediately remedy.
There is someone going everywhere.
And suddenly someone meets someone.
Great, now it works perfectly.
Because everyone can be protagonist.
And no one could be excluded.
From the story…


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