Thursday, October 30, 2014

Stories about life in Italy: Brain dead woman gives birth to baby

Stories and News No. 686

At San Raffaele hospital in Milan, a 36 years old brain dead woman is expecting a baby.
A this time the doctors are working to ensure the new life come to light.
Saluting the old one.
At this time...

The first dance.
The first dance together is never forgotten.
The reasons are endless.
Unknown to most people.
Because there are no words in the world, which may tell the idea of the moment.
As a lifetime.
Not as much long as a life, of course.
Not as much.
But as a lifetime in many other meanings.
There, inside you.
There, inside of me.

The first dance, this one, is now.
I know you can hear me, mother.
I know that somewhere, you hide.
From life.
I know you can see me, son.
I know that somewhere, you found me.
In life.

The first dance does not need music.
A perfect evening.
Where everything is great.
Where there is food for all, drinking and laughing.
And you do anything to stop time.
We do not.
We do not need to stop the clock.
We do not need anything.
Everything is you.
Everything and me.
Follow my steps.
I follow my steps.
Because the day they will be the same is near.

The first dance can be the first of many.
Or a few.
More than just one.
But they are not entirely devoid of emotion and warmth.
However, where the first dance and the last one match... stop everything.
Turn on the lights.
No, do not applaud.
Get up and leave the room, but before look at us.
It's a privilege we give with confidence.
Because our first and last dance is repeated forever.
In your eyes, Mom.
In yours, son.
And all those who will remember this day.

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Thursday, October 23, 2014

Ebola immigration hoax works video evidence

Stories and News No. 685

Imagine I am a Nazi German general of World War II.

The right-wing is… right, forgive the repeat, claiming that migrants carry infectious diseases.
I mean, they do well.
It works.
The method of disease works, I assure you.
It worked for us.
Let’s say we have used it.
As evidenced by the US Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, as a recurring theme in our anti-Semitic propaganda, in order to deceive the public, we told that Jews were sowing diseases.
To discourage non-Jews from entering the ghettos, seeing the real conditions of life, we put on the entrance signs warning that the ghetto was in quarantine, telling the population about the danger of highly infectious diseases. Since poor sanitation and lack of water and food rations were quickly undermining the health of Jews residing in ghettos, these warnings became a self-fulfilling prophecy when real infectious diseases decimated people of ghettos.
Since the thing worked, you know, subsequently we used these epidemics to justify the isolation of the Jews from the rest of the population.
Result: our people believed it and we won.
We have lost, actually.
But them, them… we have been able to tarnish, encircle and isolate them.
Exterminate them.
Perhaps we did wrong on the latter.
The extermination does not pay in the long run.
Because then things come out and all look for the monster.
That’s easy.
Many deaths on one side and the executioners on the other.
Recognizable executioners, among other things.
A fearful cloth, cold expressionless blue eyes and detached blonde hair.
And what about the raspy accent?
You cannot redo the whole thing the same way.
History repeats itself, we can repeat.
But we must learn from the mistakes made in the past.
And the biggest mistake was to exaggerate the hatred.
How good you are in this, people of the third millennium.
You know perfectly the rules of propaganda and you have learned that inhumanity is a task to be performed with grace, a hint of sarcasm, but possibly very comfortable on the chair.
A keyboard in your hands, connected to the world and throwing out the right hook.
On the other hand, it does not surprise me.
You know, the story teaches.
What puzzles me is something else.
If history teaches us all, why are almost always the worst people to take advantage of it?

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Thursday, October 16, 2014

Bad weather in Italy video I am not the killer

Stories and News No. 684

I am innocent.
I swear, I'm innocent, but I cannot prove it.
Yes, I know, everyone says so.
Even those who are caught in the bad act.
Like me.
With the smoking gun in my hand.
O with blood dripping from the blade of the knife I have.
I understand, the tests are all there.
Well documented.
Images and videos.
I am a constant everywhere, in every scene of the crime.
You don’t need DNA tests or anything else.
There is no need to disturb the scientific team.
The tests are all there, are overwhelming and each one of them leads to me.
I know it's absurd.
Me too could not believe me.
But this is the perfect crime.
Because if you look at the scene, live, in the exact second the victim is murdered, you cannot avoid to point the finger on the only culprit there.
That's why there is no lawyer in the world who would agree to take on my defense.
Because the jury has already decided.
The court has already issued the judgment.
And the monster is on the front page.
It’s always on the first one.
My name.
And my face.
I killed.
I have murdered without delay.
Without mercy, I have slaughtered.
And you know what is the greatest witness to nail me?
No, do not take me as crazy.
I just need to talk honestly, on the contrary how I could ask you to listen to me at the same way?
It's the truth.
I killed.
I have killed mercilessly.
Without any delay, I exterminated.
Yet I am innocent.
That’s our paradox.
Read as well as the unsuspecting arms of aware criminals.
Because every time I killed, murdered and exterminated lives I deleted people that someone else had already destroyed.
Forgetting them, alone.
Neglecting them, reducing their value to zero.
Sacrificing them for personal advantage.
If you really want to end up these dead, get busy, investigate and eventually arrest and punish the real assassin.
A terrible daily serial killer.
Above all, try to figure out how he kills.
In order to predict where and who he will hit.
Otherwise, put the blame upon those who have no word to defend himself.
Fickle as wind and clouds.
Like me.

The bad weather

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Thursday, October 9, 2014

Right to die video Brittany Maynard and her gifts to us

Stories and News No. 683

Brittany Maynard has only six months left and has decided to die on November 1.
She will use a right.
The right to choose when and how to leave.
This makes me recall a phrase, inspired by a woman bereft of her husband because of an apparently blind, but certainly dumb bomb.
For a life going away, there's always another one arriving.
Well, if a life goes away claiming a right, leave behind billions of lives.
With the gift of same number of rights.
The right to shake hands with the present moment, here and now, really.
And the right to write with your pen, your own history.
The right to understand what is really important, shutting down the noise by fools who rush around us.
And the right of coloring at your will what is darkness is for everyone, beyond the last boundary.
Despite some claims to know more than you.
Sacred right, that.
Because if you take away from me the choice to imagine a horizon of my taste, while I'm here, maybe in a far from pleasant time, how do you think I can face the enemy that put me there?
Don’t you understand that, by chaining my fantasy, you're the best ally of the latter?
The right to remain silent and listen.
Maybe learning.
And, beyond the seen, read or heard, the right to feel.
The emotion hidden between word and word, the sensation masked by letter.
Read as well as the sincere melody of the most neglected notes in the world.
That is, the light in the eyes of a woman in love with something much more important than the mere existence: a happy life.
The hands vibrating with emotion, of course, pain, yes, bitterness, I agree.
Dancing with sad tears at the same pace, sure.
But even the parts of a whole body singing loudly, in unison, the same verse.
I'm alive.
Now, I'm alive.
I'm alive.
Now that's all I have.
And now it's all that you have, now.
From that a right above all.
The right to choose now.
What to do with my time at the end of these simple words.
My time.
Our time.
And yours.
I could go on but, in my humble opinion, this is already too much.
Thank you, Brittany.
Thank you for giving us the memory of those rights we possess.
Locked in a drawer...

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Thursday, October 2, 2014

Touching stories about life: The girl that doesn't age

Stories and News No. 682

Brooke Greenberg, the girl who doesn’t age, is dead 20 years old in Maryland, United States.
She passed away in a body that proved little more than a year.
And the rush to understand where is the secret of her unnatural resistance to aging, beyond the evil that condemned her since birth, seems to have already left.
Because the elixir of eternal life has been and always will be the most coveted mirage of humanity.
A secret.

A secret, yes, a precious one.
Here it is.

My name is Brooke and I have lived twenty years.
Twenty years in a small space, as only the body of a little girl could be.
They say 76 cm and 7 pounds.
Well, I never paid attention to the numbers.
This is not a secret, in fact.

The child who doesn’t age, this is the title of my novel.
Indeed, of the movie.
They will do this, you'll see.
I'm curious to know who will play myself.
Sure, the plot is predictable.
Birth, 20 years and the end.
But this too is not a secret, I agree.

Today newspapers' front pages are my home.
Maybe even some TV show will host my story.
Among commercials I will have my limelight.
Too bad that this is the last scene of mine.
Before the end credits.
No secret here, it is obvious.

Maybe they will talk about me again tomorrow and the day after tomorrow.
In a documentary.
A video on Youtube.
Even a Facebook page dedicated to my story.
But then the time will pass and other high-profile cases will flock to the screen, removing the expired stories.
Secret? No way.

My parents did not forget me, how could they?
I will become a nice picture on the fireplace.
Subject of conversation at a dinner with friends and family.
Even the love that was and remained.
Above all.
Although for a limited time.
But who could ask for more?
Okay, here too the secret does not exist.

I'll be a DNA to study.
Observed with extreme care.
A slide with the label bearing my name.
There, between the tiny folds of my genes, the mystery is hidden.
The eternal youth.
The so-called magic that has protected me from the siege of wrinkles for my whole life.
A secret? Of course it is.

But it is not the only one inside of me.
And luckily for me there was more to discover in my albeit brief existence.
You don’t need any futuristic microscopes for this.
It's in my eyes.
Hurry up and read the first few pages before they get rid of me...

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