Wednesday, September 30, 2015

Death row stories: the first woman and the useless words

Stories and News No. 792

Despite recent pope’s plea against the death penalty in the US, as many important newspapers wrote, the first woman after 70 years was executed by lethal injection in the state of Georgia.
Kelly Renee Gissendaner was accused of the murder of her husband, actually killed by her lover.
Clemency bid by her children nothing got too...

Words are useless.
Alone.
They are alone.
Every word.
You might write and tell.
Shouting to the crowd and muttering to yourself that you have the big, beautiful and profound ones.
Look, to avoid misunderstandings and against my own interest, I clarify it just now: so are the words you are reading here.
Worthless phrases.
You will stop here and I will understand. You're right, you had your reasons, we have all reason, if you think about it.
The fact is that a murder that becomes storytelling for the wide screen, like a love that contradicts the principles of the clearly established moral, is never stuff for a few actors.
I learned it from my grandmother.
Light came, people would have been up to go out but she stayed there and started to read, read everything.
The ending credits are important, she used to say. Otherwise they would have placed it at the beginning.
What can you do, that’s old school: distrust of the information from above and extreme attention to details.
Over time, a bit for emulation, I’ve got the same habit.
Reading.
Reading everything.
All names.
Of those who have contributed to the show.
There is the actress who dies at the end, the hands that killed, and those who suffered the most.
But to reach the noble screen you need much more.
In no particular order, there is the van driver that carried the poison and there are of course the death row guards, there are the cleaners who washed away the mortal smell, the previous one.
There are, of course, the makers of the deadly mixture, the judges and the jury, witnesses and everyone who somehow feel to be.
There are, no surprise, all those who a long ago sang hymns to “eye for an eye”.
There are also the workers who, sheltered by an apparent unawareness, worked on the assembly line that has produced syringes and vials, glass for both, sheets and pillow to the bed, the bed itself and any other fragment that serves this purpose .
Killing the killer.
There is the last coiffeur who cut the condemned hair, the last chef that has cooked the last meal, the last person who made her feel guilty and the last look that read actual innocence in her face.
And with many other last instances of a life now strangled there are the first ones.
The first time she met her husband, the first day they made love, the first time they believed could do it forever and the first moment when they stopped to hope.
The first woman, the first one after 70 years has been sacrificed on the altar of the land of the free, as other words have called these days.
Nothing bad, I say to my advantage this time.
Words are so beautiful.
But the film's ending will always depend on those names in the closing credits.
My name is there and yours too.
We just need to read all once the light comes...

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Friday, September 25, 2015

Racism stories: Black man in wheelchair

Stories and News No. 791

I read that yet another African American was executed by US police. This time the victim was a young man on a wheelchair and again the discussion moves on the usual question: was he armed or not?
Of course he was.
Here is the confession of the agent...

Your Honor,
I confess.
The relatives of the dead are right.
The victim had no gun.
Yet he was armed, I swear.
And I knew I had to shoot.
Rifle?
No, no rifle, I would say so, otherwise.
I know the weapons, I know them all, because they taught me well.
I was careful.
I studied and rehearsed with commitment.
By the way, it does not take a genius to get an A, today.
Because lessons are everywhere.
And everybody is a teacher.
Knife, you say?
Look: no blades, so we exclude a lot and we may move forward.
A bomb?
Did I hear right? Did you say bomb?
Well, believe me: I would have liked so.
It would have been easier.
For me and for you, especially the jury.
Within seconds the story would have died even before being read.
Only with a stickler slow motion you would have time to watch me pulling the trigger, and then maybe linger on old-fashioned stuff.
As they called them? Ah, “the reasons behind the facts”.
Please, Your Honor, no joking.
No bow and arrows, let’s be serious.
We already exterminated those people on our arrival.
What did you say? A rock?
What do you mean?
You mean... you mean a stone?
Forgive the laughter, Your Honor, but this is even more ridiculous than the archer’s thing.
Only a fool searching for lies would believe that the launch of a stone can justify a gunshot.
Unless that stone is not made by the same land which you live or die for, and the border between the two ways is getting sharper day after day.
Listen, I will not steal any more time to you all.
I do not want to steal anything, because I am on the good side of the river.
I shot and this is not in question.
The man had no gun, knife and explosives of any kind.
But he was armed and that too is a fact.
Because I know all of the weapons and I learned from the best.
We all.
What weapon, Your Honor?
The most dangerous ever told in the last hundred years.
The color of the skin

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Thursday, September 24, 2015

Emissions scandal not yet discovered

Stories and News No. 790

Yes I know.
I know that the day when he will reveal it will come.
Indeed, he will probably be a she.
Or maybe they'll work together.
Well, I am not talking about cars.
I refer to the emissions scandal confused between words that as incessant rain are falling on our lives.
Without umbrella.
Another invention to be expected, this one, a saving shelter that protects the bare skin, killing the virus that makes all misshapen and disproportionate.
Starting with the color.
Of that same skin.
The words that pollute and harm the body are stubborn and seemingly inoffensive.
They are camouflaged and, above all, have learned over time the elixir of life: adaptation.
Nothing very original, all right, but I am not talking about living creatures.
The main theme is not the evolution, because there is no progress, here.
Only someone or something that would do anything to survive.
The hypocrite good words.
Protected by sacred rights ready to be brought in for purpose, as guaranteed by freedom of insulting in the partly-free countries.
Read as well as the unpunished part’s privilege of offending the chained one.
But when the words prove the audacity even to imagine a context outside of any formal law, here is the “guilty” writer Erri De Luca.
Because the words are misplaced only when they really are.
Misplaced. Out of time and space. More than ever out of the game.
Where, maybe, some truths are.
So, at the end of all, as for the German Job of the liar software that deceives gas controls, we are more or less consenting visitors of a large, bright and shrill playground.
Yet, I know.
I know that time will come.
When likely she, or she will be a he, maybe together, will disassemble the circus showing that hidden charlatan behind the veil, woven by words unworthy of the name.
And as in The Wizard of Oz, courage, heart and brain will be gifts for the heroes.
In fact, to be honest, the latter will win because they have always had.
We will find them…

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Wednesday, September 23, 2015

Kiribati climate change: Ioane Teitiota and family to be deported

Stories and News No. 789

From real to fake and back. Forward. Rewind and again.
Maybe that's how these pages work and so do I.
As a kind of tennis ball hit from both sides of the court, never indulging on the racket strings, falling trapped like a prey on the spider’s web.
Maybe that's the only way for the ball to still exist.
So it happens that I already told two years ago the true story of the first climate refugee on earth.
Then, since Teitiota Ioane and his family have just been expelled from New Zealand to return to Kiribati, where because of climate change and the consequent sea rising are likely to disappear, I just have no choice.
That telling the false story...

Once upon a time there were a movie and only two spectators.
A movie…
Let's say a short narrative from father to son.
The former pushes the play button, if that is what the abstruse inscription on it indicates.
Fade from black to white.
Cheerful and gratifying intro music.
A clear blue sky is overlooking a town like many others.
Too many.
Zooming on a mid-rise building, devoid of skyscraper’s arrogance, but no less convinced to be something worthy than poor pavement creatures.
The camera reaches the glass of a window.
First special effect and the audience’s eye follows that the narrator’s one in an apartment as many.
Sadly a lot.
A rundown of the interior life of the main characters, unaware lives.
There's stuff on the wall, the usual.
Images of art stolen and stolen images with art.
But there is also something important for the hands on the camera.
Otherwise the video would not show for a much more significant time the strange object.
Second special effect.
This time for the invisible and unconscious protagonist.
The three arms of uneven length are immobile and the relay is constant between the before and the after which nothing changes in.
Yet time is running until the end, that is, it is long gone.
The camera abandons the strange object with his valuable show of numbers and hands and reaching the real goal of the movie.
A living expression in a mirror, through which a man looks at his watch and window.
The prisoner instant and the eternal blue.
It's all right, it's all right for now.
For now.
Because now is all I have always believed I do, that is the caption.
Immediately before a slow fade from white to black.
Music and credits.
"Dad," the alien baby asks the parent, "what have we just seen?"
Humans.
And the story they used to tell themselves...

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Friday, September 18, 2015

Gender Theory Conspiracy and Alien Invasion: the true story

Stories and News No. 788

I read that in my country many fables are spreading about the alleged danger of the so-called Gender Theory.
Nothing but fables.
Here is the true story...

The Gender Theory Conspiracy exists.
Just as there are the Evil Aliens Invasion.
And it is scary, my friends.
The best science fiction’s storytellers were nothing but extraordinary clairvoyants disguised as lies pushers.
The extraterrestrials exist and are scary because they are pervaded by an unspeakable and immeasurable cruelty.
If only compared with a peaceful and tolerant species like us.
The monsters come from the Gender planet, so far nothing new, and they are called Genderians or just Genders.
Indeed, I prefer Genderins, because they are small and treacherous.
However, despite the small size, do not be fooled.
The invasion plan of Genderins is ruthless and ingenious.
They thought well, these terrible beings: where could we go to bother these guys?
Where we can do more damage and at the same time infiltrate like snakes?
Snakes from Pluto, it is obvious that they are not like ours, believe me.
Otherwise, when you will see a snake doing stunts with the skate board, let me know.
In what context, I was saying, we can pretend to be concerned for the human education and instead earn some extra demented ear?
The school, that's what they chose.
Hitting there where begins the road of the most fragile among the souls, there seems to be written in the Manual of the perfect Genderin.
Nevertheless, the rest of the plan is further terrifying, dear friends who rightly fear the deviated and immoral relativism that threatens our lives.
Well, brace yourselves.
Entered the school the Genderins will attack the helpless victims and once crossed the eyeballs is too late.
The symptoms are clear, alas.
The unfortunate persons show from the beginning a frightening confusion about their identity.
The victims do not know whether they are male or female.
But this would be only the surface of the problem.
The people affected from Genderite - the name of the disease is obvious - do not know what to be human means.
They have no idea what to be alive means.
And they do not know the difference between being free.
Or less.
They show total unconsciousness of what their rights are.
Let alone the duties.
They are no longer able to recognize their own kind.
As similar.
Never equal.
But above all, they completely forget the most important question: who am I to claim to have the truth in my pocket?
Nevertheless, everything is fine, now.
It seems, in fact, that once they have fully understood where they landed, the Genderins quickly reached the ships and went home.
Fairly sad, among other things.
Because, apart from that thing of male and female, they realized that all the rest…
We had already done by ourselves.

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Thursday, September 17, 2015

Racism stories: Ahmed Mohamed’s clock

Stories and News No. 787

In a Texas school a 14-year-old named Ahmed Mohamed was arrested for bringing to class a homemade digital clock he built, mistaken for a bomb...

Somewhere there is a drawer.
I have no idea how large it is.
And I have even less of how many things are there.
Things.
Made of uniqueness and wonder.
Call them inventions.
Call them normal stuff, for those who are not and never will be trivial.
Call them also bombs.
Because even if you will strive to turn off the love for the change of the one making fly everyone else, you will not get another result.
That makes the flame on the wick.
Bigger.
Much bigger.
As long as no one will be able to pretend it does not exist.
There are of course time travel machines by people like Ahmed, full speed souls, only “guilty” to kneel at the side of the inadmissible sky.
But there are also the others in the drawer, resting.
Dreaming.
Us.
There is a mirror that reflects only repressed emotions and invincible feelings, created by a young girl with prohibited sexuality fusing hearts survived the Third World War, which began some time ago: the few equals believing to be many, against the different one unaware of being the most.
And there is also the effort of a dark boy accused of being out of place on the white pentagram. A fragile leather mask, crushable just thinking, able to dye the only color that not even a lifetime might show.
The tint of the desire than you never realize, but at the same you will pursue.
Until the last day.
Of your life itself.
In the drawer there is also a normal pen.
Yeah, only this.
Zero fancy leaps, this time, because reality draws what you see.
Take it as well and begin to write what may rejoice there where it hurts.
Because this is what the child’s ink gives: relief where it burns whatever should be not even touched.
However, do not forget to put it back in its place.
Because the kid who fell victim of the slaying love has made it for himself.
But that's not means he is not generous.
Sometimes.
This is the story of a drawer.
I do not know how vast its belly is.
And I do not know how many things you can find there.
Things.
Covered by regrets and illusions.
It would have been inventions.
It would have been common stuff, for those who are not insignificant and never will be.
It would have been even a strange kind of bombs.
And the day when the alleged weapons would have blasted.
You would have sold any moment of your time.
In order to stay there.
To enjoy the spectacle.
Of the fake.
Explosion.

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Wednesday, September 16, 2015

Moral stories: global warming and other stories

Stories and News No. 786

In order to stimulate public discussion on the issue of climate change photographer Kerstin Langenberger posted a shot stolen on Svalbard islands, in the Arctic Ocean, North Pole, which has become viral...

What can I say?
A white bear.
A hungry and suffering white bear.
A skinny white bear in trouble...
Well, let’s begin to clean the icebergs, as we polar bears used to say.
What can I say? For your information I am a lady.
Proudly female.
And regarding the reasons for my anything but curvy profile, are you convinced that truth is precisely what you are interested of?
Is the real answer what you ask for?
I imagine a lot of eyes, now.
Watching.
Always in the eye that has already seen, indeed, because how many of you might claim to have looked closely at a white bear?
What can I say? Pairs of eyes, instead of just eyes, should be more exact, with all my heartfelt consideration for the blind in one eye.
Pairs of eyes that I imagine admiring me.
Sharing and commenting randomly.
I knew.
I knew a long ago that before others narratives everyone chooses the preferable caption.
Even where it is already there, perhaps by an overestimate person as the eyewitness is.
What can I say? Many like to scribble the rest to write what goes through their cervix.
Yet another hobby by the smart passing human.
As the well-known polar motto says: human, he is smart finding acceptable reason to turn his head the soon is possible.
About the passing... well, you do not need a bear, indeed, a white lady bear to understand that continuing on the already traced path your contract is definitely completed, on this earth.
So, let’s go with the kaleidoscope of simple solutions.
The polar bear is thin because it is ill.
Or it is just decrepit and no longer able to obtain food.
It lost all teeth because obstinate with a thawed giant cob... no, this is not good, it leads to the global warming.
The bear is incredibly skinny because obsessed by a huge gray whale’s rib.
The bear is just following a diet or even the picture has been manipulated with photo editing, in fact the animal is obese.
Even better: the polar bear is starving because is celebrating Ramadan, so we can also claim once again the Muslims theme.
Or the animal bravely escaped from the clutches of the Isis.
Indeed, here is the best: it is a white bear, so pure, one of ours, victim of those migrant black and bad penguins who take all the food. And many say we are racists when we want to first think of our polar white bears instead of illegal immigrants who come from the south pole.
What can I say? How the penguins will freely cross the entire human world from pole to pole is really a mystery.
In short, the mother of easy and facilitating explanations is perpetually pregnant.
Nevertheless, the only offspring who will lead to the maze’s exit, as a possible salvation from climate murder will hardly see light.
Meanwhile myself and many others like me do what they can to survive.
To you…

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Friday, September 11, 2015

Migrants in Hungary and Macedonia: I make walls

Stories and News No. 785

I make walls.
I make walls and I give them for free.
Call me and I solve your problem.
In Hungary and now also in Macedonia want to stop migrants with a wall.
Why you have not thought about me?
Yet I believed to have proven to be expert.
Okay, okay, I'm not a conventional one, it is clear.
If you are expecting the classic creator of walls, commonly called mason, with trowel and plumb, we are off the road.
That is old stuff.
Well, it still works, but I am 2.0, or better, infinite-dot-nothing, but should be read in reverse, meaning that from nothing I watch out in search of infinity.
I do walls, walls that last, movable ones, in short, sharable, reusable, but preferably quotable.
We said I am new and so I do not use the classic brick.
In place of the well-known block of stone and lime here's the pieces of the future.
Words.
I think you already got it.
A wall of words is what you need, trembling crowds in Hungary and each trench of the planet.
A reassuring and solid fence interwoven by good phrases but also crazy adjectives, , figures of speech but also just chaotic paragraphs, daring similarities and even indigestible salads of allusions, which I apologize of.
Sorry, but sometimes my fingers lose their heads, the head loses the heart and the heart believes to be the belly and vice versa.
Warranty?
But the best, of course.
My walls run as long as you want it to last.
In stubborn memories and naughty dreams.
In the part of you that you have not yet sold.
Contraindications?
Well...
Here is the sore point, estimated public.
My walls do not stop people, do not truncate the breath in half, do not interrupt the indispensable narrative even to give space to the new super-equipped car.
The storytelling walls allow the passage to everything and everyone.
But I promise you one thing.
Indeed, it is what I hope with all my might.
Every day, more than ever now.
That who will be over, after, maybe not right away, will surely become a different person.
And perhaps happier...

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Thursday, September 10, 2015

Moral stories: why he is new

Stories and News No. 784

It seems that in a cave near Johannesburg, South Africa, a group of scientists have found more than 1,500 remains of bones of individuals belonging to a new species.
Here is an exclusive press release by the team:

Dear people,
We made the discovery of the century.
What am I saying? More than that, let’s exaggerate this time because the occasion requires it.
This is the greatest exploit of all time, no jokes.
We found a new species.
It seems to be one of us, but we cannot be so sure.
Let's just say that none of us would risk a single fragment of the fingertip, but we're not here to play, after all.
The moment is solemn, gosh.
Because this new species, which may be one of us but wait to say it, is really new.
Looking at the fossils and after a careful spectrographic analysis of the longitudinal enzymes through cuneiform catheters - it is useless explain this, we are scientists, not you, we understand a lot of the little guy.
Yes, you got it, the old man was not a top.
The enzymes also told us that the new species was really new and very different from the rest of us.
Between a sliver of sacrum and the remains of a wisdom tooth we found that he never would have dreamed of kicking a fellow on the run with children in his arms chased by a hysterical velociraptor.
Or even on the run and that's it.
The new species was well aware that the walls were used to support the ceiling of the cave to become the paper to write stories on, never to prevent the transit.
And when you know that the place where you shelters each night and leave traces of the life you lived are both a gift of nature, anything but your stuff, you will not prevent anything to anyone.
The new species did not live far, it must be said.
That is why the time was the only real wealth, as well as a mysterious scent that was extracted from a rare specimen of a mammoth-sighted. Because everybody knows this, even the uninitiated like you: the mammoth is shortsighted at its best. In fact there is in the world none photo of the mammoth-sighted, I challenge you to deny it.
It seems that the scent was a powerful aphrodisiac that would warm the cave throughout the Ice Age, if you know what I mean.
Anyway, time was really the most valuable currency.
The new species did not want to lose it.
That's why he'd never have paid attention to other coat’s color, the way others worshiped the sun or whether or not they were trying to bring it down with a spear, how many seconds people could find shelter during a hailstorm, and maybe wondering if the dude had suddenly moved in an upright position because of the evolution stuff or simply because he sat on an angry porcupine.
In addition to the walls, the new species did not know many other things, but there is one he never forgot.
Life is short and it is too good to waste it with the nonsense.
That’s it.
And it is much, believe me.
Because we scientists have discovered an extraordinary creature.
He seems to be one of us, but the doubt remains.
Because we have the impression that this new species is really…
Human.

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Wednesday, September 9, 2015

Diversity stories: Italy says yes to gay marriage

Stories and News No. 783

The EU Parliament asked nine Member States, including Italy, to "consider the possibility of offering" same-sex couples legal institutions such as "cohabitation, registered partnership and marriage. "
From the news to the story...

Yes.
I say yes.
I do.
And let’s suppose.
Let's suppose some things, listing them with desirable consistency, despite the excitement of the moment.
Let's say I wanted to marry.
Let’s imagine that this was the marriage.
Mine.
A commitment, of course, a promise, okay, the beginning of a public union in the presence of the community, I agree.
Partaking with the best feelings and intentions.
But let’s say also that it was nothing more than enshrining something was there before.
And that, hopefully, will be present as well after.
The love’s depth that makes the two as one.
And just as the mutual respect’s maturity that allows the two to remain so, despite the one.
Like an accomplished and precise picture in the colors as in the forms.
Well, it will enjoy of the wedding frame as a gift that lights the beauty.
Of before and after.
Then, on this path, let’s figure that marriage is like garnishing an already delicious cake.
And as a birthday party where the guests really make the difference, rather than the presents and the cake itself.
Let’s say the marriage is what we really feel making love with someone we love: the essence of the most intimate of dances. Never where you are, what is the soundtrack and the quality of the fabric sheets.
And let’s image that marriage is like a mother helping her son to wear the prettiest suit on earth. None of us could dissuade her from knowing that the wonder is and will always be in those eyes lost in hers.
In all these cases and others to come, the perfection, or the dream of the latter, was there before.
And, who knows, maybe sometimes it will live after.
That's why the day when my country will say yes to gay marriage all will be already finished.
The guests will be at home.
And there will be no echo of the music.
Meanwhile, today, me, Italy.
I love my partner.
And I say yes.
I do…

Italy and...

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Friday, September 4, 2015

Drowned Syrian boy picture in the infinite worlds

Stories and News No. 782

I know one thing.
I know only that.
And it is enough for me.

I know there is a world where a three-year-old named Aylan is found dead on a beach.
He is photographed.
And the horrible design goes around the same world.
I know that there is another world where the child is not dead, he is just resting after carefree diving and cavorting in the waves.
He loves bathing suit, but he is ever in a hurry to enter the sea and because he is an anarchist and eccentric child.
As all children should be.
In another world Aylan just fainted because lately he ate little.
But today he ate and that's what really matters.
In yet another world the child is still dead, but then raises immediately, because on that planet the end of life is a nature’s trick.
But life is not, lucky them.
In another world Aylan is not a child but a robot tested by scientists to see what one day could happen if governments will favor the economic interests at the expense of human rights.
Enlightening test, indeed.
In a world we are all crazy, suffering of constant hallucinations.
So we often see crazy things, an only three years dead life on a beach as millions of children risking the same fate.
In another world Aylan is only a character in a movie.
Dramatic film, this is certain, well too much, and to lighten the movie at the end of the latter there is a sequence of several bloopers made during filming, with the young actor in serious difficulty to stop laughing, whining or doing what he wants.
Being a child, in fact.
In a world he is sleeping - I could not miss this, and he is dreaming us looking at his picture, but the truth is that we are asleep too and we are in a nightmare. Then we wake up and we are all wet on a beach, with clothes impregnated with salt and sand, confused, cold.
And happy.
Because it was just a beautiful nightmare.
In another world there is a time machine, and then we all return to the exact moment when the choice was made leading to the death of a three years child on a beach and... and yes, no one of us is excluded.
In another world the magic of eyes exists and if we all look at a picture and together we think the same thing and above all we believe in the magic we can rewrite history.
Then we cannot photograph it again, but we can tell how we put things right.
In another world Aylan is me.
Except that nobody knows.
If I am dead or alive.
In another world he is you who read these words.
Except that nobody knows.
If you're going to die soon.
Or not.
In my favorite world among all Aylan is alive and all others died.
But since he does not like to be alone he invents us.
And I am sure that he will paint us a lot better than what we really are.
In all other worlds.

I know one thing.
I just know that.
But it is enough.
I know there are infinite worlds out there.
It is up to us, all of us, to decide where we want to live.
In the future.

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Thursday, September 3, 2015

Child victims of war and the subjects of the remaining school

Stories and News No. 781

According to UNICEF, the wars in Iraq, Syria, Libya, Yemen and Sudan deprived of education 13.7 million children...

One day, normal, but different.
It’s morning.
Very soon, much earlier when you should look for light.
There is one of them that gets up from the place he may call bed.
He rubs his eyes.
In vain.
Because that is all true.
Dream and nightmare effortlessly mingle, because no one ever taught the difference.
This is the remaining school.
Essential, frugal of advices, but it has its subjects.
Mathematics is always the most difficult, even in the page to quickly turn in the great book of worldly things.
Numeracy is learned very early and the teachers are many.
Everyone, let's say.
All feel entitled to interrogate you, to put you to the test.
It’s an examination without end.
This is war, a test that has a very clear start time, written on the blackboard in large letters, so unwieldy, that there is no room for anything.
Let alone the end time.
Literature is a true pleasure, really.
Reading and writing are the real treasure of the surviving young souls.
Discovering words between an explosion and the other, which in most cases are verbs.
Namely, actions, fast and indispensable ones, to learn with abilities that you do not even know to have at your age.
How to run and jump, forget and eat, naming some.
Everything quickly.
And then, if there is still time, tattooing precious memories on the remaining paper, just like the school.
But do not be fooled, the remaining paper is a serious advantage.
Because you get used to trace where you want, freeing yourself from legalized slavery of a minor power outage or an annoying battery.
Geography is not the best.
It’s sadistic and disappointing, all students of the remaining school agree.
You do not have time to become fond of the profile of a hill, the design you've done in the head, the country name you finally learned to pronounce, because suddenly you have to start over.
You know, the book was updated.
By enemies or saviors, seamless.
On one thing, however, our students are lucky.
No parent has ever had to force them doing their homework.
Because there are none of them.
There's no need.
And because the school perfectly knows that the next day, and all those to come, there is only one task to accomplish.
In the morning.
Very soon, much sooner than you should look for light.
Get up from what you can call bed.
And after being rubbed them.
Please, open your eyes.
Again.

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Wednesday, September 2, 2015

Czech police mark refugees with numbers: Jews and Nazis in the future

Stories and News No.  780

Let’s suppose this is what it is.
Let's assume that the story of migrants marked in the Czech Republic as it was for Jews in the death camps.
That's right, let’s say that the this is what refugees are living today.
A Holocaust.
Then let’s blow the clock with every particle of breath we retain in the chest for the last minute goal and for happy parties.
All together now.
Then, let’s imagine what people will say and do, one day.
As it was for the Jews.
Photos and movies will be suitably old.
Because as unfortunately it happens, the worst horror shows defined shapes only when we observed it there.
Back there.
In the realm that was.
As a result, most of the audience will feel horrified.
How could they do this, then?
How could this happen?
How can you do this to your fellows?

Of course, you will also hear the giddy guy, suffering among other things from an unbearable loneliness of the ego, who will scream ghostly justifications.
Trying to humanize the inhuman act.
There are and there will always be confused voices squawking.
There are live, let alone at a distance of time.
So, after having crystallized the terrible stain confined to the past, we will start to celebrate everything to be celebrated.
Many awards and plaques will shine for the refugees survived.
Streets names and paintings in homage to the migrant souls.
Conferences and round tables will be passionate about the tragedies of the sea.
And eminent professors will feel voted admonishing the young minds.
Never again, that will be the meaning of the warning.
Look and understand, so that it will be never again.
Many novels will be written.
As many will be published.
Obviously, readers will love the first-person stories, narrated with the remaining blood.
After the storm.
And then great movies will come.
You'll see a lot of them.
A real hunt for lost memories will start, searching for the live testimony. Second hand, and even third will be fine, enough for the large audience.
United by the righteous feelings before the shame of history.
Empathy for the victims.
And aversion to executioners.
It’s a classic.
The human people need time.
To prove to be human.
Anyway, a fundamental question remains unresolved.
How much alive flesh we still need to scratch with our idiocy?
That is, how many times this frightening show will go again on stage so we should be convinced that, in any era we live, none of us is only a spectator?


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