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Showing posts from November, 2015

Stories about climate change for kids: Borbolakiricokò’s Test

Stories and News No. 819 Once upon a time there was the world climate conference. Leaders everywhere. State and Party, overt as tacit appropriately alliances. Envy big towns and envious small villages. All leaders. The last to arrive were them. The two representatives of the inhabitants of Borbolakiricokò Island, a man and a woman. "You are not on the list..." The usher informed them at the entrance hall of the elegant meeting room. "Well, we are not even on the map," the man said, a small tanned guy, almond blue-eyed, blond dreadlocks and purple goatee as Johnny Depp punk version. An ethnic potpourri. "Nevertheless, the lady next to me is the queen of Borbolakiricokò and we're here because we care about the planet earth." The usher was about to close the door, when the woman, a tall and large lady, albino tail on the skull polished like a mirror and disproportionate glasses as Elton John in the most excessive concerts, merely cleared her t

Racism stories: I would like one day

Stories and News No. 818 One day. One day is enough for me. A day when we will all be disabled . No, not diversely abled , which is a tolerated euphemism to evoke yet another human wonder. Disabled, that is what I mean. Lack of normally wasted skills. Debased as undervalued. All blind , then. Although for a single day, all unable to accuse alleged guilty skin colors. All unable to fear the supposed scandalous clothes. And no one will be able to take advantage of vulnerable forms to cover own cowardice. All unreachable by words written strictly turning back to the heart. Far from delusional sentences erased for twenty-four hours from the sadistic machine called news, which does not miss the occasion to ride on helpless grounds. All deaf , so. And even for a single day, all indifferent to the timely screams of the professional parasite, always ready to throw himself on the monster that he designed. Okay, no heavenly music and natural melodies. Silence, absolute absence

Diversity stories: victims of the day after

Stories and News No. 817 Once upon a time there were attacks . Terrorism and massacres . Once upon a time there were assassins , or whatever you prefer to call them. Justifying fear and hatred, needs, interests and everything you will tell not even your mother. And then there are them . You see, you have to look at them, the victims . Especially those that must necessarily be seen. Until night falls. It may happen tomorrow, the next time, the following one and in the end it comes. The day after . The time of the others . The new victims, so different, almost invisible to the naked eye, without time and humanity. So, randomly, there are victims because they resembled the bad guys . And the victims because we were looking for the bad guys , but… anyway, we found them . There are survived victims to the vengeance of the day after the other massacre. Because no, we had not forgotten at all of them. There are the victims of peace given by war to restore peace where war ha

Moral stories: Not in my name from Rome to Paris

Stories and News No. 816 Tomorrow there will be a demonstration in Rome. I read that "the goal is to strongly condemn the recent massacre in Paris, expressing the deepest feeling of closeness to the French people." Not in my name. If today I were a believer, I would think that. Perhaps I would whisper it. Maybe I would even say. Certainly I will exclaim so if I believed in any faith, before those who use the latter to spread distrust, their god to see him biting the others, his own symbol to crucify the presumed opponent. Not in my name. I would shout out loud that listening to those who, like vultures with beaks always pointed to the most defenseless people on earth, do not fail to tear the formidable monster designed by the lords of the news. And never satisfied, they are ready to snap any prey that might in some way be dragged in. In the pot. Not in my name. I might even record it on my forehead and all those who regularly are assimilated into the soothi

Attacks, bombs, death and tragedy: now what?

Stories and News No. 815 The shots thunder stopped. The blood stained the road. And the dull human brutality has claimed other victims. "Now what?" The child asks. The mother catches the words as a flutter of butterfly on antipodes, the proverbial effect for inferior class earthquakes. Each atom that makes up the woman is violently stretched out to the exact center of the black hole that just swallowed the love of her life. Or the other one. Blessed are those who can easily enjoy the easiest among the remedies to pain. Indulge it completely. In order for the river to flow and being able to observe someday its reflections from up there. Over. Any place that is somehow definable far away. However, after an unspeakable tragedy, there are some who do not share such good fortune, if we can call it so. And the loudest call chains them to the ground. The love that survives. That will survive. Only for you. "What did you say, son?" The woman enquires sta

Stories about racism: Bomb threat today home of the terrorist Calogero

Stories and News No. 814 Once upon a time there was a particular story. And, at the same time, you do not imagine how common it was. The main character's name was Calogero . He has long and thick beard and brown eyes. So his father. Calogero had dark skin. So his mother. His father. And even his grandfather. Because Calogero, his mother, his father and also his grandfather came all from Sicily, South Italy, where many people have brown skin and eyes too. Calogero was deaf-mute and atheist, but those are little details. He had just arrived in a typical building of a common town inhabited by ordinary people. That is, the average stuff. Except him. Calogero, incredibly shy and unsociable, lived alone and worked by night in a confectionery. But it was worth it, because mixing and filling for hours, while most of the neighbors was asleep, was the missing dish balance. Donating sweetness from dusk to dawn, for the one who was utterly unable to do so in the rest of the

Paris attacks 2015: the same old story

Stories and News No. 813 There was once a story that repeats itself. You will see, once again it will. Because the movie is that, the script is always the same. That's why the ending does not change. They call other actors, inventing charming settings and playing with words. The show will offer every time the same message. War and peace. Democracy and terrorism. The narrator from the highest stage will scream loudly, the soundtrack will be unbearable and you will have to listen. It works, it is the bestseller product, because it respects the first rule of the storytelling. The best lie is the one that mixes truth with fiction and so it is for the good story as the bad news. It's true, the voice does not fails, democracy is under attack, just as peace. There are no hidden plots, there are not any more, now, if ever there were. The answers are there, just look, having time to do it. Desire. The difference is all here. The dead are dead and hurt, those who remai

Stories about life: little ones and monsters

Stories and News No. 812 In Wallenfels, Germany, police found the dead bodies of seven infants in a home. The mother has not been found and is sought... Little. Seven little children. The magnificent , potentially. The samurai , who knows? And the dwarfs , from a picture book to a 3D movie. Lives, anyway. Short, no doubt. But who said that a story should last a hundred years to be read? Lived. Narrated in the cold nights of coming winter to frighten the children. Little ones. Who, often, know more about monsters than adults do. Monsters... Well, just one Normal, potentially. Creepy, you see now. And unexpected, from a “good cause” spot to an early evening TV Show. Still life. Human, sure. But who said that a person should have claws and sharp teeth to bite? Devouring. And anguishing in a cultured roundtables to frighten the adults. Yes, adults. Who, often, know more about monsters than children do. But they fan pretending all came from fairytales. Where th

Billionaire buys daughter diamond for $48m: thank me

Stories and News No. 811 "Blue Moon" diamond was bought by Hong Kong billionaire Joseph Lau for $ 48.5 million, one of the jewels most expensive in history, a gift for his 7 years old daughter. The stone comes from a mine in South Africa ... Dear girl, Thank your dad. Please do it, honor the generous parent. The value of the gift does not count, as even the banal thought. The gesture matters. Not just to donate. The real magic is in the movement of the hand that brings the present, the frozen head, because eyes are incredibly focused on you, his soul reaching out for yours, the one and only reason for such affection. Thank him, as I did myself yesterday evening. Despite today and regardless of tomorrow. Because the water that he brought me at the end of the day was all I wanted. All that he would have drunk. And even more. Be thankful of this opportunity. To receive gifts from life. And who donated you the latter. Your mother, yes, she. If the daughter

True stories about teenage depression: I walk

Stories and News No. 810 Last night a 14 year old boy - I read with health problems, was rescued by police in Rome, Italy, as he walked alone in the fast lane... I walk. Even now, I walk. Blinded by the absurd illusion of achieving the running life. And even overcoming it. I am the guy that disturbs the normality of the moment, where everything is permitted, as long as nothing really changes. And I am the girl who you cannot tell of, drawing her, let alone photographing. Because then the consciousness bans everything and then dares to explain that absence. I am the cumbersome woman, personified excess, unpleasant in appearance as in the remembrance. Because then the memory transcribes everything and then dares to explain that presence. And I am the man, who is out of tune in the melody as in the text, that you wish to never have met. Loved. Just watched. I am one of the many who walk beside, in a significant travel fragment. Fortunately on the last row. And for a cruel

Bridge across the Strait of Messina and other fairy tales

Stories and News No. 809 "The bridge over the Strait of Messina will be made", Italy premier Matteo Renzi said . I remember I heard same story from mister Berlusconi, a man who in matter of fairy tales had a great imagination. Well, in the meantime I make my bridges here... Bridges. Bridges and roads. Bridges and roads from a place to another, binding, reducing and saving time and difficulties are a lot. At least as many as missed wishes multiplied by all the stars that have not yet fallen in the sky of the last people in the world. You know, here we are in the order of infinity, to say the least. Bridges. Bridges and roads. Bridges and roads from an island to another, binding, reducing and saving loneliness and blunders are many. But that is not stuff to work on paper. Damning liver and dignity for money and selling nobility to the first bidder is unnecessary. For bridges. For bridges and lives. Bridges and lives from one continent to another, binding, r

Stories of immigrants: when a father let go of son at sea

Stories and News No. 808 Recent news says that off the Greek island of Kos a man had to throw overboard the body of his six year old son to save the rest of his family. This is the story in brief. At the same time. A loud cry and a feeble prayer. Please, Dad, do not . Throw me into the sea, Father, so that everything makes sense . Where there should not be any one. Where there should be none. With your own flesh in your hands. Ready to move without it. In the arms of that same flesh. Ready to do without. Of yourself. There is a mistake, there must be a serious one in this film. If not, what writer would have been so blind? Which director could have to stage such outrage? Which producer would dare to finance this abomination? But, more than anything else, what kind of viewers could remain silent on his comfortable chair before a so alien movie? Yeah, it's all a matter of words, in the final analysis. Because the protagonists, the different skin or different wa

Moral stories: Loving Armed Forces Day…

Stories and News No. 807 Greetings, my best greetings to you. There, somewhere. Sharing hope in a crowded room of lives and needs. By tapping into what you never had, for yourself. And that is the true miracle, rather than magical tears rained down from nowhere. Sincere greetings, really. Amazons and warriors from the white coat, with that indomitable scalpel and courageous stethoscopes saving from the flames the life that survived. The gift of not required peace. Best wishes to you, lonely woman. The same for you, lonely man. That despite the world is running in the opposite direction, you turn your back to the finish line and get down, down there. Where slow existences are breathing with difficulty. Where there will not be anything to win. And an honorable defeat will be the best that might happen. Yet you are there. Yet you even back there the following year. Many wishes, all I can, to you. Eyes and ears that lend themselves to the cries remained on the table.