Wednesday, December 23, 2015

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Friday, December 18, 2015

International Migrants Day 2015: Migra Man story

Stories and News No. 827

For the International Migrants Day...

Once upon a time there was the Migrant.
Where he was not a normal creature.
At best, human.
In the world of the story dug with bare hands, directly into the walls carved of fear and stupidity, he was a superhero.
And whatever world it was, no superhero exists without super powers.
Migra man, if you prefer to call him that way, was not an exception.
At least in this, he was not.
Like any respectable hero, he had a costume.
A recognizable one.
A dress covered with unspeakable stories, painted by tears, blood and a secret tint, which made everything special: an irrepressible affection for tomorrow.
If you allow, it was invented for all.
But we were talking of a super guy, and there is no example of that category who does not really stand for the uniqueness of his powers.
The first was fundamental: the power of leaving.
At any time and from any place.
Any second, it was enough there was at least one on the horizon, and you would have seen him traveling. Migra man, but you could also say Migra woman and Migra kid. Because you're never too young to be a hero.
The second one was equally important: the power of surviving.
This was a defective ability, being honest, because it did not always work.
But this does not mean that the man was not worthy to be celebrated in the most epic storytelling.
Because, you know, the imperfect heroes are the ones who really thrill the crowds.
The third was essential, of course: the power of arriving.
Even here the variability was normal.
The hero would have come, all right.
But all was linked to a host of unforeseen eventualities.
Because even superheroes have to contend with luck and good will of others.
It would be wonderful if everything depended just on personal powers and a passionate desire to use them.
This is the story of Migrants.
Where they are not mere onlookers.
At best, the victim or the aggressor inside the crime scene.
In the land taken away during sleep from those born with a fine caul, even already stretched, they were superheroes.
Dreaming to save themselves.
And the future of all of us…

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Wednesday, December 16, 2015

Star Wars: may the force be with them

Stories and News No. 826

Today a new chapter in the saga of Star Wars debuts on the big screen.
Star Wars, a modern fairy tale among the most popular and long-lived.
As the true reality of many missed viewers.
With anxious hearts and dreamy eyes...

We believe.
It is all right, all right.
We take everything and we do not exclude anything.
We cannot do otherwise.
No, please, leave home the 3D and all sorts of necessary effect to distort the image as much as you need.
To make us believe.
Since we believe it even before entering the cinema.
Look, we do not go at all, so we save money, of course, and the usual disappointments.
Because the movies, especially good ones, have contraindications as the rare happy moments do.
There are less and less and last for too little.
We believe in each fantastic tale you will tell us.
Because we desperately need all that.
Every tomorrow and lasting forever.
So we will not need to touch the wounds to trust.
We do not need any scientific and logic explanations for lightsabers that resonate with vehemence in the heat of combat and space ships vanishing on the horizon thanks to the privilege of hyperspace.
Look, say it as big as you want.
Feel free to use mistakes, lapses and poor ideas.
It is OK.
We like anyway.
We already know that we will like to be there.
Despite sitting in the ruins of our present.
Although covered by the rags of survived dignity.
Head raised to the night sky.
We'll be there.
What a wonderful it would be…
If this was all true.
If wars were really just “star” wars…
The rest of us, as you, would finally be just spectators watching from the ground…

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Friday, December 11, 2015

Calendar 2016 Endangered humans at risk around the world

Stories and News No. 825

I am glad to support and share the initiative of the WWF on the calendar 2016 that with its 12 months shows as many endangered species on the planet.
Obviously we are talking about animals.
In this regard, I am would also propose a calendar of humans at serious risk of extinction…

Once upon a time there was the Calendar of humans at risk.
For January here are the ‘stubborn dreamers’.
Difficult category, this one, I challenge you to deny it.
They are people who are not only suffering from chronic obsession with castles strictly suspended over the void, but also with the irrepressible belief of being able to fill it, that emptiness. With all that may be, anything but fragile and overvalued bricks. Among the solidest, I quote improbable words spoken necessarily in the silence of many and forbidden feelings fanned with a shamelessness that you will fall in love with. First the will irritate you, all right, but then you will space to the heart, admit it.
For February here are the ‘professional rememberers’.
Again, issue of annoying tough nuts to crack.
Because these people that you spot maybe casually, on the edge of the street, most of the time outside of the adored frame, are eyes that transcribe. Bellies that without fear and discrimination welcome everything.
And, be careful what you do or say, when the time will come, never before, will present their the bill. All that, for sure, you have forgotten.
In March we will celebrate the ‘whimsical irreverent’.
Here we are in the danger zone, I know.
Because you might accuse these persons of not having any hesitation to grab icons and sacred themes, to lift them up just to see as well as to crumble all.
Nevertheless, you cannot deny that there is talent in breaking too.
April will be dedicated to ‘survived infants’.
Here we are in a kind of elite, no doubt.
Such creatures know the miracle of time, the machine that won the latter without any need of superfine technology and science fiction writers with the taste for the other dimensions. Because the reason that goes beyond puberty without losing the tenderness in the scheme of things, any value they have in the aging world, is the only true philosopher's stone.
In May, we will tell about the ‘bearers of novelty’.
That's one of the biggest blunders, today.
They are most often misunderstood and even rejected as identities of little league or the worst enemies of a quiet life.
As if the quiet life was something eternal.
As if the quiet life was happiness and not a weak antidote against its opposite.
June will be the month of the ‘two-faced guests’.
Name that would evoke mythological figures, but would not be so out of place, as they often are treated equally.
Door of always open consciousness to diversity and, at the same time, curiosity poisoned arrows by constantly closed eyes are good words, of course, but that is stuff of fantasy, to be read as fairy tales. Because we are serious people, come on.
July will be the time of ‘shy resistant’.
They are at extreme risk, at all times, especially now.
These are the people who, for a simple set of words - you can call idea, obsession, or even affection for the echo they produce in the soul only pronouncing them, you will find ever on time behind the uncomfortable barricades. But doing so with a discretion that sometimes becomes noisy even for trench fellows.
In August we will remember the ‘misplaced’.
Oh, what guys, these.
I mean, how could we create books and films, theater shows and circus performances, evocative stories which cover an evening and exciting anecdotes to break into hearts no longer uses the spontaneous hugs if there were not them. The wrong people, in the place where you should not have to find them, is still the only way to touch perfection.
In September we will homage the ‘simple souls’.
We would need a good torch to admire them at the very beginning and a strong-powered version to illuminate them in later life.
Individuals who are so invulnerable to common nonsense disguised as indispensability of life to look like fools, rather than save.
October will be for the ‘innate listeners’.
They are finishing fast, I know, and for this reason they burn quickly.
A couple of normal ears that pay full attention to the monologues disguised as dialogue that normally we call communication are at risk torture, even before extinction.
In November we will give space to the ‘collectors of lost causes’.
None of them, nowadays, thanks to all the media, could claim to not have a clear vision of the defeats ahead.
Well, as a kind of artists insensitive to money, they bet everything on the last card in the deck for the pleasure of seeing it play.
Because even the last ones should play.
Finally, here we are in December.
The month of the latest species at risk.
Named, and nevertheless it looks a bit odd, even de facto.
The qualifications, let alone the bank account, the availability of time and possessions do not count at all.
They are what they are and you may see the difference every day.
This is the story of the calendar of humans at risk.
You do not need to save their lives.
It is enough, every now and then, to make them feel not alone...

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Thursday, December 10, 2015

Stories about life in Italy: Man kills himself

Stories and News No. 824

Following the so-called decree Banks Rescue, a pensioner in Italy lost all his savings, about one hundred thousand euro, and took his own life.
Let’s overturn the facts…

What a story…
Did you see what tragedy it was?
It may read in all the papers.
I understand, it is likely you have not read it.
When I say all, I mean that one.
And when I say that one, I am talking about valued stuff.
For the smartest, who are not hypnotized by the headlines about football and gossip, that one is the only one.
The one who pulls the strings, that moves life from one continent to another and does the same with death, that disguises itself as religion and politics, news and culture, but it is always back there, or rather, down there.
His Greed the Finance.
Nevertheless, even the wealthy people may cry, right?
Well, if the price of tears on the upper floors of the welfare gains relief on the ground one, it is worth groped.
After all, choosing to give up heirs and lineage to join a gang of desperate people who live in the woods, waiting to assault the richest with arrows and sticks to recover due, it is a nice way to become part of history.
They made it a movie as well, think about that.
So, here is the blessed arrow.
For once, exceptional singularity of the rule, is struck from above.
A government decree with a simple name.
Clear and direct.
As a right arrow.
As one of those phrases spoken by heart under the lights for a fee: intervention in favor of citizens, action to protect consumers, on the side of the last ones, to exaggerate, since we are at Christmas.
Let’s suppose that, dissenting all prior, they were miraculously true.
Have you heard that story?
It was in all the papers.
Those that none read, but they are the newspapers.
Other than viral news and first page scoops.
Government had enacted the decree People Rescue, the eyelet.
People at the expense of the banks, the subtitle.
Banks have committed suicide, the title.
What a tragedy, albeit metaphorical.
But if between Robin Hood and King John you decide to make the former a winner, it is normal that Sheriff of Nottingham will fall with the butt on the ground.
On the contrary, what a tragedy.
What a story.
With the usual victims.
And no guilty...

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Wednesday, December 9, 2015

Migrant deaths at sea 2015: 700 children

Stories and News No. 823

I read that in 2015 the victims at sea among migrants have been, so far, 3200, at least double the previous year’s number. 700 children died in the many shipwrecks...

I know.

I know that my name is Ahmed.
I am the new one.
Or the possible - that I like the most, 701°.
It depends on the deaf wheel dancing around itself.
Donating and slicing present and future.
But it is not the only accountable.
Because I know.
I know everything.
I already know what you might think.
Maybe you will blame the unwary parents who drag their innocent offspring in a one-way trip towards the bottom of the sea.
I know.
You could also say that all governments are responsible for this.
Ours, yours.
The middle ones.
Leaders who allowed this annoying invasion only able to create unjust guilt to people of good will, until proven otherwise.
I also know that you would recall your children.
Your people.
Your country.
I know perfectly that on the free plate of the balance you shall put the list of impassable obstacles that in recent years you have been finding along the way for happiness.
In short, the crisis.
I know you will go far beyond that.
Insinuating that treacherous enemies, who plot to wipe out civilization and faiths, are hiding behind those infants.
That those infants are, themselves, potential opponents with falsely moving eyes.
You would add that there are times when, to defend your surrounded history, you should banish any human weakness.
I know, I know that for a considerable time you could be touched before that incredible number of drowned buds.
But I also know that the hands of the heart beyond the sea are like slaves.
Subservient to a generous dictator, who gives wonderful illusions of freedom.
At one time there was only a simple remote control.
Today you have a sparkling mouse that animates a magical dancing arrow.
And a portentous keyboard filled with potential anchors, condemned to create always the same story.
I know that too.
Because I already know everything.
I know and you know it.
What you would say and what I will say.
So, let’s do something new, will you?
We do not say anything.
We just change the roles...

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Friday, December 4, 2015

Anti gun stories: San Bernardino legal weapons in the land of freedom

Stories and News No. 822

I read just now that each of the four weapons used by those responsible for the massacre in San Bernardino, California, including rifles capable of penetrating a bulletproof vest, were regularly purchased...

Once upon a time there was the land of freedom.
Much was free.
A lot was not.
Inevitable, because one would not make sense without the other.
It was free to buy weapons.
Also asking why a country that considered itself to be civil, peaceful and democratic allows the purchase of weapons, but that was unpopular.
In necessarily dark and trembling times.
In necessarily dark and trembling times it was obviously free to sell weapons.
Near home, preferably away from the latter.
Where the echo of gunfire and the screams of the injured is as weak as a blurb on the fourth page on yet another massacre on the opposite side of the heart.
It was also free asking how does a land that defines itself civil, peaceful and democratic is enriching by selling weapons, but little heard.
We would be talking of another land.
In our land, however, publicly humiliating of the fragile characters in the national show was free.
It was also, at the same time, obsessively favoring the lit area of the stage, where the heaters are good and the couch is perpetually stuffed.
Or, where the privileges are already home, then.
Well, after all, that is the beauty of freedom.
It is like a home.
If you were born there, all right, smile.
Everything will be okay.
We would be talking of those left outside the door.
In the land of freedom robbing citizens for a lifetime was free.
Provided that the furtively hand, with greedy fingers outstretched, was coming from above.
So, it was free to do the same with whole nations for ever and ever.
Provided that they remained silent, with bowed head, beyond the walls made of killing waves and no less cruel bricks.
The land of freedom gave to anyone the right to feed hatred and fear.
To perpetrate discrimination.
And timely sacrificing ebony wool lambs on the worst hypocrisy altar.
Where the guilty has already been exposed several times.
Once upon a time there was the land of freedom.
Where much was free.
And much was not.
Since the one needed the other and vice versa.
Nevertheless, if blessed is the country that does not need heroes, damned is the one who needs terror to remember.
That if you make death free.
Death will make life.

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Thursday, December 3, 2015

Anti war stories: War broke out

Stories and News No. 821

Putin threatens Erdogan who replies supported by Obama, while Cameron says yes to bombs after Merkel told the same Hollande on sending troops.
All according to the usual script...

War broke out.
Let’s run, let’s go to hide.
To save us.
To take sides.
Arguing each other when it is too late.
It was just an attack, they say.
Yes, I understand, the echo of the explosion is close, it touches us and slowly fills peace on earth to unwillingness men.
With no interest to the common horizon, since the smell of blood is unfamiliar.
Nevertheless, the goal where the small as well as the great, the opulent and the robbed, the victim and the perpetrator, who lives and the one who just survives, is the same for everybody.

War broke out, stop talking.
Get a role between courage and cowardice.
The only faces of the single coin to buy a place in history.
Delete the rest.
Delete yourself.
Forget have been here, because we will do the same with you.
Do not expect understanding, now, for the complexity of any noble thought.
Time does not exist anymore, you do not exist anymore.
As a woman, man.
Dignified life.
The most upright among the scales is now full and the others, as you know, had to sit on the wrong place.

War broke out, if you have not understood.
And who is in the middle will be sliced.
The blind heart plow will proceed undaunted, it will return and forward again, moving from each cardinal point and back.
In order for the massacre to be perfectly fair, as the chaos of the comics giggling clown.
You will look behind with inevitable regret.
And you will suffer being ashamed of you inability to lift your head, figuring a sweet outcome.
Nevertheless, you will lie to someone you love, ensuring happy days with your fragile words.

War broke out, remember?
It has already happened.
Everything has already been written and told.
Painted and depicted with priceless pain and love.
In great details but also personal colorings.
Most of the time suggested by the affection for you.
Man, woman.
Of the future.
Never again, this was engraved at the bottom.
More than just two simple words.

“War broke out,” they said a century ago.
And who knows how many times it happened while we were not noticed.
Now we know, today we already know everything.
Let’s get down to the streets, let’s leave our home.
Let’s go out from ourselves.
And once and for all, loudly, let’s scream together…

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Wednesday, December 2, 2015

Stories about life: all my parts

Stories and News No. 820

Hope, a British baby girl, has lived 74 minutes due to anencephaly. Her twin brother is safe and alive. The parents decided to donate her organs...

My name is Hope.
Divide me and take everything.
Grab what you want.
What you yearn.
And what you do not ask, ignoring what you miss.
Lift me and separate me in seventy-four shares.
The first is called possibility, all I could be.
And that you still can.
The second is called generosity, mine, my parents, the parties that made me complete your life. Indeed, exaggerate, and put on the table also what already complete you, but you never thanked.
The third, fourth and fifth call them the three missing children. The son you will have someday, the one you never had, and who is not your son.
But he is.
Believe me, he does.
The sixth and the seventh call them the blind lovers, human dancers fused in a perfect embrace and projected towards each other, though unable to grasp the form and content of the others. As the gift of every part of myself to as many strangers.
From eighth to twelfth call them the wonderful five, or the more famous fantastic four plus one, magical powers that for seventy-four minutes told me the story named life.
The fragments from thirteenth to twenty-third call them the eleven unique heroes in the field. Not praising the name, nor bonding the stamp, much less imitating the gesture. Because the normality of this team is an excellence hidden among stories with simple players like me.
And dad.
From twenty-fourth to forty-first call them the never celebrated eighteen, the expected and extraordinary goals. What would really have made me unique and that only a lucky coincidence or a mighty willpower let it emerge from your face.
From the forty-second to sixty-sixth call them the golden wedding. Just now, because I own only an hour or a bit more, the time I will participate dressed of love and gratitude for those who, for love and gratitude, will celebrate the encounter that gave me light.
The sixty-seventh and sixty-eighth call them us, you and I, strongest winged brother. Dear sky, please, make the wind blowing double for him.
From the sixty-ninth to the seventieth call them you, worshiped parents. Dear sky, please, make the wind above blowing away their tears for my too brief passage.
The seventy-first, seventy-second and seventy-three call them our perfect number, you and us without me, because I hope it will be, without regret, with all the remaining best.
My last part, the seventy one, I will take with me as a souvenir.
To remember the gift I have left behind.
To tell stories.

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