Friday, April 29, 2016

Internet Day 2016 in Italy: from darkness to light

Stories and News No. 872

Tomorrow will be thirty years since the advent of the Internet in Italy, since the first connection dates back to April 30, 1986.
Well, after three decades Italy is the country with the lowest number of inhabitants connected to the Internet in Europe, with the most expensive and slowest connection.
So, here is how tomorrow an ordinary man will celebrate the event in the real Italian world...

My name is Giovanni, and today is a great day.
You must know that three days ago, after repeated warnings, re-thoughts and various manifestations of forgiveness waiting for my rescue, once and for all the company have disconnected the power in my house.
Now you might say: why is he rejoicing before such a misfortune?
What's the hurry? I would reply. Let me get to the end, and everything will be understandable.
I was saying, finally the electrical source has dried up, but it was inevitable.
If the mountain lips close, therefore the rivers dry up, and then the sea loses its nourishment... okay, I already imagine my wife’s complaints, who says that I always lose myself in useless semantic trills.
Got it, I summarize: I am three years since the end of layoffs, five from my dismissal and exactly one month from the empty bank account.
Now I said it.
Maybe I should start here.
Anyway, now that the situation is clear, we can go to the decisive framing.
I spent the first day in the dark in bed, from sunrise to sunset.
I did not eat and I got up just to go to the bathroom and drink.
No wine, right? I am not a teetotaler, but the wine costs, you know.
Even water, for that matter, but until we will have the fountain in the square, the glass will be filled.
On the second day, just to stop my wife’s grumbling, I emerged from the blankets, the very run-through of the final destination. Probably a mass grave, unless someone reading this will not want to pay us the funeral.
I did not go very far, to be honest. I wandered through the house like a zombie, a metaphor that seems timely, up to land or fall on the couch, where I spent much of the afternoon and evening to wink at my reflection in the now defunct TV screen. Joining the ranks of the victims of domestic appliances, pc and cell, batteries of both and the fridge, hair dryer and even the toaster, which has always had a special place in my heart. In fact, the stomach.
I fell asleep and I had horrible dreams.
O wonderful nightmares, it always depends on the point of view of the beholder, and who tells.
I saw all the stories that I missed in the last few days.
Of death and fear, as usual.
Think about it, because between traditional newspapers and virtual ones, ruler or servant media, desperate social pages looking for clicks or desperate clicks looking for social pages, altruism on armchair professionals and verbal serial killers minutes on toilet, because to write those abominations I can only imagine them in the bathroom, most of the stuff we eat, chew and share accompanying it with little hearts and approving smiles comes from this.
People who takes away life and some others that strive to do the same, poisoning you every day with fear that this misfortune could happen to you.
By taking your life even before that happens.
Especially in view of elections, let's face it.
The morning of the third day of the tragic power interruption I opened my eyes.
Really, as never before.
I got up, showered and shaved for good.
I took my wife’s and my son’s hands.
And we went out looking for you.
"The teacher told us yesterday that today is the Internet Day," murmured the child, who is only four years, as we walked in the sunshine of the new day. "What is it?"
"I don’t know before, even though I was convinced of the contrary", I replied, "but now I do."
It is something powerful, which can be immensely stronger and more beautiful than how it is told.
More of the same words that hold it together.
Or divide.
Because that is Internet.
It is all of us…

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Thursday, April 28, 2016

The war of necessary clichés

Stories and News No. 871

Today I have two news.
First, I read that thanks to a long search by a US university it was discovered that spanking has aggressiveness as side effect and, second, after the hospital bombing in Aleppo, Syria, 27 dead, including children and medics, Doctors without Borders organization had to remind everyone: hospitals are #notatarget.
Well, let war be, then...

Spanking makes us aggressive.
Yes.
And hospitals are not a target.
Agree.
Listen, while you are there, take a larger sheet and armed yourself with a generous pen and a good dose of patience.
Because even slapping make us aggressive, for your consideration.
As those given to someone else other than the beardless viewer.
The pain can be the same for the latter.
Sometimes even more.
While you are there, add that schools are not a target too.
And, if we could be honest, you may easy write also a generic homes, or huts, shacks and other architectural misery that the world not included in the album of light memories uses to call it like that.
Homes.
Listen, also words can make you aggressive and here I know that one sheet is not enough, I warn you right away.
However, do not worry, if you were to stuck in the so-called writer's block because you will find fertile inspiration in the global whiteboard that dominates, oppresses and invades all, now clogged with insults disguised as jokes and fierce blows where it hurts the most, in the form of the usual electoral skirmishes .
You might find other “not a targets” in all the novels of the world that could have changed the latter, every possible achievement for science that maybe we will never see, any wonderful human expression that make you too, as fellow species, something more than what you were before.
Read it everything, summing up, as civilian casualties.
Indeed, since remaining on the subject, just victims. Because this should be enough for you, in this story.
Spanks, slaps and of course punches, kicks and scratches, sharp or heavy, cruel or indifferent words are all included. But also emptiness make us may do the worst job. Absences where the presence was the least and the not given caress where even just a look would have tacked and pushed the ship into calmer direction.
If you wish to use the supreme gift of synthesis, you may also enclose any hope in this way: life, and where life is, are never a target.
As well as: any affront to that very existence, and where it breaths, make them aggressive. Or even worse.
Here, now, knowing this and if you really insist, you can try to make us war.
Have you ever seen that, later, making peace.
Will be easier…

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Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Migrants invasion in the old body

Stories and News No. 870

In the old Europe, Austria rises high its anti migrant cry: we are ready to use the army.

It was a darker than usual night, when the elder man stirred in his sleep.
Meanwhile, the brain stood up and started to scream.
Because this is what angry cervices do when rise up straight.
Shouting, yelling loudly.
Ignoring that the height does not instill credibility to the speech, as the bitterness in the tone.
Provided that the sense of the speech was the real reason of everything.
"They come to corrupt us", the brain screamed brutalizing without saving the vocal cords.
"They want to rule in our house, erasing our history and our traditions.
"«The belly is empty», they use to say, provided that it is true.
"So, what we have to do? What we got to do with the hell is happening south of the lungs?"
"The problem is that they are too many, this is the truth. And they all want to come to us."
"They say that it would be our duty, since we are the most part guilty of their fate.
"Well, it's time to stop this victimization, it no longer works. Everyone must be accountable for its own path.
"They argue that there are no different routes, all the parts are going in the same direction and sooner or later we will have to answer for their suffering.
"This is a threat that we cannot tolerate anymore.
"This is terrorism.
"In addition, we know what could happen if we allow them to get to us as they please.
"Just look for a moment those deluded and beardless creatures, who do not have the faintest idea of how you should govern a body, wandering of reckless mixtures and random brotherhoods.
"It’s easy to talk like this when your head is free and light. And you can fill it with all silliness that will stand up like hot air.
"Then time passes and you discover that not just good things come from there. So you begin to feel the fear, the real fear, the worst one.
"The fear of what could invade you, to eat you alive, like terrible aliens, even if it will never happen in your life and all those who will follow.
"We must warn you against them and that is why we have decided to close every avenue that leads to us."
The brain ordered and although trembling, wrinkled hands were able to reach the neck and began to squeeze.
More.
More and more.
Nevertheless, it was one of the good days, that.
As far as the fingers clutched the throat, did not close it completely, and they managed to pass and reach the brain.
First a few, then many, finally all.
The feelings.
Human feelings on the run from the heart asking for help.
So, the old man smiled victoriously shutting out the fear.
Once again…

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Friday, April 22, 2016

World Book Day 2016: just a book…

Stories and News No. 869

Tomorrow, April 23, 2016, is the World Book Day...

Everything.
Yes, I know, bear with me as well, but often it was everything.
A wife and a husband, both parents and a son, or even just something that will wait for you endlessly.
It will not ask you anything but eyes.
Curious fingers and will.
To walk together.
There is time, there is always time, do not listen to those who used to tell you that they do not have even a minute.
You need just a second, listen.
Indeed, read.
Because it is everything, it can be everything.
I understand, despise me, judge me too.
But with it I was a woman, tall and old, young and beautiful, or just convinced of being it.
To become one day.
Or not anymore.
I was the worst person in the world, I saw death with my own eyes, I have killed and brought life into the world, I disintegrated planets and, more than anything else, I forgot the pain.
Because reading means to live the missing life.
What always will.
The voids that nobody will erase, because he could not even if he wanted to.
In the real world it is like throwing water on red hot sand with delusional hope that it will become a dreamy lake.
Well, between the covers you do not think about it.
Or you do with the right frame of mind.
What matters is that you are flying, really, believe me, you will fly in there.
Everything, it can soothe everything.
The first time, do I have to talk about the very first one?
The first time, one of the rare, of course, that I really felt proud to be part of the human species?
Listen, it is a true story, read at least that, because here the ravings are in abundance, but no trick on this line.
How not to mention that night, late, when everyone was asleep in the house, with oppressive heat, with that fearful child who ventures into the darkness beyond the refuge called “my room” to drink a glass of water.
It was also the first time that the heart raised its head up and challenged the fearsome, trembling belly on its own ground.
It won, yes, it have won, because that little kid never reached the kitchen that night.
The heart, of course, but also the feet, arms and especially hands followed the call of the library in the living room, full of yellowed volumes and infested by silverfish, with a flower crushed inside and in exchange for little money were everything.
TV, mobile phone, PC and everything else.
Even love and the best company.
A moment later a sudden light radiated that room lagged behind in the last century, when I met the first paper miracle.
Since then the magic happens every time.
But what do you want more?
Nothing for me.
Forgive me, because to me a book, just a book, it is still capable of being.
Everything…

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Thursday, April 21, 2016

Racism stories: Harriet Tubman who died only once

Stories and News No. 868

Araminta Ross, aka Harriet Tubman, activist for the abolition of slavery and women's suffrage, has earned the distinction of being the first Afro-American woman on a US banknote.
I can die but once, Harriet said.
Like all great persons who spent their existence for the rights of many, there are an infinite number of times when she will back into life...

My name is Harriet and I'm not dead.
I'm not dead when I found out that the real chains are made of human skin, the most resistant metal in the world.
And I did not die even when I was about to convince myself that there was something right, meaningful, even normal.
In human skin chains.
I'm not dead when I realized how much I was deluded to think that having free hands and feet was enough to have peace.
And I'm not dead when I finally realized that having peace was not enough to get hands and feet free.
I'm not dead when flipping through the pages of the mirror I found a multitude of reasons to feel unworthy of being reflected.
And I'm not even dead the time when we dried each veins to transcribe red on white our victory.
I did not die every time I saw yet another rung on the ladder to the bottom of human wickedness.
And I'm not dead every time I ascended all that scale, then rolling back down for the whim of yet another fool.
I did not die on the day when I wondered if I would have ever seen the future where the only color that matters will be formed by you and me.
And I'm not dead when I succumbed to the idea that perhaps it will never come.
I'm not dead sensing to live in the country where death has a lot of colors, almost as much as the different weights it gives to each life.
And I'm not dead sensing to die one day in the country where life has one only color that really counts and it is always the other.
I'm not dead when I wanted it as an infant who crave the first light.
And I'm not dead when I tried the unbearable shame of being me, the one still alive.
I'm not dead.
I'm not dead but once.
But before and after, how much life you see.
How many stories.
And how much freedom there is still to be conquered...

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Wednesday, April 20, 2016

Press Freedom Index 2016 in the great country

Stories and News No. 867

2016 World Press Freedom Index: leaders paranoid about journalists…

Imagine a country.
Now take the paper, the great one.
Made especially for great countries.
Draw it among them.
Indeed, place it at the bottom of the latter.
As if it held up all alone, with a pride fueled by memories of its own history and what it has been forgotten.
Now focus your attention on one of the most powerful achievements of a great country, one of those used to tell around, with puffed-arched chest: I am among the great countries.
I refer to an art among many to tell stories, convinced that the true part is arguably larger than the rest.
Call it news, if that reassures you more.
Here, right now, let's assume that in the great country among the great ones such portentous practice is victim of a spell.
An evil jinx among the worst in the history of magic. Sometimes triggered by too alien forces for a great country, often self-inflicted.
A terrible, unnamed curse, because nobody has got so far the courage to pronounce it out loud, but it is there, under the eyes of all.
It is the bandage on the latter, the hands that choke the breath, also the walls that invariably prevent the real beyond the ear.
Nevertheless, the incantation goes well beyond the three impairments of the very well-known monkeys, since it also clogs the pores of the heart and cuts the wings of consciousness, it strangles at birth any cry that is a harbinger of change and wands any hand that dares to reach out to the past that should remain so.
Past, behind, irretrievably forgotten.
Now go back to imagine the country.
Moreover what a country, big or small it seems, is made of: you and I, we, you, them, everybody. All hearing news, assured that the portion of reality is much larger than the rest. Hopeful that for our country the great adjective was true too.
You may call them stories as well, although this will reassure you less.
Just tales, seasoned with incontrovertible truth, of course, but drowned in the most blatant lie and less obvious manipulation.
Polluted by the above virus.
An unnamed one, I agree, but with the well-known symptoms.
Among all, fear. Uncontainable terror to tell everything that has not yet been confessed. To show what life has already shown. And to make known what has been already deleted.
Now, dear friend, can you imagine, after years and years of such a spectacle, what could happen to the minds and hearts of the people of the great country?

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Friday, April 15, 2016

Italian oil drilling referendum: when they tell you not to vote

Stories and News No. 866

Sunday, April 17, 2016, as citizens of this Italian Republic, we can decide on the possible repeal of the rule that allows to extend the hydrocarbons extraction concessions within 12 nautical miles from the Italy coast to exhaustion.
Despite there is someone who invites us to give up to our right...


Select the purpose.
Find an excuse.
And, maybe if you have time, read something.

Do it for stubbornness.
Because you were so even as a child, when you were told that you could not do that thing.
And you were there to do it as soon as you had the chance.
Not seen, of course.
O brazenly into the spotlight of existing authority, teachers, parents or guardians.

Do it for curiosity.
Do not say that you already know everything, that you are perfectly familiar with the story.
It is not true and you know it.
Sum the times you have cast your vote and those where someone has taken advantage of the unearned privilege of doing for you.
Then you tell me.

Do it for consistency, if you prefer.
I remember you, you're the one who every day complain that the State is all a robbery, that strictly up there they decide everything, that we do not count anything and that's why we find ourselves doing just our business.
Well, show me, indeed: show yourself that those were not just silly words.

Look, do it at least for your children.
Or grandchildren.
For other people's kids or each child you do not know, for every young life.
Because if there is even one chance that the most feared among the champions of the seas are right, you have to consider who will risk more, on this earth.

And if all that were not enough, do it to give a warning.
Whatever your opinion on the topic under discussion.
Flags do not matter, now.
Make those who assumed that you will always choose the worst road shown to you be wrong…

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Thursday, April 14, 2016

Austria Migrants Wall: the Waltz

Stories and News No. 865

"In desperate times Austria could completely close the Brenner," said recently the Minister of Defense Hans Peter Doskozil.
Continuing the dance...

Walls against migration, think if we did it too, says one of the two.
It would be a disgrace, says her friend. But you know the craziest thing?
What is?
It's all a tragic, ridiculous and dull waltz, just a dance.
Of different, yet equal, time and melodies.
Once they build walls, with unwavering firmness and deep fear.
And afterwards they shoot down them, with as much vigor and pride. Certain to be at least better than the evil ancestors.
Once they massacre entire populations with unspeakable cruelty.
And afterwards they condemn even those who dare to be not ashamed of this common stain on history.
Once they conquered rights and freedom for those left out of the celebration of opportunities.
And afterwards they pretend to not recall the many still waiting for.
Opportunities.
Once they choose war as the way to the right peace.
And afterwards they deride peace as the least right way between one war and another.
Once they burn books.
And afterwards they let them burn off by boredom on the shelves of the world.
Once they burn witches.
And afterwards they force them to burn themselves.
Once they stop time on their land to see the first man on the moon.
And afterwards they stop the man himself, because he saw the moon in their land.
Once they mourn before lives erased by earthquakes.
And afterwards they laugh about it, incredibly enough, but it happens.
Once they celebrate with joy the arrival of rescuers.
And afterwards they insult them with hatred, whereas others are the saved ones.
Once the guest is both the welcoming that welcomed one.
And afterwards all are guests in our house, nothing more.
If anything less.
Once merging borders and different people is the future.
And afterwards it is putting at risk the latter.
Once you dream of the day when the skin color will no longer have value.
And afterwards you open your eyes and it is still dark.
Once you would have done anything just to be a human being, right?
And afterwards we are here to thank the sky.
Because we are not them…

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Wednesday, April 13, 2016

Moral stories: The saving words

Stories and News No. 864

Lost in the Arizona mountains, Ann Rodgers and his dog survived for nine days drinking pond water and feeding on plants. The rescue came thanks to HELP made up on the ground with sticks and stones by the seventy-year old woman.
HELP, one of several forms of the saving words…


Aid, let’s say it, let’s start with the very first one, so the list is on the way, as the story. On the other hand, at least alphabetically it enjoys precedence, for its deafening spread too. Well beyond our ability of hearing, otherwise, a grateful silence would go on a moment after.
Break, give us a break is what too many murmur, do not scream, because the strength is low, but that does not mean they are not trying to cross the wall. Please, give us a break with adding nationality, probable origins or even the color of the skin of the alleged criminal, pointed cleverly used on the front pages of so-called important media.
Courage, courage is what the rejected stories ask them. Or at least who among them will still remember what it means. Since only those who really listen to them will gain something. All others, including those who dare tell them, will inevitably pay the price. Nevertheless, if it is not this, what else is the courage?
Dare, we dare you to say what you think seriously. This is what viewers who have turned their backs on the principal scene ask for. Since then they have seen things to drop the theater. Say what you have inside, you up there, to audience of the comfortable armchair. And you will see that they will turn their back too.
Endless summer is the title of a film that has yet to start, because there is no money, not even a script rag, much less actors and directors, but this does not mean that the eternal extras not await anxiously to begin filming. Meanwhile they face the winter by dressing as if it was already spring.
Faith, faith in their own gaps and personal imagination in being able each time to mask them as full measures is the only brand bought by massacred souls.
Gaze, gaze down is the verse of a song out of tune and sync, written as rambling rap by a band that has long been erased from the blind course of history. And yet you still hear it, because the past cannot avoid to fret for the future.
Have time, I have so much time ahead. That is what the kids from one face says, the smiling or sad child on the moving newspapers pictures in the weeks of the authorized emotion. I have tons of time to get out of that damn image.
I could be better, the legalized casualty of war wanted to clarify, not good, even if not heard by the latest benefactor on the flashes, responding to his predictable question: how are you?
Let’s fight, of course let’s fight for what we must have, the wrong lovers promise each other going to sleep, even before eternal love.
Migrants, okay to migrants, the victims of the semantic sadism of the third millennium reassure us. All right, do as you like, call us so well, now. Who knows how we will called tomorrow. Where the one that looks straight in the eye has already failed, do you believe that social networks hate will stop us?
No one, no one is here, in the houses of this village by the uncertain fate, in a land that is more precious for what is hiding under that for the life that lies above. Have you ever seen that so you will not bombard us?
Obstinacy, obstinacy is still growing today, uniting us and you are the one to feed it with lies and media abuse. The most absurd thing is that, so far, you have not yet understood that.
Permission, anything more. No permission to have your stuff, because that is called theft, you should know it well, and even to occupy the land of others, other practice you should be very familiar with. Permission to exist, only this we demand.
Question, question your city or people, single person or square meter on the street, anywhere and human manifestation may be the right one to ask a step forward. Because humanity or the planet, we are all places that have to respond to the change.
Respect for the wonders, respect for differing wonders, respect for myself, lame design, impossible even for the photoshop of the king's palace. No, not compassion.
Silence, pay attention that there is also silence, before the death, especially of those who you know only heard screaming, just in case you missed it.
To you, ask for salvation may come also to you. What you will never know is who you will need to donate it, but so the game works. It will be evidence that there was any other interest than help.
Unique, it only takes one, unique life that simply does what he is appointed to do and you will see that chain reaction.
Verity, indeed, without another word, today the opposite of many more atrocities than just lie.
Zero finally, zero is the value in the market of our lives, zero is the portion of interest on our past and always zero is the percentage of future sales on our dreams.
Well, now that you know, relax, stop worrying and listen.
Because the beauty stars now...

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Friday, April 8, 2016

Migrant and refugee children 22 thousand in Greece in the prince's castle

Stories and News No. 863

According to UNICEF in Greece, in unacceptable conditions, there are more than twenty-two thousand children...

There is no room for everyone.
In the castle there is no room for everyone, but the prince has worked, has worked hard and eventually found a place for them.
Who dared to cross the moat filled by dark slime, challenging the fairs within.
Those are the ones who have climbed the walls, and that despite thousands loving or just traveling companions were killed along the way to heaven that really heats up, they have come across.
Where they say there is no better life, easier and longer.
But life there must necessarily be, because the other side is now running out.
Meanwhile they stand, breathing becomes normal and dreams increase in volume.
There had dreams before to arrive, let alone now.
However, this is not good, because that is how the gift of grace works: okay, I have taken out the plug from your heart, but do not you dare to bleed on the fine carpet, gosh.
Then the prince has still worked, and again he worked hard.
So he found another, smaller place, on top of the highest tower.
You know, dreams are like hot air, always fly upward. Then it will a problem for birds and aliens, at most.
It is true, it is right, but by that time they will hopefully be watching tomorrow and expectantly it should be more beautiful than yesterday.
And if dreams fly in the sky, everyone knows that hopes have a significant weight, more and more falling down, especially when rendered useless with fervent obstinacy.
Nor this is well, because that is how welcome works: okay, I offer you a bed to sleep, but do not you dare to wake up, uh?
Then the prince went back to work and once again he did hard.
So he found another place, even smaller than the previous ones, under the ground, right next to the cemetery, where the land is thick enough. If it was able to suppress the protests of the billions of dead, repeatedly insulted by our common disregard for the memory, it will be sufficient to quell those of the living, right?
No, it is not enough, never enough, because there are some among them who knew that death so well that living in the cold of a graveyard makes them feel like home.
And they find other strength to draw the next goal.
The next castle, perhaps with a prince less prince.
They think, and the mind is exploding of opportunities, they think, and the horizons are increasing, because they think since they wanted.
Because they have only freedom within them.
And if dreams fly upwards, hopes down, the thoughts go wherever they like.
Even this is not good, but there is no remedy for that.
No one can predict what they will tell.
What wonders they will reveal.
How many gifts they will bring.
Just like all children of this unfortunate planet...


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Thursday, April 7, 2016

Panama Papers: those who are not in

Stories and News No. 862

The list with the names continue to be spread by newspapers, day after day, to be sipped with skill, in order to keep the readers glued to the next revelation.
No problem with that, it is a trivial publishing marketing’s rule, just as it is equally obvious the comments by exposed VIPs: “I didn’t now, someone opened an account without my knowledge, behind my back they bought me houses and boats in the tropics, I don’t even know where the pool’s water where I'm reading the slander about me comes from, to be honest.”
That is why I prefer to talk about who are not in that list...

Maybe I am wrong.
That is more than plausible, I make a lot of mistakes, I have behind an entire career made by errors.
However, I am almost certain that the condominium concierge where I live is not in the offshore account holders list. Yes, all right, last week I saw he had a less used sweater than usual and he was also smoking a not among the cheapest cigarettes brand, but maybe somebody had offered it, right?
I guess there are not anyone of the multicultural group of workers that is remaking the road outside my window. It is not for clothing, this time, or the ciggy. I see them breaking their back with such commitment that they should be incredibly crazy to choose such cover for overseas trade.
I am convinced that even my neighbor is not among the wealthy depositors. The man the other day told me with immeasurable light in the face and visceral pleasure in his eyes that, despite the end of layoffs, he managed to find a job for six months.
No way, because you cannot simulate such emotions.
I might even swear that the girl who daily rings to get open way to the coveted post boxes, in order to leave her precious cargo of advertising flyers, is absent from the offending list. It is a job like many others, but I do not think you could become millionaires. Anyway, maybe I'm wrong. It may be, I am most often misleading, I do not deny it.
Nevertheless, I am nearly certain that among the notorious names we will not read about the boy in the bar downstairs, who I see every morning with a filled tray darting between pedestrians and cars like an expert tightrope of the cup. Gratuities can change your day, it is true, but not to this extent.
I am sure, yes beyond all doubt, that there is not the name of my father, or he would still be alive.
I have the impression that there is nothing of the caretaker of the Oratory in my neighborhood, who went reached his own retirement a few weeks ago. Just as the young man who has taken his place. Because it is highly likely that those who can count on multiple zeros checks do not even remember what is an oratory.
Look, I do not want to exaggerate, but I would be practically convinced to exclude most of the people living in my building, as well as all those in the area, as well as the people I meet at discount stores, crushed in the subway or in the queue in the morning traffic, in the vain hope that the return way will be clear, guys on the street trying to sell socks and others who effort to do the same with used books.
All those who now do not live their house anymore, but I know they are there, as I remember them, and because I feel their eyes observing the world that survives during their reflective pause between an unemployment and the other.
I could go on, but I do not want to overdo it, which then increases the chances that I am wrong. And there is nothing strange, I do a lot of stupid things.
It will be perhaps for this reason that I am not on that list either.
Yet, take me well for strange, I am not ashamed at all.
Far from it…

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Wednesday, April 6, 2016

Death penalty explained to kids

Stories and News No. 861

According to Amnesty International in 2015 there was the highest number of executions in twenty-five years...

"What is death penalty?" Asks the girl child to the father one moment before.
"What is death penalty?" Asks the young boy to his mother, at the same time, another place, for completely different reasons.
The father does not expect the question, he would not answer, he did not want to hear it at all. But their time is the only one, and nothing can be left out for the sake of those who will survive the sliced groove.
"It’s when we turn off a life that has canceled another from the earth," he says measuring his words with detachment, as if it were not personally related to himself.
The mother is surprised too, she would not speak and did not want to be her, the most suitable woman to respond. But the occasion is that, the only one, and nothing can be ignored for the sake of those who will walk in sliced groove.
"It’s when we turn off a life that has canceled another from the earth."
Same words and same apparent nonchalance, as she is not personally touched.
The girl child thinks about it, a moment later, far away, with dissimilar reasons.
Well the young boy does the same, in another place, for different reasons.
So both, separated by heart, space and especially destinies pronounce the same magic little word.
"Why?"
The father would not want to waste precious seconds right on that way, but it is not to him the new destination, and maybe it is that way since the very beginning.
So he accepts the journey.
For the first time he accepts everything.
"Because so deleted lives will be two," he responds with the voice that barely resists lurking tears, "because then we’ll be even, because this is right. To restore peace between us."
The order of the speech in the words of the mother changes, but not the meaning, as well as the emotions and the conclusion.
"Because so we'll be even, because this is right, because so the deleted lives will be two. To restore peace between us. "
The two children are perplexed, now.
Maybe even a little angry.
Among confusion and irritation sparkles of pain that should never see the light on such fragile soils start to shine.
"It’s not true, Dad, you're lying," exclaims the girl.
A moment before, in the other half of the sky, with different perceptions of all.
"It's not true, Mom, it is false", the boy protests.
At the same instant, on the other half of the earth, with a different memory of all.
This time it is up to the father of the girl who is about to say goodbye to, because in a few hours he will be killed by lethal injection, to pronounce the portentous word. The same happens to the boy's mother, stolen of her husband murdered by the girl’s father.
"Why?"
The words do not reach the lips, shortness of breath inside the chest, but their children's eyes respond the same.
"Because so we'll both be alone, not even, because there is nothing right in this story, because many more lives will be deleted. And because if killing people restored peace, a long time we would live all in heaven..."

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Friday, April 1, 2016

There was an explosion

Stories and News No. 860

There was an explosion.
A loud bang, you should have listened.
You might still feel the echo and I have no idea how much longer the waves caused by yet another emptiness will travel.
But they are not like those created by little stones thrown into the water, or worse, by a tsunami that hits the headlines only when a rich towel was found on the beach.
These vibrations are desperately looking for a home.
Memory, words.
At best, normal empathy.
That's why you still feel it, if you pay attention with that kind of underestimated ear protruding from heart.
Because home, memory, words, normal empathy, they never found them.

There was an explosion, I told you.
And, what interests you most, there are also the dead.
The injured.
And the missing ones.
All the usual story, or the book that comes out when the writer is called death and the publishers, well... the publishers are us. Even if we used to think of being just impotent readers.
I also have photos, if you wish. And I know that you want it, because the common eye seeks peace from the flowing red necessarily far and from reassuring shapes of black that must be bad for sure. It is an indispensable cliché, calming our fears with the misfortunes of others and diluting consciences with purifying solutions, screaming at the evil character in the monitor.

Nevertheless, there was an explosion and speaking about is right.
Because the ground has been cleared.
And life has been savaged where it is more helpless.
Ordinary people.
The unsuspecting passerby.
The innocent lives that at any point of the globe are chosen by the disastrous finger.
It is not a fortuitous event, there is always a drawing, where someone stop breathing to fill the born with a caul bellies of air and privileges.
But it is only by chance that you were born here and they there.
Remember, start always from this precious opening words.

Because there was an explosion.
And what do you usually expect happened.
But not all that you think.
That's why I will not tell you where the bomb has killed, what nationality the dead were and what gods they entrusted their prayers to.
So you will not be able to say of being not so particularly touched about people far from you.
Because everyone of us could be far and near.
You choose that.
It’s up to you the choice to be near or far.
To human beings...

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