Friday, July 15, 2016

See you soon

As usual, the blog closes for  summer.
Also this year, from September to now, we have read the news, you and I.
Not always - because even sharing stuff on the web is now a mechanism like any other, but sometimes we have chosen.
The news, as stories to give greater prominence.
Because something inside drove our fingers on the mouse or the keyboards.
There have been too many deaths.
The ignored and undervalued dead, even more.
As many as a surprising amount of unexpected, human gestures.
Enough to consider them unlikely.
Let alone worthy of the front page.
Nevertheless, here, now, even in this space which we are all part of, as long as the heart will beat we have a chance to decide.
What to read and what to fight for.
What to remember.
And what look further.
None of us is born simple user and silent reader, passive liker and loyal fan, regular wearer of popular avatars and precise sharer of more or less noble trend.
We were born and we can return to be, at any moment, something better.

I leave you with the top 10 of the most read stories from September 2015.
See you soon.

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Thursday, July 14, 2016

Mangar Makur Chuot story and its fragments

Stories and News No. 900

Mangar Makur Chuot left Sudan as a child, after his father was killed during the civil war when he was only four years old.
He has spent at least eight in a refugee camp in Kenya.
Then, the turning point, the day when he was granted asylum in Australia.
The country which he will run the next Olympics for...

Here it is, the metaphor.
It is all there.
A race.
Many races.
Every races of each of us, intertwined into one another, with the most varied speeds.
People who whizz, people falling, people who arrive first and exult gracefully or not rejoicing at all, culpably unaware of their own fortune.
People who lose.
Almost all of the rest, the much underrated majority.
Because only the first win, we all know it, but it often happens that the second and even the third and fourth turn on their back, looking at all the others with a pathetic sense of pride.
Nevertheless, following the metaphor, in that immense and confusing tangle of legs that dance, stomping and kicking feet, hands and arms that push, but sometimes caress, each of us can be something in the other's race.
It is not a fortuity.
Believe me, it is not.
A world of stuff is just accidental, of course.
As having the shoes or not at the start, although there are many who actually do the squeamish in the sporting shops.
As being on the front row or not, although there are many who even do the squeamish preparing for the game.
But that something, which is part of the others’ story, depends on you.
Just you.
You were not there on the day that the God of the impossible races put the survivor runner on his track.
You were not there the day before and all the moments that preceded the starter.
You did not see with your own eyes what is the price that the he had to pay just to be there with you.
Yes, I know, I understand everything.
He could win.
He could be him, the lucky one to finish first.
He could become what you have always dreamed of.
But that's how it works, because we are all fragments of other races.
You cannot be what he escaped from to fight for the possible victory, just like you.
You can only be the country which he tried to win for, maybe succeeding.
Or the one who struck down his dream...

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Wednesday, July 13, 2016

Italy train crash Apulia: home version

Stories and News No. 899

We are all ever on the news tip, on anomalous wave’s top.
In short, without fail, on the emergency.
When the omelet is now done, as some say
This is the everlasting, italic story.
So, let’s image a home version in a family like many...

Latest news.
Serious accident in the kitchen.
The brothers, Francesco and Mario, dropped to the ground the last thing you should fall into the ground.
A bottle of oil.
Full to the brim, too.
Indeed, the two villains have also walked with impunity on the dense bush on the floor, spreading sticky greasy and dangerous traces of broken glass throughout the rest of the flat.
Me, a Siamese domestic cat, docile only before meals, and fellow canary from its elevated station, arranged - in my humble opinion - too high, here we are, on the scene, to tell you the umpteenth disaster.
We do not yet know the actual dynamic of the facts that led to the bottle’s fall and we are waiting for the only person capable of restoring order, cleanliness and light.
It is not the father of the two, in case some deluded defender of the common category wants to hazard such unlikely assumptions.
For that matter, it is not even the creature known by the nicknames of the woman who crushes tails without even realizing it, or even be careful naive volatile since she fills your tank with detergent instead of the feed, in short Alzheimer Grandma.
Even the young lady called for extended tamer of beardless orcs by small hands, but able to reach also above the refrigerator, you will see, in short babysitter.
No, she has not yet come home, otherwise...
Otherwise, we would not see any more of that yellowed lake smeared with shards in the kitchen and the grin on the faces of you know who.
On the other hand, this is not the first time that the bird and I find ourselves to act as messengers of such accidents.
To be honest, the very first time I left my poo in the middle of the parlor I did not justified myself saying: "Sorry, but it was an accident, the ass opened by itself and… plop!"
On the contrary, in our kitchen everything happens.
The flies arrive through the window and add to the already unfortunate stage their annoying presence.
The heat, more and more humid, further heats the oil carpet, transforming it into a kind of lava ready for frying.
And the two rascals put on the videogames as if nothing happened.
As long as she arrives, the only, the really only one.
The mother of the little criminals, having seen the fact and called them at the scene, says the three magic phrases, the only worthy of being uttered in moments like this, because the rest is just silly chats and lies.
How did it happen?
Who did it?
And, above all, that will not happen again.
However, unfortunately, there is only one Mom...

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Friday, July 8, 2016

Climate change kills Men of the Lake

Stories and News No. 898

Because of climate change, caused also by global warming, the Lake Poopó, the second largest of Bolivia, has dried up completely in December.
As a result, the indigenous community of Uru-Muratos, living mainly by fishing, has been forced to flee their homes and become refugees. Not for a military conflict or persecution, but climate change.
In fact they have lost their identity, because for thousands years the Uru-Muratos were called by another name.
The Men of the Lake...

Once upon a time.
So the stories begin, all of them, even those who have forgotten.
That something was.
Once upon a time.
The forest, we used to say once upon a time in the woods, remember?
The place is important.
There must be, otherwise we do not know where to look.
Where to imagine.
Yeah, imagine is all, but we need a reference.
A recognizable place and, preferably, that makes sense for all.
Whichever piece of life which you listen to the story from.
That's why, in addition to being essential stuff, natural environments are the best.
Once upon a time in the woods, then, but also a mountain or an island, a river and of course it.
The Lake.
The space where the characters vibrate and make their lives believable is sovereign and divine.
Because we belong to it, this is the only, undervalued truth.
Then there are them, the protagonists.
The people.
Wild, that is fine, naive, you are right, and sometimes brutal, I agree too.
However – look how it is still relevant today, if the people belongs to the lake and not the contrary, how could they forbid the traveler a more or less prolonged passage?
You cannot deny what is not yours.
You can only share it at very best.
Well, designed the scene and chosen the actors, the story is almost done.
Who you are, where you are and why you're there, these are the three foundations of narration.
So leave away your heavy meninges by wasted time and empty words.
Because throwing the fishing line and pull up the nets to feed belly and spirit spirit is truly paradise on earth.
The normal story.
Simple of a neatness that smacks of perfection.
Once upon a time.
There was once a lake and its people.
Then the time when the story ends comes.
Because the lake ands and so those who belong to it.
Dear friend from the higher civilization.
Do you really think that your story will have a different ending?

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Thursday, July 7, 2016

Nigerian refugee beaten to death in Italy: there is a place

Stories and News No. 897

Emmanuel Chidi Namdi, a Nigerian asylum seeker, was beaten to death after trying to defend his wife from a racist attack by a right-wing man in Italy.

There is a place.
I know it exists.
And you know it too.
There is a place where a man is killed for the color of his skin, period.
Without further words, silly chats, or even lies.
A place where the culprit is the killer.
But he is not alone.
Guilty are also those who every day exploit and insult, abuse and manipulate, for only personal gain or solely for a simple outburst of the moment, the most vulnerable skins.
Along with the murderer and all of them are guilty as well those who do nothing to oppose, remember the infamous, appalling silence of the so-called good people.
They do, maybe even more, those who pretend to do something, with the sole purpose of continuing to take advantage of the case in their favor.
Because this is the color of the skin.
Only a lucky, or just the opposite, result of chance.
On this same path, I tell you that this place exists even for those who at the proper time declared wrong wars, the only possible ones.
War crimes, the used to call them.
But they are not alone, aren’t they?
Because there is a place where are guilty even those who sang the chorus of warmongers.
Those who, in times even more responsible, irresponsibly gave their vote to the sellers of death.
They are guilty too, those by the easy white card.
As those who have not taken to the streets when their voice was needed.
All are guilty, no one will feel less, those who have done it, but then they forgot or, even, they felt ashamed of.
That is a big and busy place, I know.
That’s way I know it exists.
And for the same reason you know it too.
Because there live men who use violence against women and children.
There are many, an awkward number, if you do not consider just the arrogant and depraved hand, but also words and allusions, misleading phrases and lots of quiet gestures, almost invisible.
Anywhere, of course, but not there.
There you see everything.
There is a place, I know it's there.
A place where the culprits are many more than those who are portrayed in the newspapers for a day or two.
I know it and you know it too.
Because that place is called consciousness.
Social conscience, if it is more familiar now.
Blessed are those people who occasionally visit it...

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Wednesday, July 6, 2016

Iraq enquiry Report Chilcot: last resort

Stories and News No. 896

At the press conference during Iraq War Enquiry led by John Chilcot, the latter said a moment ago that a military solution was not the last resort and that former British Prime Minister Tony Blair exaggerated the case for the 2003 invasion.
All this thirteen years after the conflict that, according to Iraq Body Count, caused during the invasion the death of 7,500 people only with regard to civilians, up to more than 600,000 until 2006 for the journal The Lancet.
All this in the days when the attacks in Baghdad have provoked a record of 250 deaths, including many children.
All this and much more.

The last resort.
Here it is, the last one.
It is like a cardinal point, a constant, a sign on the road that defines us.
Like the horizon that everyone, like it or not, can only imagine.
Well, provided the fulcrum of the story, decided the basic rules, the game begins.
There are those, lucky them.
There are those who ignore the last resort.
They ignore it because they do not know the words either.
Last resort.
The only single terms are familiar, but together they become something stranger.
As civilian deaths or war survivors, so to speak.
There are also those who have the misfortune of having to learn how to handle them from an early age, to pronounce them fearlessly with the heart, rather than with the mind.
Nevertheless, the fate is uncertain and sometimes discouragement takes over as when understanding the last resort in the most exact way, as in the case it concerns you personally, by no means implies that you might somehow be able to prevent the worst.
A mocking narration wants, in fact, that the remote control is in the hands of others.
Often, even those of the first case, the lucky ones.
Then there are people who strictly live at very brief distance from it.
And in that short and crowded sliver path everything happens.
However these are similar descriptions.
The last dinner between two fasts and the last embrace between many farewells.
The last smile between never too many smiles, because it should never be missed.
Before the last resort shall sweep away everything.
Pause, now.
Take a breath, close unnecessary thoughts and distractions by the less noble senses.
So let's go over the aforementioned reference.
And let’s look at them.
Those who may see the last resort only turning back.
When the story was already written, despite missing the one who really lived it.
When the story has already been told, though there is no trace of those who really want to understand what having lived it means.
The time just passes, from here on.
Words and words.
An immense heap, a smelly mountain of meaningless arguments.
As last resort.
For those who, a long time ago, it really was so...

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Friday, July 1, 2016

Mexican woman dies at 117 without certificate: those who wait

Stories and News No. 895

Trinidad Alvarez Lira died last Wednesday at age 117, after waiting for years to get proof of being born in 1898, so that she could receive government benefits.
However the fateful birth certificate was delivered just hours after her death...

You know what?
It happens, indeed.
It happens a lot more than what you think.
Those who are waiting get tired and go beyond.
You arrive pretending breathless or asking pardon for the delay with false mortification, but the scene is always the same.
An empty room, an empty sidewalk, an empty space in a vacuum.
Too bad for her, I'm sorry for him, that is what you tell yourself.
And you're wrong, dear friend by a very personal concept of time.
Bad and sorry are all for you.
You know what?
You have no idea how many of your kind we met along the journey.
Incorrigible fellow of the latter, sick of a very pernicious slowness in recognizing the obvious.
One hundred and seventeen, do you see?
How many I had waited of such trivial truths.
How many I had waited in vain.
That I'm a woman, proudly nothing less than any other human marvel, saying one.
That we Mexicans are Americans too, like the Brazilians, Argentines and Bolivians, not only the famous ones.
And although it is said that winners write history, we, lesser souls, are the ones who tell stories.
Because we live them.
I waited, it is true, but it has always been a matter of courtesy.
Often something more.
Sometimes even love.
Concealed by a tender patience.
But then the kiss arrived and everything went well.
Think what you like.
This is also part of my gift.
Let yourself believe it was you giving it to me.
You know what?
It's an old story, much more than me, so long stuff.
One hundred plus seventeen, remember?
Yes, I am talking about memories.
The album of my life is filled with contradictory snapshots.
A lonely road, trees as background and me staring at the clock.
My name is Trinidad, the woman who waited.
Which then stands up and goes away.
But now, while you are alone, are you sure that you understand?
Are you really sure it was me waiting for you?
Or it was quite the opposite?

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