Friday, April 28, 2017

Stories to think about: What is war?

Stories and News No. 986

"There is a chance that we may end up having a big conflict with North Korea. Absolutely," US President told the press. "We would like to settle things diplomatically, but it is very difficult," he added.

Once upon a time there was a story.
The one we, the so-called adults, know best in the world.
Because it is not true that peace is the easiest, most logical and understandable choice.

Especially for those who are tormented by nightmares that are far from simple, guided by a not rational mind and do not consider knowledge of facts as a priority to decide the road.
That’s the way war began the first time’s dawn.
It always starts so, you know?
Not with weapons and deadly shots, open wounds and a battle.
It starts with fierce looks.
And hissing expressions.
Hostile gestures.
And lack of courtesy.
All the possible disadvantages in all presentable occasions.
Then they come, the sharpest swords and the most dangerous hits.
The words.
War begins each time with a sentence.
Often nothing original, sometimes new in form, but not intent.
The dull dance continues with the inevitable response of the interlocutor who waited for nothing but this.
The war, right.
The moment to be protagonist, dreamed every night by those who have no other way to feel alive.
It goes on, between a reply and the other, to warm the souls and pretend to do the same with their own hearts, nothing but frost, inert and indifferent frost.
The voice’s volume becomes dangerously high, the pages tremble under the weight of the litigants’ delusions and the audience turns out to be more and more slave of the crazy show.
As long as the headlines arrive.
It means that the script has finally found the producers, the director has his cast of protagonists and accompanying extras.
The movie can begin: shall the armies enter the scene.
The dark, black dressed lady came on the movie set. She did not have a sickle in his hand, but the clapperboard to start the shooting.
With a phenomenal distribution and reliance by bad news messengers, box office success is secured for the most eye-catching film in history.
Because even after the queues, the ending song rumbling from the speakers and the surviving spectators flowing out of the room with tears and outrage, deep thoughts and shame, terror and anger, good intentions and peaceful suggestions, that’s the time when the knowledgeable adult’s farce begins to play.
The clash is never over, then.
Yesterday and the first day yet.
War becomes “after war”, which truly means that as soon as possible, at best after, everything will be repeated.
Looks and gestures.
Scuffles and provocations.
Followed again by the words, according to script.
Injuries and intimidation, manifestations of arrogance or fear, difficult to distinguish, if you think about it.
The light of reason goes away, driven by an abominable thirst for oblivion.
The mad, blind projectionist takes the usual film out of the shelf and the screen restarts to burn in front of the crowded watchers, came for the story written on our disable memory with ink pen that we could naively call sympathetic.
Nonetheless, the naughty narration of “man kills man” does not erase itself after you read it.
It takes away also all that has been written and shouted in the days of wisdom, with the most sincere hopes and the best authority.
There was once a story, so.
It never stops to be told.
If we do not like it, there is no need to pretend that it does not exist.
We can only fight to live another one…


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Thursday, April 27, 2017

Stories about women: no bank for old ladies

Stories and News No. 985

Maria FĂ©lix is 116 years old, she is old enough to remember a lot of things, but too much to earn the card needed to receive her welfare every month.
For the record, we are talking about 1,200 pesos, $63, about 58 euros.
"I was told that the limit is 110 years..." Mary said, sitting in the courtyard of her small house in Guadalajara
.

Once upon a time there was a bank.
A bank that is the world, if you think about it.
The house that we built and where we went to, believing that it was the best, and above all, possible among the worlds.
Well, being a world, it’s a wide and colorful space, where you can really be everything.
All that matters to a bank, of course.
To figure it out, let's start from the borders.
An inseparable line, like every decisive and respectful wall, in the form of a counter that reveals the mere essential thing on both sides of the common living.
That’s the only granted portion of humanity through the magical portal: the inert half-bust.
If exhaust from despair or frustration, you can only grumble, scream until you lose your breath and weeps in all languages.
Even so, despite the volatility of the currency, distances don’t change.
They never do in such a world.
Because the immutability of distances is the main foundation.
Then, get in a row, hurry up, don’t waste your time, because time is money, but not only that.
If just the money were able to determine the fate of that planet's inhabitants, it would be acceptable.
To prove that there is another axiom of the world called bank: cash is the sand that flows into the hourglass but it is the privileged hand that decides when to rotate it or not.
A disturbing hand, a single, indifferent limb disconnected from the body and all its natural specifics, a set of frozen meat, immobile blood and sharp nails.
A blind and deaf hand, capable only of grasping.
A hand that, by now, no longer has anything human.
However, say the supporters of this living circle, be happy, since you can choose.
You can search for luck and maybe find it: to be on the other side of the sacred edge, being part of the bank, with the ambition of becoming even a finger of the abnormal hand.
Here is the minimum horizon, able to push human processions to the financial altar.
Becoming the others, one of those, one of the lucky ones who have definitively ceased to walk, and like robots with always open eyes, get the illusory river of virtual power to unceasingly flow into the veins of the damned.
There was once a world, then.
A world that we have deceived and brutalized to make it a huge bank.
Where there is no place for those you can call old.
That is, all those who have enough memory to remember when we decided to go in.
And, above all, where the blessed exit is…


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Wednesday, April 26, 2017

Migrants stories: who is the real clandestine?

Stories and News No. 984

About 2000 people from various indigenous groups gathered in the Brazilian capital to seek respect for their land, staging a protest that has led to clashes with the police in front of the Congress, considered to favor the rich corporations.

Once upon a time there was a land.
The land where we were born.
Where we lived.
Where we loved and hated.

Where we built as many lives and written stories.
Our stories, indeed, that’s an unquestionably truth, I am not talking at all about those postcards and magniloquent tales that strictly rained from above.
There were once, them.
The real heirs of colours and gifts, original sounds and shapes survived to legalized pollution.
The forgotten inhabitants, the invisible people, the unwanted persons of all time.
Embarrassing beings of the past for tomorrow's humanity as the most dangerous creatures for the framing’s thief, the lynching juggler to serve the rich of every era, capable of turning words from innocent to cursed.
Indigenous doesn’t mean uncivil, you know?
Aborigine has precedence over citizen, would you ever say that?
Indio is a much more far-sighted, balanced and aware word than hired with contract for an indefinite period by the compulsory consumers society.
It's time to stop the real invaders.
We are right, because we are the returning dead.
The human wavers from the butterfly effect of an unmistakable extermination.
The children of a too lurking genocide to be hidden beneath carpets made by small and innocent hands, but daily sold and bought by bulimic clients from easy palates and awareness.
Get out of our land, migrants with lazy memory.
You’re the gatekeepers trampling on hopes and destinies by profession, and then you’ll try to reject others, as if time did not exist.
As the world was not the world, and the rules of the peaceful existence could be overcome by personal egoisms and a pervading addiction to idiocy.
Enough with checks and transactions, investitures and investments, percentages and capital gains.
Leave your claws and fangs out of our land.
Go out, clandestines of the nature.
You, like all of us, have received the residence permit from the fate, but you have misguided it as the dominion over the others.
You are the strangers among the living species.
You are the others, not us.
Because we've been here since the beginning of time.
Because we are this land.
So, there was once the sense of the story.
What's really at stake.
The path that divides us, the water that crosses, the sun that accompanies us all to the inevitable end.
The land, respect and protect the land, and you will see that there will never be war.
Between you and us.


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Monday, April 24, 2017

Italy liberation day 2017 and all missed conjugations

Stories and News No.983

Once upon a time there was a word.
Its anniversary was celebrated every year.
Since the instant when the same word was chosen as founding stone of the common home of a people.

Nevertheless, History and, above all, stories teach that only one stone, though venerated and polished, glorified as a primal and symbol for all others, it is not the entire home.
It's only the beginning.
It's just a word.
The words, more than ever, those capable of defining the present, tracing virtuous paths and guiding the creatures at least to a better landfall, they need life.
Because since the one with the uppercase had to become flesh to be heard deeply down, the very human sets of letters, however swirling of high meanings, should become a verb.
I am talking about action to write as many stories as possible, movement that raises the most indifferent among the deaf, legal apathies, a large, collective and magnetic march to attract souls at the most distant borders, thanks to the most persuasive weapon in the world.
Read as well as the awareness of being in the same crew: we sail, we return to the ground with the full nets or we sink, all together.
If you need to counteract, among the most trivial examples, I offer the most abused term by the scribes of all time. The protagonists of fiction as the real actors of life both know that.
Love, deprived of coherent gestures, without the approach of more or less accelerated heartbeats, lacking the inevitable sacrifice of adored solitude and short of courage in denuding the latter on the opposite bank of own life, it is just a punch of five letters.
As many fingers unable to make sense of the precious gifts received, see touching, tightening, greeting and caressing.
There was once then in Italy, on the twenty-fifth day of April, a word.
Liberation.
An incredible day, of course.
An almost perfect drawing inside the album to be preserved with care.
An aged photograph, agreed but protected by the best glass, which exalts colours and attenuates wrinkles.
We perfectly learned to pronounce that very first story hint.
That noun introducing the incipit of an entire nation.
And we set it up with a sort of sacred ritual in the appropriate urn on the mandatory calendar.
However, as already written for the most indispensable among human feelings, the words that lay behind generations after generations and still others need to be continuously conjugated since the first day.
We already know what Liberation is, but it is just a word that we celebrate every year.
From tomorrow, or even without much anticipation, we should start once and for all to liberate everything we have never released at all, which we still hold as prisoners inside jails that we do not even care more about hiding.
Let’s liberate rights, because the page of our dullness and fears is still very long.
Let’s liberate victims, because the list of considered as minor citizens and the inflicted tortures on them in our country is infinite today.
Let’s liberate horizons, because the rift of a peaceful future in the heart of the so-called civilized world is even tapering.
Let's liberate, let's liberate them, let's liberate us.
Then, if we will, even without waiting for another year.
We will really have something to celebrate.


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Friday, April 21, 2017

Stories to think about: terrorism who how and why?

Stories and News No. 982

Terrorism is for those who want to scare, the very first one is trivial.
No matter who he really is, why does not counts, only the effect does.

Terrorism is useful to those who were already afraid, so now they feel less alone.
Even in such a case they do not matter how or why, the feeling is priceless.
Terrorism is the cure-all for the one who loves to be afraid and nothing more.
Let us figure out the weight of who, how and why.
Terrorism is good to those who are not afraid at all, but they see how it works.
Above all, they knows the past history.
The countless occasions where the show of death and violence, if bathed by the brightest lights, has a magical power.
In a matter of seconds, it extends the looks, completely extinguishes intelligences that are already overwhelmed by an idiotic marathon at a low price and dissipates the courage of an entire society, which, like a tiny candle, finds itself at the mercy of the affected winds.
Who, how and why are just forgotten imaginative words.
Terrorism is perfect for individuals craving to tell it, draw it and play it in every chord, and like the celebrated piper of the fairy tales, can lead the short-sighted eye creatures to the skirt, even if overlooked by an invincible, protected by invaluable walls, castle.
Ask who, try to say how, dare whispering why and you will instantly be the enemy.
Or even a terrorist.
Terrorism is the favorite art of them, the terrorists.
However, seriously strive to understand what is behind who, how and why and you won't find something beautiful, but the true monstrosity of this mischievous joke.
Terrorism is the utmost for those who never have questions but an unmistakable need for easy answers.
Woe to you, if you will try to ingratiate the horizon of such simplified souls or complicate their plot by drawing on who, how and why.
Terrorism is ideal for people that normally have a lot to say, but nothing sensitive, deeply profound, reasoned enough to have a bit of curiosity for who, how and why.
They need just an explosion, even a shot, at least a heart that stops, and if the condition is favorable, a family setting, not far away from the private emotional landing, and ignoring who, how and why they will bring on stage infinite processions of scattered phrases, free offenses and crazy proclamations, a cacophony of organized downwards delusions, and guided from above idiocrasies.
At the same time, somewhere behind the picture, there is great celebration, thanks to the martyrs.
Somewhere the immense farce is very much appreciated.
So, if you consider the human story from the very beginning, I assume you will agree that terrorism is good for many people.
Otherwise, if the culprit was one or little more, the end of the story would be easy for the muscular narrators and teachers of exemplary punishments.
Terrorism is normal for everyone except the dead and whoever weeps, we might even dare to say.
Because it is stuff sold and bought everywhere, since the world’s dawn.
It's now part of us.


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Thursday, April 20, 2017

Love stories: world oldest person's son

Stories and News No. 981

Harold Fairweather, 97 years old, died yesterday in Duanvale, Jamaica, two days after his mother, Violet Brown, 117 years, was declared the oldest person in the world.
A victorious final, in some ways...


Mother.
My dear mother, I know it's unexpected, I realize it.

The rules of the living tale require something else.
Timing is queen, as you have been in my heart and now for the whole world.
Just in the matter of time, look as foolish as fate is.
Sometimes it rewards and brings the daughter of such poor area of the planet to the highest podium, making here undisputed sovereign of the world’s wealthy myth, looking behind and seeing everyone else groping at painstaking steps or jumping in vain on the edge of sparkling cars.
Nevertheless, the broken norm is quite another and I, just myself, am accountable for it.
Mother.
Please, dear mom, forget the unforeseen breach of the protocol, but I chose to leave the scene before the due.
Before you, in short.
Because that is what you are or should be.
The precious, divine and at the same time maternal land where to blossom and sprout between light and heat.
The indispensable condition in order that the most underrated among miracles happened once again.
In one word, life.
Mother.
Don’t cry, mom, but smile, instead.
Because this is the time to stretch your lips and arms to the youngest humanity, the least protected and guided, most vulnerable and least predictable part of our confused dancing company.
The message you’re spreading is holy.
We can win, from here too.
We can be on top of every rank even with little.
We can stir up envy in those who only feed the latter and give relief to the ones who, even today, have lost their hope.
Thank you for having surprised the unlucky creatures, demonstrating them that history can be rewritten at any time.
You might be alive or dead, you might leave the lights or shine beneath them, the result remains unchanged.
We win because you win, mother.
I won, with you, my soul.
Because walking away, I also smiled.
Because I was happy to be the son.
Of the oldest woman in the world…


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Friday, April 7, 2017

Stories to think about: friend or enemy?

Stories and News No. 980

Roberto Berinstain has lived in the US for 20 years, managing a restaurant with his wife, before being deported to Mexico this week.
Although undocumented, the man had a Social Security number, driver's license, permission to work legally and no criminal record.
Everything went according to the recently written script by the new US administration, other than the fact that Roberto's wife voted for Trump...

Once upon time there were friends.
I hope the highest will control them, they used to say.
Maybe because up there all is more evident.

Distinguishing the wheat from the chaff.
Among those who really shake hands with intention and those that draw on facial expressions cooked in due course.
Among those who have such a hurry to embrace you rising doubts whether it is really an hug and those who did not need to get close to show you the best.
The danger, as often happens, comes from above.
So, how it was at the beginning and always will be, who you choose to put there, on the highest throne in the bright sky, makes all the difference in the world.
Especially those who you consider trustful.
Loneliness often makes bad jokes to mind and confuses the soul, but the bad company can be fatal.
So, then, there were once enemies.
The ones who were friends or that always have been opponents, by choice or screenplay’s needs, the plot does not change, the clash is inevitable.
You against them.
Possibly, we against you.
At best, you and me against all.
That’s the greatest spot on the now starless, striped clouds.
Because, if you get lost counting them, you will neglect the number that matters.
How many rights you have surrendered in exchange for a flag to wave in the streets of downtown and a trumpet to blow in time with the crowd.
Therefore, once upon a time friends and enemies.
The soldiers on the floor of the only player on the field.
Read as well as the trickster with ungainly voice screaming behind the veil.
Into the King's room of the just painted Emerald City.
No one seems to win this game.
No one seems to miss.
While someone, somewhere beyond the two-faced walls, reassuring on one side and fearful on the other, he silently collapses and dissolves as memory’s powder.
While you've never understood whether he was or could have been.
Friend or not.


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Thursday, April 6, 2017

Refugees Stories 2017: the world’s best place

Stories and News No. 979

There is a country in the world that has a record.
It’s the most hospitable for refugees.
“I found a second home,” some say.
“I found the home I never had”, add others.

“I have can get a work, education and health care as every citizen,” tell others.
Hundreds of thousands are arrived, crossing the border.
Coming from the less fortunate world, as always.
On their journey they have not encountered stinging walls and rifles.
Breakdown brains yelling nonsense and delusions, and horrid meat’s, emptied of empathy wrappers.
They found present and future, the best medicine to heal the past, where it has been torn to shreds by present and the future of a few, forgetful of yesterday and the day before.
There is a place on this earth that excels among the many.
It treats refugees as human beings.
By offering them shelter and rights, options and understanding.
But the most surprising aspects are the disarming reasons of those who welcome.
“We were also refugees,” say some.
“They are us,” emphasize others.
“We are not rich,” clarify others, “but we will not certainly become putting to death the poor.”
Hundreds of thousands survive as well, thanks to the normalcy of living together.
Since, at the time that counts, nobody knows where the other came from.
Because, in the instant that is worth sharing, no one can see where the refuge ends and the desired world starts.
Because the refuge is the world.
Where the all desires.
Find refuge.
There is a nation that is at the top of the rankings.
Among those that, like ships flowing into the time to the common horizon, are carrying unexpected lives.
Read as well as the guests at already seated lords' dinner.
“They earn something from that,” tell some of the latter.
On the contrary, they divide land and crops.
“Maybe it's because they are not different as we do,” others will exclaim.
Not at all, because what makes them feel the same is universal and vital substance.
“Well, surely they don't fear the terrible consequences of their doing good,” others reply.
Yes, they probably don't, lucky them, you may think that as well.
There is a country, I said, that is the best.
For refugees from everywhere, because since the moment they arrive, they immediately cease to be.
Refugees.
You will not believe it.
This country.
Is called.
Uganda


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Wednesday, April 5, 2017

War Stories 2017: war vs war

Stories and News No. 978

At least 70 people were killed in northern Syria because of exposure to a toxic gas that survivors have attributed to warplanes. The attack was already publicly condemned all over the world, while Britain and the European Union have accused the Syrian government for the massacre. In particular, the US president Donald Trump has defined the murder an "heinous" act that "cannot be ignored by the civilized world."
Call me prejudiced, but the civilized world’s reactions disturb me almost as much as the heinous acts...


Once upon a time there was ‘war against peace’.
It’s the most famous and the most widespread.
It’s the war, in short.

It is a daily doing.
The action that wounded.
That erased lives and places.
That created gaps of humanity and fulnesses of hateful.
If you know it, you avoid that.
If you really know it, you hate it.
If you know it closely, you hate those who use it.
But if you claim not to know it at all, look in the mirror and search for hands.
Something vivid and hot red is always reliable.
Once upon a time, then, there was ‘peace vs war’.
When dove challenged dagger.
Where the flower attempted to penetrate the terrible couple, insensitive armor and dull warrior’s skin, also known as the most uncivilized union among the modern relationships.
It's a cry that does not burn, they say.
That does not tickle the castle walls, beyond which the tyrant is lording.
They say even that somehow he gets benefit of that.
That drawn protests further invigorates the fragilities killer.
If you choose it, you must be patient.
If you choose it again tomorrow, you show to have something wrong in the brain.
If you choose till the end, you show to have something, lucky you.
But if you've never chosen in your entire life, you must lack something.
What you had, I say this without fear of making mistakes.
Because everyone was born with heart.
To make it beating in time with nature is the choice.
Once upon a time, finally, there was ‘war against war’.
It’s the most advantageous one today.
It’s the war of the just people.
Against the unjust war.
It’s the war, if you think about it.
The one that you know only when it starts.
Those who really know the end will not live to tell about it.
It’s the war that gives peace to those who do not live the war.
It’s the peace that gives war to those who can only dream about peace.
It’s the war that should stop itself and instead is only swallowing death and suffering, becoming biggest.
So, more just.
If you demand it, you're the one who is moved and indignant before the terror.
On the monitor.
If you demand it and press the start button, you are the one who is moved and indignant before the terror.
Under the spotlight.
If you demand it and rub your hands, you are the war.
Over there, somewhere, where nobody ever looks.
Since there was once you and, God damn you, you're still here.


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