Friday, June 30, 2017

Stories to think about: the life you waste

Stories and News No. 1011

Tateh Lehbib Braica - aka "The crazy bottle guy", had the idea of building circular homes with plastic waste that could protect from wind and sun. The news reached the headquarters of the United Nations High Commission for Refugees in Geneva, and the project was funded with 55,000 euros.
It’s the misunderstood, and more than ever underestimated, magic of the rejected creatures on this planet.
They’re drawing horizons with the latter’s crumbs...
 

Then you wonder why.
Think about it, brother, it's easy to understand.
Look at them, take a deep look.
You have so much, but you throw away more.
You used to see little, and yet you have everything before your eyes.
Photo: Pablo Mediavilla Costa/El Pais
However, you keep on asking, don’t you?
Why are they going back?
What causes them to insist?
What is the secret of such endurance?
Think about it, think of you.
Turn your head, closed the foolish judgment’s eyes, and for a moment watch the miracle with your heart.
The dreams sorting from the modest prince and unstoppable ambition.
Imagine, imagine us.
When the time you burned through “I would” and “I could” becomes every fraction of a second we breathe.
And where the food and the water that didn’t find space in the acrid stomach, fill the plate of a whole generation, in the ghost kingdom of the missed possibilities.
The day you snatched yourself minimal hopes and noble needs from your chest, that is, the only baggage of the unwavering, treacherous traveler.
The rest of the story is logical transmutation, my friend.
Hand in hand’s trip of precious invisibility.
Like a soul that moves in search of the body that will accept it without ignoring it.
Because the land you mistreated sooner or later will leave you and will be granted to those who will appreciate it, and the sea waves will finally understand who among us is offering life and death.
Then you ask yourself how it could be possible.
Remember, instead, remember why it's simple.
The sons, my dear companions of the journey from the opposite directions.
Ours and your children.
You give a very few to the world, yet, when their time comes to claim love and listen, they seem so much more than you.
Well, during the rest of the time it’s so normal to us that the future might be wider than the past.
The opposite is the caption of a blind alley or a wasted life.
Nevertheless you find it the most uncivil among the habitudes, filling the world of vagaries and desires.
Then you said to ignore it.
It's obvious, lucky humans.
It’s evident.
The world built on nothing, which rejects all, will leave space to the one surviving at all, using everything


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Wednesday, June 28, 2017

US Mexico border wall stories: do you think it's crazy?

Stories and News No. 1010

I read that the first step towards the multi billionaire project has been made. Competing prototypes are challenging to realize the expensive Donald Trump’s wall on the border between Mexico and the United States. Building should begin in September, the Customs and Border Protection (CBP) agency said.

Do you think it’s crazy?
That’s nothing, my friend.
It seems that the most modern factories of the world's walls have come to the field.
In a random order, maybe a bit shaky, I list in detail the various proposals, all avant-garde and

especially aimed at preventing unacceptable climbing.
As the motto on the official call’s text says, a crossable wall is a dead one.
The first project involves the revolving wall, a stuff of a unique innovation, the very best for practicality, and nowadays it’s certainly not a matter of fact.
Where the troublesome guy of not-so-white ethnicity is about to climb the futuristic wall, the latter will rotate exactly one hundred and eighty degrees, reversing the intruder's path.
Consequently, the petty one will migrate to the opposite towards his native country, unaware of going to deprive of work, women and future his own fellow citizens.
If he will then decide to come back, wrong convinced of returning to his country – verily penetrating for the second time into the land of (private) opportunities, he will find himself unknowingly again in his own country, to tell his companions: "Buddies, you know what? America is not so different from here."
A useful deterrent, in short, hoping the trick will not ever be discovered.
Do you think it’s crazy? Listen to this, then.
The second project is the sorting wall, freely inspired by the famous saga of the English magician.
As the celeb hat did, once the clandestine will try to overcome the barrier he will immediately be subjected to the interrogation, in order to be moved in the consistent, respective wing of the castle.
Like the famous novels that cleverly blend magic and school life - where one and only one of the houses is cool, let's just say it, here, too, there is a single chance to reach the free (of hating you) world.
As for lucky numbers to find in cereal packages, you never win.
However, even being perfectly aware of everything, no one is able to stop two very specific categories: the naive victims of the world's lies and the desperate ones who persist in wanting to survive.
The worst paradox of history is where the former are the first to hurl against the latter...
Do you think it’s crazy? Well, it's not finished, almost.
The third and last project is the black wall. This is a beta product not yet experienced and not even testable.
Indeed, like the equivalent space hole, no one has the faintest idea, also the creators, where
immigrants would end once crossed the border.
Who cares? It seems to have said the twitting president by the self-styling, vermeil foliage.
Nevertheless, it’s always a risky way.
Let go for other dimensions, fiery stars, hells planets, and hostile alien communities, but if the migrant materialized just where he was headed?
Can you imagine the bad effects on surveys during the mid-term elections, if he might appear in the midst of a crowded and sharp convention by pro-gun loyalists?
Do you think it’s crazy?
Do you really believe the story is so much crazier than the news?


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Friday, June 23, 2017

World hunger stories in Africa to hide

Stories and News No. 1009

According to the United Nations, South Sudan, which gained independence from Sudan in 2011, faces its "highest level of food insecurity." About 7.5 million persons, almost two-thirds of the population, need humanitarian help. In some areas, half the inhabitants are malnourished.
"I buried my little baby under a bush," said Mary Cholil, who sought food and shelter after his village was burned, talking about his deceased three years old daughter.

Quickly.
I have to be quick before it's too late.
Before I get used to the thing, and it will decide to stay.
The thing, yes, I don’t have to give it a name, otherwise it gets familiar, close, mine.
I cannot afford it, not now, not me.
And what can I do?

Here it is, I look at it for a moment, with strictly fixed-term feelings and thoughts.
A woman burying an only three years life under a bush.
Done.
Now, fast, I take the picture and hide it.
Where?
There, down there, there's a pile of things like that, in that corner of the memory that sooner or later I will bleed somewhere.
Well, under everything, perfect, so good.
Wait a minute…
No, no way, I made that mistake again!
Why did it happen all the time?
Now there's another picture to bother me.
Me, there is me in it, with the photograph evoked by the usual, horrible news, while I commit to conceal it where I can easily forget it.
Hurry, I have to be rapid.
By now I should be good at doing everything with extreme swiftness.
I take the compromising image that represents myself burying the picture of the mother doing the same with her lifeless daughter.
Where should I throw it?
Well, always there, down there, on the blind side of the common, collective consciousness, which, as a social network of sloppy profiles, it tells us where to look and what to censor.
...
Oops... am I crazy, or what?
It's a bad dream, it's literally a nightmare, what I'm writing and desperately wanting to desert from my recent memories.
Because I'm finished in the nth, paradoxical moral loop.
I close my eyes and I see the thing, which now gets bigger and more intolerable.
The scene where, convinced of being invisible, I am inclined to eliminate it from my personal horizon when I tried to do the same with the original sin among the vilest leaks from reality.
That is, hiding in real time, confusing my soul, distracting myself, falsely persuaded to keep away the uncomfortable side of the screen from eyes and heart.
Quickly, I must be quick to reach the end.
I have to get out of this damned page as soon as possible.
Where you, woman and mother who buried your youngest life, are looking at us.
Seeing everything...


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Thursday, June 22, 2017

Moral stories: When butterflies go away

Stories and News No. 1008

A recent British study, which may be valid for many other industrialized countries, points out the almost total disappearance of butterflies from the cities.
What is causing this phenomenon? First of all, the growing decline in green areas, the climate change, and the growing pollution by motor vehicles.
However, butterflies are special beings, a kind of universal indicator.
Their disappearance warns us that many other creatures will soon follow the same exit path...

When butterflies go away.
When butterflies go away, the answer is simple, beyond the basic explanations.
Because when butterflies go away, there is no place for them.

The story writers of very important pages have refused their existence, and the filmmakers don’t even consider them for a silent walk-on, the painters have become selfie sellers, and the actors who declare eternal love on the scene have them not anymore in the stomach.
So, when butterflies go away it means that everybody no longer needs them.
In other words, what they have to offer has become superfluous, quite wrong, maybe naive. Think of focusing all the attention that the whole figure requires on the most underrated of living wonders.
Wings, yes.
Though large and colorful, harmonious and fair, these are stuff already seen, would say the running, but not flying, newbie.
Indeed, when butterflies go away, no one seems to notice it.
Understandable, in fact.
More than that is lost and confused in the frustration of the pressed keys and rattling engines.
It was just negligible and neglected dust, an informal mass of time’s trifles, erased by laziness or chance from distracted hearts. Because I've got it all here, in the big images folder.
Consequently, do you remember the butterflies?
What? Hum, yes... wait a minute, I just turn on the PC or the cell phone, that’s faster too.
Well, if the whole story was come this point, the butterflies have disappeared long ago.
Then we should fix it like that.
When butterflies went away.
When butterflies went away, we would have to stop everything, starting with them, but remembering the old rules, when we were children.
Do not touch the wings, even delicately, otherwise the magic ends.
Do not approach vehemently, their heart is tiny and frail, despite the indisputable courage all the time they've been here.
And then there was nothing left to do than stand still, waiting for the miracle of a meeting that was once normal.
We might try to stop running like crazies in the gray roads we call world.
Maybe they will return…


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Wednesday, June 21, 2017

World Refugee Day story at Mary’s Home

Stories and News No. 1007

Yesterday was the World Refugee Day and at Mary’s home the event was especially celebrated…

"Dad," says Mary, six years old and many more freckles on her face, which one day will be the foundations of her beauty, "I've been good today."
"Yes, dear..." reproaches the man, almost completely bald, the current foundation of his stress, rather than the inexorable passing time.

Nonetheless, he seamlessly resumes the discussion with his wife and all relatives gathered for the occasion.
Of course, it doesn’t concern the aforementioned recurrence, but a much more pressing argument, that is, what to do with the generous legacy left by the grandfathers.
"I was good," Mary proudly says, "you know, mom?"
"Well done..." she tells her, equally taken by the debate, that has also come to the precious, shared property.
For the record, in addition to the child’s parents, those interested in the valuable legacy are uncle Donald, single and tireless exotic beauties hunters - strictly under twenty-five, aunt Jennifer and her husband aka the dummy - secretly renamed such from Mary's mother, and cousin Fred, a busy engineer away to the north, granted for missing in the last years, but it's a pleasure to be here, that’s certainly not a matter of money, his exact words.
"I did as the teacher and you too always suggest," says the smallest one in the scene.
"What?" Asks her father without even turning his head, entirely focused on his sister-in-law, since Jennifer has just said she would consider the idea of going to live in the old parents’ home. Such an anxious scenario, considering that at least in his dreams - which he has not at all informed his wife of, he has already invested the majority of their portion.
"You all said that we must help the poor people," Mary responds, as if they are really conversing with her. "You also said we're lucky to have a home, something to eat and water to drink."
"Of course you have to help them," her mother approves with her head somewhere else, before looking for the cigarettes in her bag. She had just quit a week ago, but how can you stay calm and at the same time follow those commitments, when you have to decide about such a heritage? Can you leave all the decisions to that maniacal uncle Donald?
"You've been very good," adds her daddy, however just as distant. "Everyone must be helped, whenever it's possible."
"Thank you!" Her daughter rejoices, with a flare of unprecedented purity in her eyes, future foundations of love by a lot of pretenders. "The kid I just took home will appreciate that."
A dark silence, at the same time so tense, falls into the living room like a guillotine’s blade.
"What kid, Mary?" Asks her father in a trustful tone, sure she is lost inside a yet another imaginative escape from reality.
Despite this, the attention is now complete, with an invisible light spots on the little one.
"I’m talking about the child refugee I met in front of the church. At school they said that today is their day. I asked him if he was hungry, he didn’t speak, but I saw that the answer was yes. And then I invited him. "
"She was with you," growls her dad, staring at his wife. "As usual you was distracted by your cell..."
"Are you serious?" Replies the woman. "What about when you left her in the park to buy the phone recharge?"
"Calm down," intervenes the already introduced dummy. As a proof of the nickname he never speaks, but given the importance of the inheritance, he makes an exception. "Sorry, do you really think it's possible she brought someone home without you noticing it?"
At that moment a noise comes from the kitchen.
Like a cutlery that hurls the dish with excessive rush, a widespread world phenomenon due to two specific reasons, awkwardness and hunger.
The whole family suddenly stands up, and under Mary's attentive eyes, they get at the entrance of the room.
The door is closed and the dad feels accountable to shed light on the mystery.
Here I’ve done, sorry, but I won’t tell you more.
I'm persuaded the story is all here, that the real difference isn’t really between a tale with a calming ending and an incomplete one, but among the exorbitant amount of words and phrases we say every day with the only effect of giving each other fleeting relief and halo’s caresses, and what we actually do with our actions.
And what we can still do…


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Friday, June 16, 2017

Climate change stories 2017: the dominant species

Stories and News No. 1006

Environmental news, as Arctic islands pollution and the consequences of global warming for nature and our cities, are becoming more and more unpleasant every day and, according to a dangerous media mechanism of addiction to topics requiring an attitude change, and a serious accountability, are increasingly confined to a neglected contour space.
However, it’s not reality and all its urgencies to move away from us, but the opposite...

They call it History, can you believe it?
By studying, understanding and remembering it, right?
I’m talking about ours, and all those who would have avoided it.
The dominant species, so they call them, chiefly its richest leaders.

Everything by blame, or cause, of an explosion, some claim.
Everything thanks to a perfection of light and design, others trust.
Depending on the point of view, just the fruit of a fortuitous or mischievous casualty, some others think.
The result doesn’t change and this is the deceit concealed in the gift.
For the above species, except all the others.
They call it evolution, can you realize it?
A supposed trip from small to big, worst to best, bottom to the top.
Through a humble, realistic lens, from here to there.
A fast pace with anxiety in the chest, low reason and sunshine in the eyes, like when you try to reach the shore by approaching a hot, crowded beach with no precious flip flops.
Nevertheless, the journey was the reverse, as sacred texts knowingly tell.
The sea is not big enough, though it almost covers the whole place? Then, the very first, ancestors animals of the future nature’s masters moved to pursue the dry life’s surface.
From that moment on, the stories were written with different inks and distinct vocabulary, but the final was common to all.
Let's move, let's go, let's get away from here.
They called it exploration, some.
Conquest, others, with less formality.
Stupid, destructive madness, said the most deceived.
By land or sea, at the top of the world or inside its most jealous breasts, creatures predestined to the government of things have never found home, peace, and agreement.
Read as well as the wonderful, simple and congenital harmony with the universe of the dominated species.
They call it natural selection, can you see it as normal?
Could you find it rational that the characters of a story, practically perfect in the synopsis as in the
first subject, are themselves to erase the same phrases and adjectives, rhetorical figures and entire paragraphs that keep them alive?
Finally, they call it technology civilization.
Digital in relationships as in content.
The recent, maybe the last, dimension which to transfer daily life in, with the illusion to bring aspirations and feelings too.
They call it, finally, humanity, even today.
Can you understand this paradox?
Because if you look at her as any other creatures, at any moment of her journey, you will see only a confused, presumptuous crowd of escaping lives...




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Thursday, June 15, 2017

Immigration stories: the Jus Soli’s tale

Stories and News No. 1005

I continue on my usual path in search of the perfect story to give the best picture of what is happening in the world today…

Once upon a time there were them.
The world’s patrols, or I should say the sky.
With a neck perpetually anguished, forcing eyes and heart to see migrant invaders roaming from every cardinal point.

Indomitable and stubborn creatures, committed to denounce the immense occupation of their personal History’s vision.
"Damn swans," they shouted with their throat flushed by liveliness, "go back to your nest."
"Dirty ducks" burning others, "you are not like us."
"Certainly," someone replied, "they are ducks..."
"Buddy, are you in or what?"
"What?"
You know, dialogues were ever like that, simple and confused as the stupidest lies usually are.
"Uncivil swallows", many strung to bring common attention to the target, the only possible, "you won’t take our place."
"Infidel flamingos", shouted a lot more, "you won’t convert us to your God."
"And what is ours?" Another voice came out of the chorus.
"Surely it doesn’t look like a flamingo," said someone alongside.
Typical exchange between the folds of a crowd fond of constant clamor, where you have no idea what are the most unlikely between questions and answers.
"Intruded quails," shouted
loudly some of them, just to preserve the rhythm, "you are here only to steal and laze."
"We will not allow you to sweep us away," exclaimed others, "sons of geese."
"We’ve planned we would not insult them," some disagreed.
"But it's not an insult, we meant geese..."
"Exactly."
"No, buddy, I’m saying literally..."
"What?"
Another recognizable aspect in the crowd easy to gnash, the muddled misunderstandings without light on the horizon.
"Cormorants, fly to those others", some screamed by pulling out the old refrain, "let’s see how they’ll treat you..."
"Sky to us," many synthesized, "and the nightingales to the... hem… the Nighingaland?"
In other words, the inevitable, distinctive sign of the masses of brainless dissatisfaction, with the total absence of foundation into the delusional boundary wall around their head.
Too tight, most of the time.
Once upon a time there where them, then.
The bastions of nothing.
With the beak obsessively aimed at the inalienable right to survive and travel.
Of lives who migrate above them.
That will never fly.
Poor chickens...





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Wednesday, June 14, 2017

World hunger short stories: Every 35 seconds

Stories and News No. 1004

According to Save the Children, Yemen is now close to a total collapse and the simultaneous presence of almost famine and paralyzed infrastructures are driving the spread of cholera.
In particular, a child is infected every thirty-five seconds...


Once upon a time there was a story.
A short one, don’t worry.
Indeed, what do we really have to worry about?
It takes a little, believe me.
Five minutes, six at the most.

This is the time I've used to write it.
Nothing, isn’t it?
And when time is zero, what's the problem?
Yes, seriously, what is it?
Anyway, you’ll need less to read it.
Two minutes, one and a half to be quick, just one for those with fast eye and easy brain. Which may also mean light, but without offense, trust me.
Nothing personal.
And why should we get angry, then?
Do we really have to?
Therefore, I chose a short story by definition, profiting of slim moments, which a large part of the recent, common screenplay is made of, right?
The time to turn on PC, laptop or phone, expecting the usual screen equipment, and the foreseeable, annoying updates.
What a toss, but negligent stuff, am I wrong? Don’t you agree?
And then here is the time of the messages and the versus ones, which are not the answers, that would give a meaning to the social storytelling, but a perpetual, delusional alternation of mini-monologues by solitudes disguised as friends.
Nevertheless, a few bunch of seconds, isn’t it?
Nothing unbearable.
Because of low weight, okay?
So, now, what we do?
Yes, what about the time left?
Well, right, let’s randomly give like’s and smiles around, depending on the mood.
But, above all, let’s share everything that at best suits us closer.
At worst, exactly the opposite, and who has seen a lot knows perfectly that there is no end to it.
By the way, the deal must be respected, the curtain waits for the promised favor, because no one really gains something in hiding the horror inside the belly, not even the elegant drapes that dazzle the stage.
There was finally, once and never again, this time.
Five minutes, at most six to fill the sheet, at least a couple to read it all.
Or at the same time, from three to ten children hit by the aforementioned disease.
For good luck, this story is over.
Because these are just words behind a glass, they don’t hurt.
There is nothing to be afraid, can you agree?
So, from now on, we have all the time to do something else.
And forget it…


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Friday, June 9, 2017

Diversity stories for kids: rainbow ants

Stories and News No. 1003

Let’s divide us, this seems to be the best solution for the modern leaders to face the future.
With Brexit, the UK has made deeper the sea separating it from the rest of Europe, and with Trump, the USA is increasingly moving away from everything and everyone, Catalonia dreams to divorce inside the Iberian common house and Qatar has just been expelled from the most exclusive Arab club in the world, just to name a few.
Divide et Impera (Divide and Rule), said the famous Latin spell.
However, in the global chaos of selfish interests and dullness disguised as urgent policies, it’s really hard to figure a mind characterized by a minimal lucidity guiding our wretched species...


Once upon a time there where the rainbow ants.
A fairy tale, yes, to tell and listen, that’s it.
We talked about it at the Stories Circle last night, where everybody was almost drunk, but not for bad habitude or to cover up a heart torment.
Just for imitation, not to be taken as the usual moralist parties-crasher, everyone had got into the crowd, ignoring who had really started all.

As ever, the barman was the very first suspected, but it would have been too banal, like the Butler in the thrillers.
That’s an impossible road to take, in our meeting, because the reality’s ordinariness, and its interpretations, are almost as banned as the ending too soon tales.
But we were talking about a story, right?
“Let’s go to the point,” as Princess Clotilde said to her charming prince at three o'clock in the morning, after yet another moonlit dance that would shortly become sunny: “Kiss me and let’s fly away from here.”
There were rainbow ants, I said.
That’s for trivial reasons: the unique coloration of each specimen.
Okay, stop the polemical chivalry, I tell you immediately, because there is no contradiction in the previous assumption.
Platitude is forbidden, I confirm everything, but it’s occasionally granted inside the opening words and the prologues that anticipate particularly original intertwining and, above all, endings.
I know, I shot big and I risk a lot of mockeries at the last curve, but, as it’s written at our circle’s entrance, storytelling is ever risky, otherwise it’s better to remain silent.
I said, the rainbow ants were each one of a different shade, and made the anthill extraordinary, especially at peak time.
If you have had the courage to slip inside your head, like the ostrich does, you would have been able to admire their wonderful, colorful Can-Can, squatting everywhere, a kaleidoscope of polychrome arrows, panting and jumping with divine harmony.
For the record, now you know that the well-known bird with the long neck and the thick plumage is not a coward at all, but just a passionate entomologist.
However, it often happens that the protagonists of a miracle on earth get so fit to it, to be so megalomaniac to think of being its true masters. And wherever the real fear, not the alleged ostrich’s one, took away their hearts, you might often see them wiping their own wings.
All because of a particularly, distracted beetle, who put the paw in the wrong place and collapsed into the anthill.
Can you believe it? No? And you’re right, because now I don’t remember if it was a ladybird or a grasshopper. Maybe even a lizard, but the following part doesn’t change, believe me.
"The monsters are among us!" The queen screamed before the intruder, who, more than a grim expression, showed lost eyes and confused muzzle.
"Damn religious mantis, others could come!" Added her husband, or one of the many, perhaps the most quitter.
Finally, as sometimes happens when terror blows the meninges of a community, the army general suggested the solution: "Let's divide, so we’ll confuse ourselves as equal!"
The order was followed by all.
White ants on one side and black on the other, burgundy red to the north and straw yellow to the east, pearls gray over there and pea green below.
In short, each one found itself indistinct in a large, anonymous and common stain.
The latter was really guilty of conventionality, but it’s not the story, nor the narrator, to blame this time.
It's just the reality.
That’s why everything ends up as it started.
There were once the rainbow ants.
Yes it is, there were.
Because - what a shame, today they no longer exist...


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Thursday, June 8, 2017

Environment stories 2017: dreaming between US and Korea

Stories and News No. 1002

Here is the reign between the two paradoxical, at the same time mostly real, our illogical world’s extremes, which is equally irrationally still standing, despite everything.
A leader who, with his mindless policies, is increasingly isolating himself, his country, and the whole humanity from the rest of the universe, and another who does the same thing plundering with missiles to provoke anger and fears in the former.
There is, in the middle, a dream
.

A planet.
I would only like to have a planet of simple measures and geometric shape, but not perfect, right?
Something studied at school, plan from above and solid if you walked fast and curious on it.

Yes, I’m talking about a planet inhabited by people with volatile heart and impulsive belly, but at the time of the need ready to step back.
Because the reason is boring, that’s for sure, but it's the shiny eye that sees the pit on the street.
And, at worse, that remembers the past fall.
That is how “at worse” said yesterday, becomes “at best”, written tomorrow.
A planet with finite resources, not a paradise, okay?
Nothing incredible, normal stuff, easily synthesized by an infant’s imagination.
Like a chocolates box that may end, which has to, that will do.
A common as immensely precious experience, that’s the completeness of gifts, and not just for the benefit of appreciating them properly.
It also makes you realize that the real gift is not the latter, but the ability to recognize it in colors as in aroma, then looking for others, even more beautiful.
Otherwise, why observing so intensely the sky?
Otherwise, why insist on jumping, again, and yet another leap, with the stubborn hope of distracting Madam Gravity once and for all?
Otherwise, why the moon and all the stars?
A planet, I said, something imaginable, so designable.
Like the fruit of a suggestive idea.
That's a dream, just like that.
Of a planet and living creatures constantly shaken by heart’s rhythm and breath’s vibrations, but when the box is exhausted, being capable of putting aside personal dullness.
Elemental stuff, let’s be clear, nothing exceptional.
It's not the myth that gets flesh, what I want, even if it would be appreciated, that’s obvious.
A captain, only a captain, mine, indeed, ours.
An inverse reinterpretation of Dead Poets Society’s best scene, where he himself, by first, climbs to the bench to exclaim with a calm, but toning voice: "The ship is sinking, enough with vain talk. Come on, crew, let’s close the shadows and weigh the horizon, looking for the mainland."
Instead of losing time rejecting those who have already begun to sail with courage and despair.
Here it is, the planet, of words and fog, down there, in the only possible future.
Where only words, fog and some dreams will arrive safe and healthy.


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Wednesday, June 7, 2017

Stories to think about: I know 2.0 version

Stories and News No. 1001

Inspired by the article “Cos'è questo Golpe? Io so” (What is this Coup? I know) by Pier Paolo Pasolini, Italian director, poet, writer and intellectual...

I know, 2.0 version.
Therefore, in the most shared information age, we should upgrade the system.
I know, we know, and, accordingly, you know.

I know, we know, you know that on every attack by so-called evident Islamic terrorists, the horror show’s script is sold in the same way: terrorists always die, they get never captured alive, although papers and photos go instantly viral.
It was a huge pity, because otherwise someone could have questioned them, to get answers, to seriously understand, and approach the mysterious truth.
I know, we all know, and you know that the Islamic world is a meaningless expression, not like Catholics or Jews see it, that every Muslim can live his belief in his own way and he has no right or authority to stand up representing one billion and eight hundred million people, each of them facing his faith according to the personal interpretation of the Koran.
On the other hand, in everyday reality is it not the same for other religions, regardless of what the latter demand? How many Christians and Jews in the world follow literally what their faith predicts?
In fact, in this regard, I know, we know and you know that if the assassination attempt is made by someone who claims to believe in a God who is not Allah, terrorism has no evidence. Indeed, it is no longer defined so and, most of the time, the mind who killed is stored as crazy.
You also saw that, didn’t you?
That is why I know, we know and you know that for the hundreds of people killed every day what really makes the difference is how the story is told, by whom, and what interests is behind.
So, for only mere logic, I know, we know, and you too, that after every attack, those who are usually referred to as the problem, namely immigrants and Islamists, are the first to pay the consequences, between more restrictive policies and more legalized discrimination, justified intolerance and a reduction in human rights.
Mechanism that is somewhat paradoxical, if you think about it, because for sure they didn’t live happily before. These migrants seem to be so masochists, don’t you agree?
At the same time, thanks to the pure fact-finding, I know, we know and you must know that the very first, and perhaps the only ones, to earn something from the aggressions in the so defined free world are the most xenophobic and racist political parties and leaders. But then some doubt must inevitably be seen in the less used to asking questions brains, right? One at random on the complicated and discussed mechanism which the entire show of death and fear is based on.
According to that, I know, we know and you know that this terrible story, daily narrated and spotted, is based solely on the well-founded allegations of evil villains and cruel organizations, with slogans and masks that change at the same pace with governments and leaders, pay attention.
Without naming it, some of you have wondered why nobody speaks any more about the one before, I know who, we know what and you know when.
Timing is all in the modern world.
With no coincidence, I know, we know and you know that generally the attacks take place and become more frequent in the countries that have elections or crucial decisions coming soon, where discussions and fights between the parties focus on what? I know, we know and you know the answer: immigration and the usual Islamic terrorism, what else?
As already mentioned, who will gain consents the next day? Who has already won in the past in the same way. Who would have no argument if there were no deaths on one side and enemies to be accused.
Then, if we wanted to say it all, we could add that I know, we know and you know that the totality of the more nationalistic and right-wing coalitions of the so-called Western world have somehow links and receive support from a great country in the east Europe.
Will it be yet another coincidence? And, moreover, can coincidences make sense in a mortal and global war where billions of euros are at stake?
We should not forget.
We cannot do it, as I know, we know and you know that to fight the so-called Islamic terrorism in the last few decades, some leaders have literally invented, and put up under the world eyes, bloody “Peace Wars” that have donated destruction and endless dead to entire populations. In the sense that, even today, they are still trying to survive between that same destruction or die, at the end.
It's the sense of modern times, I think.
In the past century, the great intellectual with sublime and noble courage used to say: “I know, but I have no proof.”
Today, the farce is so evident, that regardless of the role in the society, I know, we know and you know for sure that what mass media are telling us as true is completely without proof.


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Thursday, June 1, 2017

Poverty stories: Hildur and Souley

Stories and News No. 1000

According to a recent report by Save The Children, End of Childhood, 168 million children are forced to work and every day more than 16,000 under 5 years die due to illnesses that would be cured with ease.
In addition, the quality of life ranking for minors indicates Norway's as best country, while the last place is for Niger, where children are constantly at risk of losing their lives.
Norway and Niger, the two sides of a burning candle on one side, but this time it's the bottom, the upside-down, hidden part where we rarely look...


Hildur is five years old.
Souley too.
Hildur is a child.

Also Souley, but life is strange, isn’t it?
Almost like stories, right?
Hildur closes his eyes and dreams of things.
Souley dreams, period.
Hildur looks at his continent from the north, or above.
Souley looks at the world neither from south nor below.
Because his world is all there, before him, made of visions and hopes, however naïve.
Hildur plays.
Souley plays.
Well, if we could stay here forever, thanks to a propitious and magnanimous light’s speed that occurs only for the power of freezing stories, or timely perfections thieves.
Would not it all be easier?
Hildur will grow, thanks to a congenital, good fortune.
Thanks to a rare mischance, Souley might get over next year.
But let’s cross our fingers and touch iron or wood, depending on the meridian which we read their lives from.
Hildur may become anyone.
Souley is already one of the many, too many nobody who will remain so.
As the unnamed faces on tears and donations catching pictures.
However, let us consider that their common narrative found the same reception by fate, at least in terms of space.
Then let’s see the two paths unfolding on the way to the horizon that everyone is waiting for.
Hildur is a man, over there.
So Souley, despite a blinded eye from the borders sellers could mistake him for someone else.
Hildur has a fate, then.
Souley too, but different, even if it's not already said, right?
Otherwise, what is the best way to live our often terrible but sometimes wonderful story?
Let’s close our eyes, then, and imagine that common future.
Where Hildur shrinks under the burdens of unjustified fools and fears, and in vain pushes Souley back to his woe past.
And where, on the contrary, it is Souley to disturb Hildur's placid dreams.
Since he was also overwhelmed by the same, miserable luggage of unjustified fools and fears.
Let’s lift our eyelids now and look at them for what they are.
Hildur and Souley.
Two, or just one fate, it doesn’t count.
Because their future, ours, the only possible, it will be both.
Or no one.


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