Thursday, May 31, 2018

A strange girl

A strange girl

By
Alessandro Ghebreigziabiher


She’s crazy.
This is what most people think, at first sight.
They could stop there, in many, because this is the most fashionable style, nowadays, in the realm of digital hurriedness.
A glance is just enough to decide one's destiny and even more.
Then someone approaches the still girl who has long since been indefinite, concentrated as absent, kidnapped by something indecipherable with a quick eye, as it has been said.
The bravest one tries to get her attention calling her, but it's all useless.
Almost everything is, when what is left is all for you, she seems to say with the far and vague body.
Is she on the phone? Asks someone else just coming.
A collective kidding laugh covers the latter.
Do you really believe you're the first to have thought it?
Where do you think you've lived, so far? Among people so fearless to prefer surprise instead of public acceptance?
Speaking of courage, that is alleged one, another guy still dares and tries to awaken the strange asleep girl with a shy touch of her right shoulder, to be precise.
Same as above.
The wrong creature, in posing and context, reacts like a statue that not only misses the word, but everything.
All that makes the human beings recognizable under the sun.
She is completely still, in the middle of the bustle of lives anxious to get to the starting point and leave again.
The lips are tight and there is no trace of any chatter to simplify the thought for the imperial, viral void.
The look is far from any carrot put up for sale by the pusher of likes and her limbs prove to be invulnerable before the populist stick.
The thing becomes unbearable for some, before, and many, later.
So, someone - because there is always someone who makes the infamous act that everyone else has more or less unconsciously evoked.
The silly man takes a stone and throws it at the irritating lady.
Fortunately, he is aimless as brainless and the pebble produces just a slight breath on her hair.
She's crazy, I told you, sentenced the very first one to speak.
Because according to the modern popular thought only mad people could risk their own safety for the right to be themselves.
So, slowly, the dull crowd thins out, and the strange girl, indomitable and undeterred, continues to read her book...

Wednesday, May 30, 2018

Viktor Orbán’s rule

Stories and News No. 1099

The Orbán government has proposed a series of laws to the Hungarian parliament that will justify the detention of individuals and organizations deemed to be in favour of illegal immigration, being accountable for providing legal, medical or any kind of support to people without citizenship.

Dear Hungarian patriots,
And all of you too, inhabitants of the world, who boldly defend the sacred borders from pure blood’s polluters.
The mathematics of the unlikely theorems is enriched with a further fundamental axiom.
That is a new subject, in fact, and it therefore needs continuous paradoxical updates.
As you all well know, the old, as well as radical chic, science of numbers, based its formulas on a now overrated scheme: the good-hearted hypothesis, demonstration and thesis sequence.
On the contrary, thanks to the diligent assiduousness of social networks, the arithmetic of delirium writes its principles through popular approval.

In fact, as the first principle of popular thermodynamics says, if two plus two equals five got thousands of likes, and as many shares, it becomes a slogan, then electoral propaganda and finally government program.
That's how we won.
That's how they keep losing.
Because we do believe more in our lies than our adversaries trust their truths.
On the other hand, we have taken their place long ago and turned it into ours.
Committing ourselves to work in a review of human disciplines.
Indeed, remove the useless adjective and leave discipline as it is.
In the school of bullies, easing is the key to everything.
Grammar doesn’t help, because it complicates concepts, prohibits the precious contradictions and is an obstacle to virile vulgarity.
Literature must be banned, because it hides moral in the most unsuspected plots and civil consciences even in the most negligible characters.
Science makes sense only if it becomes technical and the technique is worth the study time when it promises profit.
And then there is it, the illogical approximation to power, with the algebra of impartiality, the geometry of the walls and the physics of legalized shots.
Now we have the numbers in our hands, and it doesn’t matter if they are all, or the majority.
The only variable that weighs on the scale of the future is the virality of the voice screaming on the monitor.
Nonetheless, dear bulwarks of the native soil, we were speaking of a new law.
Orbán's rule may be simplified in a suggestive picture: imagine you’re on the edge that divides your beloved land from the foreign one and that over the sacred limit there is a generic type of individual without legitimate credentials. Let's say that the outsider creature fall from your side. Well, there are no exceptions, even if they might be an old man affected by a heart attack, a mother in the grip of labor or a feverish child, your duty is to move sideways and never, I repeat, never dare to support the alleged unfortunate person.
The short corollary of inhumanity follows: helping others, where others are them, is a crime...


On the same topic:
The future's stealer

Watch the video storytelling with English subtitles:
What are viruses today

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Friday, May 25, 2018

Canticle of the Immigrant Creatures

Stories and News No. 1098

According to a grotesquely contingency the most intolerant governments on the issue of immigration used to declare themselves as the most religious ones, including the nascent Italian administration and its possible prime minister.
A few days ago, I entered the Sanctuary of Rivotorto, in Umbria, and inside the so-called Hovel of Saint Francis of Assisi, despite knowing it, I found myself reading again the Canticle of the Creatures, but with my present eyes.
I am not a believer, I say it immediately, but those words seemed to me further holy, when adapted to the need of many, that is, too many systematically forgotten human beings...

Be praised, my Lord, and likewise all human creatures, especially the stranger, who is our brother in the light of the day as the night, and through him you may enrich us. So, he is precious and bearer of a great gift: it symbolizes the value of not being the only favorites of an extraordinarily unjust father.

Praised be You, my Lord, for the immigrant sisters and their daughters: on our shores you have led them, hopefully and admirably brave.

Praised be You, my Lord, for the one who is not yet born, but the fool calls him a clandestine, and for the present and the future too; the sad and the serene one, and every horizon that will not take place without his contribution.

Praised be You, my Lord, for the mother of that child, since that wonderful woman is all she has overcome to have him, in short, she is everything.

Forgiven be You, this time, my Lord, for the refugee brother who disappeared among the waves, through which you would have given further light at night. Maybe he would have been nice, maybe playful, strong, or maybe not, but surely, he would have been happy to be alive.

Praised be You, my Lord, for our sister and mother earth, which all of us should give nourishment and maintenance to: producing different fruits, with flowers and grass as colorful as the creatures which they belong to.

Praised be You, my Lord, for the millions of migrants, who may not even be able to forgive you in the name of your love, but nevertheless they endure sickness and suffering.

Fortunate those among them who will tolerate that serenely, if alive they will be rewarded for their patience.

Praised be You, my Lord, for those among ill-treated travelers you have saved from death, since no human being can escape it, but woe to those petty ones who will take advantage from other sad fate.

Grateful will be those who will find it after having brought their children to safety. Their premature death will harm them less.

If you really have to, praise and bless the Lord, thank him as well, serve him with great humility and, above all, consistency for these listed reasons too.

Because if he is a different Lord, the one you pray, and you don’t agree on them, then it means that there is something incredibly wrong in heaven and the species that claim to have been created in its image and likeness...





On the same topic:
Refugees umbrella

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What are viruses today

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Thursday, May 24, 2018

Michelle's confession

Michelle's confession

By
Alessandro Ghebreigziabiher


Here, I am.
Soon, you’ll have to go, Michelle, very soon, you must be honest, now.
Okay, I'm a potential killer, but I luckily survived the death penalty, and maybe, for a pinch of typically feminine stubbornness.
Well done, I said it, I'm happy, now.
But that's not enough, isn’t it?
I have to say it all, I have to do it, I need to remember and confess everything.
I wanted to kill you, I admit, I tried many times to do it and I was just a whisker from getting you out of my life.
You look at me with that absent face, with your head elsewhere, your heart on the other side, and every single cell of your body on its own business, as if being there, at that precise moment was not the priority.
How much you made me suffer, you have no idea, you do not have it.
How many disappointments I have had to endure, because of you, and your absolute inability to obtain true results, those that make the family happy, that make you worthy of public praise in the parental updates.

I’ve almost killed you, seriously.
I wanted to do it, believe me.
I could not, and you survived, because then... then it was too late.
But do we want to talk about your best ally?
That's right, I'm referring to you, ever smiling girl.
What are you laughing at?
What are you laughing at, with everything that happens in the world?
Yes, I already know what you're going to do with me now, it's the same thing you've always done: it’s precisely what happens in the world that needs me, I know the lesson.
This doesn’t stop me to repeatedly try strangling you, when I watched those cheerful eyes and the perpetually enlarged smile.
I hated you, because I envied you and envied you because I hated myself, unable to have your strength to play down everything and everyone.
Maybe I had that gift, I told myself, and I felt guilty.
That's why, like many, I saw no other solution than erasing you from the world, from mine, I mean.
I wanted to make you suffer and a lot, before.
I wanted to see you lose and admit that it’s not possible to live like this.
I was sure that immediately I would feel better and everything would be easier.
I didn’t make it, I tried it many times, and you won every one of them.
But I wanted to kill you, really.
Finally there is you, incomparable companion of the other two.
You are the one I wanted to murder more than any other.
I felt offended by you, as if your relaxed and serene face produced an automatic slap on mine, weighed down by every single daily event, from the burning word to the indifferent gesture.
I wanted to poison you with my most unbearable sorrows and my least tolerable anguish.
I wanted to pollute your expression and make it as similar as possible to the one that oppressed my chest, from within.
Yet, even with you, despite having tried everything, I didn’t succeed.
You saved yourself, like the others.
And I did with you all, loving parts of me.
I see you all now, in the mirror.
The ability to dream and defend with nails and teeth even the smallest dream, as if it were one of my many children.
The desire to play and, above all, the strenuous will to do it, always and in any case.
And finally, the desire for lightness, as a natural condition for wisely living the time we have left.
I wanted to kill you and, again, fortunately you are still alive, in me.
Done, I confessed.
It's time to go on stage.
The theatre awaits.
Open the curtain...

Wednesday, May 23, 2018

Remember Savita Halappanavar

Stories and News No. 1097

Remember Savita Halappanavar.
Remember, out there, in Ireland, when you’ll be able and have to write the end for the inhuman, unjust and paradoxical parable that pretends to put the nascent future before the one who made it with absolute trust and uncontrollable love. Above all, robbing her of the maternal - but you may also read as sacrosanct, right to choose...




Remember, also the meaning of the words that issued the cruel sentence: We cannot make an abortion - that is, dear woman, you will die in pain, because that’s what our belief imposes on us.
This is the law, this is the principle. Tomorrow must be protected in any case, at the cost of torturing and even slaughtering the past. Even when that fateful, awaited day will never see light.
Remember all that, dear Ireland, and while you're listening, join us, interested spectator.
Nonetheless, don’t stop at this, so that it is not only the present at stake.
Because this rooted violence, incredibly tolerated as a piece of a self-defining civil society, gets its nourishment from an absolute lack of story’s complete vision.
Therefore, remember, but, at the same time, imagine.
Imagine a girl who unlike her executioners used to smile just thinking about how much happiness was waiting for her...




Remember, but in the same moment, imagine, with courage, do it.
Imagine that instant where everything was still possible, where promises and bonds were sanctioned, but her eyes saw only a light on the horizon, the one which crazy people, a cursed day, would claim rights on...




Remember that young mother, and at the same time imagine.
Imagine the vibrations of an ancient wisdom like the world itself, as they exploded with a passion that tastes of marvelous value, conquered with patience and tenacity...




Remember Savita Halappanavar, dear citizens of Ireland, a moment before closing once and for all the umpteenth, medieval chapter that survived human progress.
Nevertheless, where a brutal resistance will persist in crushing your heart and conscience, like a blind python from the coils of incongruent inflated morality, try also to imagine.
Imagine Savita.
Imagine her life, just like that.
Indeed, all the lives that she could have given birth and nourished, if only those doctors had found the strength to free themselves from an infernal yoke confused with unshakable purity.
Imagine, and now, if you really want.
Remember…





On the same topic:
Great mothers stories

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What are viruses today

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Thursday, May 17, 2018

New shoes

New shoes

By
Alessandro Ghebreigziabiher


"Steve..." the girl calls him after turning around, no longer finding her boyfriend next to her. ”Come here, it's raining..."
The young man - telling the truth no longer so, is motionless on the sidewalk, a step away from the specially tended porch on the glittering window of a jewelry store.
"Do you hear me?" Mary insists, wearing her jacket reluctantly, as many betrayed that afternoon by a deceptive illusion of spring. ”Come here, you stupid. What are you doing, still there?”
Still, yes it is.
Steve is still, with his bowed head, indifferent to the raindrops that gradually crowd around his neck, decided to slide down his back and lay the foundations for a sturdy cold.
"What are you staring at?" Asks the worried girlfriend.
Steve raises his head and looks her, drawing a complex smile on his face.
"Are you laughing?"
No, he seems to reply.
I remember.
I remember those comrades, at the age of thirteen, which are not yet fourteen, but lacking little, always too much to be an adult, never enough to be like them.
I remember the shoes.
"Today we’re going to buy the new ones, which come out now, those that all have got, those that you cannot have,” they seem to sing as one choir about the fundamental signs of distinction between the creatures destined to the podium and the futile extras of the most unlucky desks.
"Steve, are you coming with us?"
Why does that damn question still burn today?
Why is that blessed question a gift only now?
"Yes,” the lie, ”no,” the truth, or, ”yes,” the worst falsehood, which is only a ‘no’ disguised as absence due to the usual, sudden fever of the professional loser.
"What's wrong?" The second question, even more unbearable, then, the only one worth remembering, now.
Nothing, mum, the inevitable answer.
So, here is the initiative of the desperate adolescent: ”Well, there is something... would you give me the money to buy a pair of new shoes?"
Here it is, Steve, this is what you can have, I think by observing the small bunch of coins that the adorable lady with multiple jobs can reap.
Stubbornness, it is my sin of the time.
What I read now is fantasy.
A moment later I wander among the stalls of the used stuff’s market and I see them.
They are not the original ones, they will never be, and above all the colour is wrong.
It's right now, but not then.
Nonetheless, the price is perfect.
It also advances something to give back to mom, great!
So I return home what I think to deserve with, the best that is up to the fake imitators of school stars.
But I don’t give up, I take the photo of the perfect ones from a magazine, and I bring my couple of Cinderella’s in the bathroom with the box of tempera.
I'm an artist, I tell myself, while I work up. They look the same, they seem true, I do.
When I'm done I'm proud of me, I put them on my feet and look at my face in the mirror.
I won too, despite everything.
So my mother comes in and sees the paint on the floor. I immediately close the door with incomprehensible shame, as if I had been surprised during a theft, and I hasten to clean up.
"It’s not important,” she exclaims, adding words that I only remember now.
It’s washable...
The next day I am at school and, light as the air that only the divinities in the classroom can breathe, flying above the mortals between the companions.
This is the dream, which begins with the first bell, this is the nightmare that makes its way through the second one.
At the metaphorical midnight, magic disappears, the forgotten shoes are two and I’m with them.
Because as soon as I'm in the street, in the crowd of students, it starts to rain and the water shows them my real nature.
The sneers and above all the laughing still echo today, under the hoods and the shelter of the umbrellas.
As I am smiling too, now.
"Steve,” Mary implores, ”please, come next to me, do you want to get sick?"
Instead I keep on remembering, feeling good and every second better.
Because the rain has finally erased the empty ballast of adolescence and brought to light the lovable essential.
Thanks, Mom.

Wednesday, May 16, 2018

Where nothing is

Stories and News No. 1096

Where nothing is.
Where there is nothing,
fourteen years old Wesal Sheikh Khalil has died.
She was one of over sixty victims in Gaza last Monday while Israeli snipers fired tens of thousands of protesters along the perimeter fence.
Where there is still now a whole nothingness, a young girl had already made plans for her funeral: "If they were to shoot me during the protests at the border, Mom, bury me in the exact spot where I died, or maybe, next to my grandfather's grave."
Because where there is nothing, Wesal thought death was better than her life, that’s what her mother said the day after her youngest daughter’s disappearance.

This happens where nothing was and still is.
Because where there is only emptiness, with an unprecedented ease, you could give love. Almost as much as that which allows you to sell hatred and resentment, masking them for the latter.
In fact, the power of nothing in the hands of others is immense.
Everyone can write about it, no one will claim rights.
You can lie without restraint, on nothing, so nobody will understand the mistake.
Anyone can take advantage of that same nonentity, since there is no crime and no penalty for that.
Yet, from nothing you may come to light, and then grow up with the illusion of being the latter’s children, as well as the flesh’s, composed of the same ability to get anywhere with the speed that hope deserves.
Everything, except nothingness.
Really everything, except to witness the rise of barriers dictated by a logic that only madness can create, and at the same time see the boundaries of your own soul dissolving, to become one with your shadow.
Because where there is nothing, nobody must aspire to anything else.
There is a plan, for nothing, you know?
There has always been and ever will be.
In short, convincing its inhabitants not to exist at all.
At the same time, as monotonous and incessant refrain to share with the seemingly unsuspecting spectators, nothing has happened, that is, everything, until both the negatives will annihilate each other, and the thread that leads to this diabolical labyrinth’s exit, we’ve hidden life and truth in, will be definitely lost.
It’s tiring and very expensive to put on such farcical but tragic game of geographic cards.
It takes important sponsors, suggestive, almost hypnotic choreographies and writers with a strong stomach and a pen supported by regime critics.
In order that those who should dare to stand up for nothing, could be accused of everything, the rules must be written in simple words and, especially, imposed with maniacal assiduity, seeming reasonable to the most doubtful mind.
Where there is nothing, it’s useless to look at.
Where there is nothing, going there is superfluous.
Where there is nothing, nobody lives, and everyone has to do nothing but die...


On the same topic:
No future?

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What are viruses today

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Friday, May 11, 2018

Beyond the limits of world’s madness

Stories and News No. 1095

Dear Earth, here is Jalousie, Haitian slums.
Beyond the boundaries of world’s madness, we live by vocation, we survive by necessity.
We write true stories, for the sake of those waiting for us, outside the horizon that will have the good luck to see the new dawn.

After the earthquake, after the evil face that the cruel dice called fate showed us, we are here, together.
So, while in your countries your governments cannot even agree on the power gained over hatred and lies, we try to learn how to change the game’s rules.
When it will happen, because it will do, don’t thank us.
Help us now.
We are eighty thousand, in crumbling and fragile houses that are hardly held up, a bit like the
empathy that still binds you each other.
The hygiene of places intended for living is lacking, and rivers of plastic indifferently flow, accompanying our going as if it were normal.
The rooms are emptied of everything except hope.
Yet, despite your latitudes you feel helpless in the face of yet another aggravation of the conflict between the usual enemies, in turn maneuvered as eternal puppets by the infamous oil-eater monster, we dance, yes, we dance on the nothing.
Which, paradoxically, not always, but at least for a day, becomes better than everything.
Nevertheless, don’t believe conquering the next day will be easy.
We don’t profit on falsehoods.
Time for the truth of things is as precious as water, here.
That's why even today we cannot understand how you don’t see that the weight we choose to wear on the head, neglecting hairstyles and futile thoughts, is at risk everywhere.
Nobody should feel quenched indefinitely.
Nevertheless, while in the most pleasant side of the picture you daily throw yourself into the fray, hoping to reach the five seconds of virality, by forcing an incessant uploading of your most personal intimacy, we choose instead to take only the essential burden.
That is, indeed always, every sacrosanct instant of our existence, absolutely all.
Then night falls, and with it the natural consequence, its majesty, the darkness, a truly
fickle sovereign, which, every time he likes, forces us to make use of the most cheapest fuel cheap on the market, to make us light.
Read it also how the burning desire to see each other, at the end of another journey together. And though beyond the walls raised to protect your safety, you feel every sunset more in danger, we fill our hearts with joy before a light bulb that does only its duty.
So, in the silence that gradually becomes master of the rest’s time, we can finally understand that we are not only shadows and extras, on this absurd planet.
And unless you choose it voluntarily.
None of us ever is.


On the same topic:
Play read and sing

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What are viruses today

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Thursday, May 10, 2018

When my son opened his eyes

When my son opened his eyes

By
Alessandro Ghebreigziabiher


Yes, I know, it's wrong.
A mother shouldn’t do that to another mother.
She should understand.
I apologize, I beg her pardon here, on this page, hoping she’ll read it, I can’t do more of that, but it was stronger than me.
When she told her daughter loudly that the teacher had complimented her beautiful blue eyes, I couldn’t control myself.
I shouldn’t say those dirty words, I know.
I say again, I am mortified, but...
Is it possible that I always have to understand others?
Is there a moment, like a sort of day dedicated to us, mothers of different families, in which the rest of the world must understand us?
Let's do that now, then, inside this short story, which has got its favorable outcome the moment I entered the doctor's office to take my Matthew and I found the man standing on the desk trying to do the juggler with his pens.
I thought my child had problems…
And what problems...
What's up with the kid? The most frequent question.
Is he blind? The most obvious one.
He's afraid? The less founded.
He has no problem, he's not sick, people.
Simply, my son has got his eyes closed. He sees us perfectly, maybe even too much, but he keeps his eyelids lowered most of the time.
I tried everything, with my husband we tried in every way to communicate with him, and although he is only seven years old, Matthew is perspicacious, he understands all is happening around him.
Perhaps the peculiarity of the stunt in his young age is due to that, as if the most complex souls made more noise falling down.
So, the PSY’s procession began, as my mother-in-law calls them, never stopping to insinuate that there is nothing serious in the nephew, pointing a finger on the maternal education, where latter adjective eloquently elucidates the target.
No results, between those who honestly gave up, and those who took advantage of the mysterious self-blindness to continue getting the fee.
Then, at a dinner with friends, a strange and new entry girl as the nth my brother’s fiancée talks about a particularly nice psychologist.
I asked: is he good?
No, she answers, but it makes me laugh, and that's good, right?
Despite zero confidence in the future, I went to this therapist with the sense of humor, I left Matthew to him and I sat in the waiting room to pretend reading a magazine, as most of the shy people like me do.
Suddenly I heard a bang coming from the office, like some broken glass.
I opened the door wide and saw the fragments of the penholder on the ground and the above scene.
It took me a few seconds to understand, to smile again and fully understand.
My son has his eyes closed because in there he shows the courage, which most of us don’t have, to face the darkness and to colour it with wonderful lightness.
The crazy doctor will not be a genius of psychoanalysis, but he understood it right away.
Thus, my son has opened his eyes.
And finally, I opened them too.

Wednesday, May 9, 2018

What are nuclear weapons

Stories and News No. 1094

What are nuclear weapons?
You have no idea.
They are very dangerous stuff, capable of destroying everything and everyone, the fearful souls say.
They are the truly no return way, an eternal falling, between dust and darkness, the weakness professionals add.
They are naive chemistry’s cursed children, imagined by a servant and deaf science before the only nobility that might give meaning to it, in short, to preserve. This is the only reason to exploit brains and techniques: to safeguard the free gifts discarded upon arrival on this poor planet
.
That’s what the prophets with soft skin around the heart used to claim.

Good words, yes they are, but life is an unprecedented cruel editor that imposes merciless review of our poetic interpretation of the world.
You need bigger and firmer hands, that have known the lightness of a lucky birth, but who have also shown a clear temper to become iron in front of the enemy.
That's why we offer cold eyes and a wide view, that know how to recognize opportunities in the soft fruits, but who have no hesitation, where it is necessary to eradicate them from the ground to protect the chosen ones.
Now you’ll understand why we cannot allow any atom democracy.
The nucleus is a god of simple forms, harmless only by size, with potential inversely proportional to the latter, whose favors should be granted only to the selected ones.
Who are they?
Which feature should distinguish them?
Simple.
Awareness of knowing, this is the prerogative of the designated creatures, never its opposite, forerunner, Socratic habit.
Let's say it aloud.
Diabolical human creations should never be a matter for philosophers, capable only of slowing down the planet’s transformation into an ordered system, in the name of practicality.
Nonetheless, they insist with their illusions of a quiet and tolerant coexistence, occasionally managing to deceive a majority of people.
Despite that, have you wondered why, when the breath of these dreamy singers is exhausted, we return to the saddle, even bolder and angrier than before?
You don’t know, do you?
We tell you.
Peace between two wars will ever be harder than a good world conflict, rigorously fought beyond our borders.
So, relax on your synthetic armchairs and let as dope you with our phantasmagorical app’s.
Nuclear weapons?
We know what they are, you don’t.
Leave us the power to decide who or what.
Because we know better than everyone what it means to possess them, and above all, launch them on unarmed citizens...



Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bombings, August 6 and 9, 1945


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Friday, May 4, 2018

Ikea Swedish meatballs are Turkish and other discoveries

Stories and News No. 1093

The nationalist’s paradox...

He says, I'm a rightist, and he yells as well.
I’m for everyone in his country, he remarks immediately afterwards.
Defending the local product, he adds with renewed vigor, given the results of recent elections.
Our values and our culture come first of all, he explains with emphasis.
Maybe sheltered by a reassuring keyboard and the convenience of an Ikea armchair, as the table in the kitchen, the bedside ones in the bedroom and all the new shelves that are so nice to put on the pretty little things.
Never books, never.
Ikea is also Swedish, he observes, Nordic, Aryan and blonde like us... and so on.

But they lied, it is pointed out, the meatballs that they have sold until today as a typical dish are Turkish...
He remains banned, with a hanging expression, so his brain, like the laptop hourglass where the user's request imposes a surplus of work.
Thus, according to the dialectical rules of modern right-handedness, it finds courage and doesn’t give up on evidence.
So? He exclaims with decisive boldness.
Then, afterwards, in a totally free and chaotic speech.
The numbers are Arabic.
And my cell phone is Chinese.
As well as my daughter’s toys and lots of stuff at home.
The TV is Korean, all right.
And the car outside is German, I confess.
This morning's coffee comes from Brazil.
And the bananas of the usual, breakfast smoothie are from Senegal.
You think I don’t know?
Do you really think I ignore that the hands who used to clean my house come from Romania, the ones who take care of my mother are Polish and those who remember to pick up my son at school are Indians?
Yes, of course, even those who clean the windshield and supply me with gasoline in the morning.
And what about those that weigh my fruits? Wrong, they’re not Indian, but Egyptian!
However, the ones that made my Nike shoes are Filipino.
They are small hands, do they count as well?
In this case, there are also the tiny and innocent fingers that in Africa take care to dispose of the abnormal quantity of electronic stuff I dislike.
But I insist: so what?
My coat is Spanish.
And the priest I hear at Church is Peruvian, what's strange?
The beer my wife bought for Sunday's game is Belgian.
And my pants are French, I understand, I admit it!
Where are you going, with this?!

The man strives strenuously to remain all in one piece, proud and stubborn as a finger that claims to own a star, just after pointed it on an August night.
So, with shortness of breath and with the last remaining energy, he concludes: I remain a right-wing citizen and I stand proudly to protect my land and its fruits, so that my nation will not be contaminated by foreign invasion…


On the same topic:
I am different

Watch the video storytelling with English subtitles:
What are viruses today

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Thursday, May 3, 2018

She’s too beautiful

She’s too beautiful

By
Alessandro Ghebreigziabiher


A story on the contrary in quite another universe, where in an overturned world the imperfect reigns, to the detriment of the exceptions...

"Catherine, stop crying, come on..."
"No, Mom, I can’t..."
"Yes, you can, clean your nose and wash your face..."
The girl, a step away from eighteen, is sitting on the floor in the bathroom. She raises her head and shows red eyes and mascara’s tears on her face. So, she pulls up and obeys her mother.
After drying her face, she starts to stare at the image reflected in the mirror.
"It's better, right?"
"No, Mom, it's no better at all... I have been hours here trying lots of makeups for tomorrow's party, after spending months studying those damned Youtube video tutorials. I need some special effects... or maybe something magical..."
"You're too hard on yourself, Catherine, you have to appreciate yourself more, you have to accept yourself for what you are."
"You make it easy..."
"What do you mean?"
"You're ugly, you've always been, Mom."
"It's not true..."
"Yes, it is, Dad always says it. Your mother is the ugliest woman in the world..."
"Your father always exaggerates..."
"But that's it, mom, my friends think so too."
"Oh yes? And what do they say? "
"What a wonderful long nose she has, how can she see us with those crooked eyes, what a fantastic toothless ant-bear lips and so on."
"The ant-bear has no teeth, dear."
"Okay, but you see what I mean. I will never be as ugly as you..."
"Why?"
"Because I'm beautiful, Mom!"
"It's not true…"
"I'm too beautiful, I'm perfect, damn, look!"
"Where?"
"Look at me in the mirror, mom. I have a straight and measured nose, the line of my eyes is so precise to seem drawn. And the mouth... do we want to talk about it?"
"Let's talk about."
"Are you kidding me, mom?"
"No, Catherine..."
"You see?"
"What?"
"The mouth! It’s so beautiful that it seems fake. I look fake, mom! Like a doll, like a picture that came out too good, that is bad, better, that is worse, like the nastiest canvas in the world. But by a blind painter, mom, because only a sightless person could paint something beautiful..."
"No… please, Catherine, don’t start crying again..."
The girl stops just in time the new hemorrhage of adolescent suffering and after another mighty blow, returns hers look on the mirror.
"Do you know what I've come to think?"
"What, dear?"
"I thought to meet those doctors who break your nose and move your eyes at random. A friend of mine told me that they have opened a place outside the city, the clinic Picasso, I think it's called like that... "
"Are you crazy, Catherine?"
"Yes, sorry, Mom, it's foolish, I know..."
"Do you know what the real madness is?"
"What?"
"To think that ugliness is the most important thing in life."
"And what's worth more, mom?"
"Time."
"Time?"
"Yes, time is the only wealth that matters. Because it marks the body of each one of us and sooner or later it comes the moment to admire in the mirror the imperfections which life has written our story about ourselves with. "
"Do you mean we all get ugly?"
"Well, we don’t get any nicer, at the end."
"Well, I can’t wait to be old, then."
"Don’t rush, Caty."
"But what do I do in the meantime?"
"In the meantime, honey, can you be just happy?"

Wednesday, May 2, 2018

When kangaroos get mad

Stories and News No. 1092

It’s an inevitable phenomenon as not negligible, being angry, you know? Like glaciation and sunset, it concerns everyone, human beings and us, living creatures and each underrated fragment of mother earth, which hosts and tolerates everything.
Nevertheless, there is a congenital limit, a boiling point for an iron patience too.
Indeed, don’t say that we - ambiguously called beasts, have not had any so far.
It was often confused by trivial submissiveness, as it happens to our common propensity to respect the natural constitution’s harmony.

A perfect source code which, until proven otherwise, you are also a part of.
We don’t hide behind a claw, here and now, and we do confess to begin having serious doubts about it.
We haven't yet made public claims, because it would be nothing but a resounding assistance to those conspiracy theorists of the hamsters, who are among the most fervent supporters of the sadist biped’s alien origins.
That's right, they used to call you like that, but try to understand. After whole generations in those damned cages running on the wheel, the resentment grows with every turn of the latter.
Nonetheless, we have so far followed the rules suggested by his majesty the instinct, accepting every habit of your crazy, humanizing crusade of the living realm.
If this is what nature asks, we entrust ourselves to it with devotion, we said, before suffering your dedication in transforming the planet into your image and likeness.
How much we changed, until today.
To be like you, you made us fight each other without a valid reason. And you forced us to migrate from our original land against our own will, but you may also read escape.
You taught us to no longer trust the consistency of sun and rain, wind and cold. And you introduced us to the paradoxical solitude in the middle of the herd.
You got us used to living in captivity. And you gave us the fear of getting rid of it.
You pushed us to be wary of the other species, not just yours. And you have led us to forget that once there were many more.
You have also made us adapt to evil, not just to nature itself. And you have convinced us that there is no difference between the two.
You have made us consider water no longer as a gift, but as a good to defend. And soon we’ll do the same with air too.
The earth and all we share.
To no longer be like us.
Despite this, due to bad luck or good fortune, there is a breaking point for everyone.
There is no doubt that you are making us more like you than we have ever been, but it was only a matter of time, after having even made us eat your garbage, that some of us got angry and kicked you out…



The kangaroos have kicked and injured body and face with claws the tourists who use to feed the animals with inappropriate food, such as chips and McDonald’s leftovers (New South Wales, Australia)
On the same topic:
300 whales killed in Japan

Watch the video storytelling with English subtitles:
What are viruses today

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Buy my English Italian, dual language books
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Watch my last storytelling show with English and Italian subtitles Sunset
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