The whole secret of existence is to have no fear.
Never fear what will become of you, depend on no one.
Only the moment you reject all help are you freed.
7.11.10
29.10.10
25.10.10
La catastrofe perfecta.
¿Cómo arrancar a miles de millones de personas de la miseria del subdesarrollo sin hundirlas en un modelo neoliberal, productivista, nefasto para el planeta y para toda la humanidad?
La catastrofe perfecta.Ignacio Ramonet
La catastrofe perfecta.Ignacio Ramonet
24.9.10
I have a dream
Una diferencia sustancial de cómo y por qué se tiene que convocar al pueblo.
C&P
I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.
Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.
But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. And so we've come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.
In a sense we've come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the "unalienable Rights" of "Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note, insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked "insufficient funds."
But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. And so, we've come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice.
We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.
It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. And those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. And there will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.
But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice: In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.
The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom.
We cannot walk alone.
And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead.
We cannot turn back.
There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. *We cannot be satisfied as long as the negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their self-hood and robbed of their dignity by a sign stating: "For Whites Only."* We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until "justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream."
I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. And some of you have come from areas where your quest -- quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive. Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed.
Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.
And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.
I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."
I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.
I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.
I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
I have a dream today!
I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of "interposition" and "nullification" -- one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.
I have a dream today!
I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; "and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together."²
This is our hope, and this is the faith that I go back to the South with.
With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.
And this will be the day -- this will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with new meaning:
My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.
Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim's pride,
From every mountainside, let freedom ring!
And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true.
And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire.
Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.
Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of
Pennsylvania.
Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.
Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.
But not only that:
Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.
Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.
Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.
From every mountainside, let freedom ring.
And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:
Free at last! Free at last!
Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!
21.9.10
Enjoy Poverty
COPY & PASTE
Enjoy Poverty is a disturbing 80 minute film that attempts to expose and lay bare the inherent viciousness of poverty’s status quo. It draws parallels between the economics of poverty and the psychology of western consumption and aid.
It attempts to symbolize the perversity of our own societies, the dramas and the obscure fascination we have with death. So long as it happens far away, we can remain comforted, but only just.
Dutch artist Renzo Martens, who spent two years filming the documentary in the Democratic Republic of Congo, calls it a work of art where he instructs the people he meets to see their poverty as a natural resource like gold or copper. His interaction with them is detached, his voice monotone, a white man strolling through a landscape and in an environment he could not possibly ever understand and nor does he pretend to.
But unlike some documentaries about poverty and war, Enjoy Poverty presents an even stronger commentary about the western narrative on Africa’s suffering. The starving child, the uprooted families, the war, the famine, all these conditions that we associate with Africa come to fore - and are bought and sold for our consumption.
A photo of starving child can net 50 USD. A photo of a wedding is worth nothing. As such, the economy of poverty and war is a reflection of not only how we view the world but also mirrors a disturbing trend in our own societies - at least that is what this film wants us to believe.
Taken as a whole, the film works to make us (the west) acknowledge the exploitation of poverty and in a sense, it delivers that message. However, isolated in its individual parts, the message begins to unravel by making some unsubstantiated claims on donors.
It implies that Medicines Sans Frontieres is both there to help but also to exploit. At one point, we see MSF leaving an area that still requires aid. On shore, the camera lens follows the MSF crew as it slowly drifts away on a barge. Left behind are the women and children. But this scene, while shocking, is not really contextualized. An MSF official offers a court response; but with no follow-up and no investigation we are forced to view the departure as an injustice. For the committed individuals at MSF, the decontextualization will surely offend.
Martens wants the poor to profit from their poverty. He views international aid organizations and journalists in the same light as corporations mining diamonds, gold and copper. IDP tents are stamped with logos. Food delivery bags are also branded in similar ways.
As he enters one village in central Congo he begins to mount a sign. He then primes a generator, pulls the cord, and up lights the words in brilliant blue hues ‘Enjoy Poverty.’ His hosts stare at the sign.
At night, the light bathes their faces, some perplexed, others questioning the man’s motivation. Apart and detached from the spectacle, Martens looks on with a quiet demeanor.
“You can’t give them anything they don’t already have. You shouldn’t give them anything they don’t have. You should train them, empower them. There are new opportunities, new markets, new products. The people in the forest…,” he concludes ” have no clue.”
Martens, entirely conscious of his dominant and pedantic role, becomes the consumer of suffering and thus attempts to personify the true face and motivation of the west.
To drive his skewed point home, Martens shows two well dressed aid workers taking photos of ragged refugees under tents stitched with UN logos. Behind the camera, the aid workers smile apprehensively. The smiles are the expression of the status quo, a click of photo, a snap shot into a world where logos and do-gooders find themselves face to face with a reality they are not truly prepared to assume.
Granted, there is some truth to his message, but it leaves out some fundamentals. Journalists and aid workers also bare witness to these events and while some may interpret their intentions as selfish, others see it as vital and courageous. Nonetheless, the lives of those we film are invariably distant from the ones we lead and somewhere along the way, the sincerity of humanitarian acts intertwined with media, makes for a troubling scenario because its decor is draped with the destroyed lives of so many people. This is no stage.
In so doing, he wants us to to realize that we are all that individual behind the camera. And more importantly, he wants us to realize that the person photographed is not just another damned face of Africa.
16.9.10
18.8.10
14.8.10
T.S. Elliot
En este podrido agujero entre montañas
a la luz de la luna, canta la hierba
sobre las lápidas caídas, en torno a la capilla.
La capilla está vacía, hogar sólo del viento.
No tiene ventanas, y la puerta oscila,
los huesos secos a nadie engañan.
Sólo un gallo se yergue en el tejado,
Quiquiriquí, quiquiriquí,
al resplandor de un rayo. Después una ráfaga húmeda,
henchida de lluvia.
El Ganga corría bajo, y las hojas lacias
aguardaban la lluvia, mientras los nubarrones
se agolpaban a lo lejos, sobre el Himavant.
La jungla acechaba, agazapada y silenciosa.
Entonces habló el trueno.
Tierra baldía
T.S. Elliot
a la luz de la luna, canta la hierba
sobre las lápidas caídas, en torno a la capilla.
La capilla está vacía, hogar sólo del viento.
No tiene ventanas, y la puerta oscila,
los huesos secos a nadie engañan.
Sólo un gallo se yergue en el tejado,
Quiquiriquí, quiquiriquí,
al resplandor de un rayo. Después una ráfaga húmeda,
henchida de lluvia.
El Ganga corría bajo, y las hojas lacias
aguardaban la lluvia, mientras los nubarrones
se agolpaban a lo lejos, sobre el Himavant.
La jungla acechaba, agazapada y silenciosa.
Entonces habló el trueno.
Tierra baldía
T.S. Elliot
27.7.10
March of Democrazy
Para mi gusto tiene demasiadas lagunas e incertezas, pero no deja de ser curioso.
"No one pretends that democracy is perfect or all-wise. Indeed, it has been said that democracy is the worst form of government except all those other forms that have been tried from time to time."
- Winston Churchill, 1947 A.D.
"No one pretends that democracy is perfect or all-wise. Indeed, it has been said that democracy is the worst form of government except all those other forms that have been tried from time to time."
- Winston Churchill, 1947 A.D.
2.7.10
14.6.10
The grapes of warth.
'Then, who we shoot?'
No hace falta que ponga la introducción a este trailer de la película de John Ford, porque ya está explicado tras el mismo. Sorprendentemente, el presentador pone palabras a mi propio pensamiento. Puede que ahora no llevemos los monos vaqueros, los pantalanes por los tobillos o el mismo vestido durante semanas, pero en lo esencial, revivimos lo que ocurre en la película.
Hay que ver la película.
No hace falta que ponga la introducción a este trailer de la película de John Ford, porque ya está explicado tras el mismo. Sorprendentemente, el presentador pone palabras a mi propio pensamiento. Puede que ahora no llevemos los monos vaqueros, los pantalanes por los tobillos o el mismo vestido durante semanas, pero en lo esencial, revivimos lo que ocurre en la película.
Hay que ver la película.
31.5.10
21.5.10
A galopar
Emociona todo, pero más que nada, las palabras de Alberti de agradecimiento.
Yo he llorado de emoción.
GALOPE
Las tierras, las tierras, las tierras de España,
las grandes, las solas, desiertas llanuras.
Galopa, caballo cuatralbo,
jinete del pueblo,
al sol y a la luna.
¡A galopar,
a galopar,
hasta enterrarlos en el mar!
A corazón suenan, resuenan, resuenan
las tierras de España, en las herraduras.
Galopa, jinete del pueblo,
caballo cuatralbo,
caballo de espuma.
¡A galopar,
a galopar,
hasta enterrarlos en el mar!
Nadie, nadie, nadie, que enfrente no hay nadie;
que es nadie la muerte si va en tu montura.
Galopa, caballo cuatralbo,
jinete del pueblo,
que la tierra es tuya.
¡A galopar,
a galopar,
hasta enterrarlos en el mar!
4.5.10
25.2.10
22.2.10
19.2.10
16.2.10
generous heart
Teach this triple truth to all:
A generous heart,
kind speech,
and a life of service and compassion
are the things which renew humanity.
A generous heart,
kind speech,
and a life of service and compassion
are the things which renew humanity.
12.2.10
4.2.10
21.1.10
20.1.10
18.1.10
22.12.09
2.12.09
27.11.09
25.11.09
¡habrá poesía!
Siempre me ha gustado esta rima:
No digáis que, agotado su tesoro,
de asuntos falta, enmudeció la lira;
podrá no haber poetas; pero siempre
habrá poesía.
Mientras las ondas de la luz al beso
palpiten encendidas,
mientras el sol las desgarradas nubes
de fuego y oro vista,
mientras el aire en su regazo lleve
perfumes y armonías,
mientras haya en el mundo primavera,
¡habrá poesía!
Mientras la ciencia a descubrir no alcance
las fuentes de la vida,
y en el mar o en el cielo haya un abismo
que al cálculo resista,
mientras la humanidad siempre avanzando
no sepa a dó camina,
mientras haya un misterio para el hombre,
¡habrá poesía!
Mientras se sienta que se ríe el alma,
sin que los labios rían;
mientras se llore, sin que el llanto acuda
a nublar la pupila;
mientras el corazón y la cabeza
batallando prosigan,
mientras haya esperanzas y recuerdos,
¡habrá poesía!
Mientras haya unos ojos que reflejen
los ojos que los miran,
mientras responda el labio suspirando
al labio que suspira,
mientras sentirse puedan en un beso
dos almas confundidas,
mientras exista una mujer hermosa,
¡habrá poesía!
No digáis que, agotado su tesoro,
de asuntos falta, enmudeció la lira;
podrá no haber poetas; pero siempre
habrá poesía.
Mientras las ondas de la luz al beso
palpiten encendidas,
mientras el sol las desgarradas nubes
de fuego y oro vista,
mientras el aire en su regazo lleve
perfumes y armonías,
mientras haya en el mundo primavera,
¡habrá poesía!
Mientras la ciencia a descubrir no alcance
las fuentes de la vida,
y en el mar o en el cielo haya un abismo
que al cálculo resista,
mientras la humanidad siempre avanzando
no sepa a dó camina,
mientras haya un misterio para el hombre,
¡habrá poesía!
Mientras se sienta que se ríe el alma,
sin que los labios rían;
mientras se llore, sin que el llanto acuda
a nublar la pupila;
mientras el corazón y la cabeza
batallando prosigan,
mientras haya esperanzas y recuerdos,
¡habrá poesía!
Mientras haya unos ojos que reflejen
los ojos que los miran,
mientras responda el labio suspirando
al labio que suspira,
mientras sentirse puedan en un beso
dos almas confundidas,
mientras exista una mujer hermosa,
¡habrá poesía!
27.10.09
El Caballo Amarillo. Diario de un terrorista ruso
El Caballo Amarillo. Diario de un terrorista ruso.
Leo
"Savinkov es un burgués con una bomba en el bolsillo"
Vladimir Ilich Ulianov, Lenin
C&P
28 de abril
En el parque todavía hay luz. Los tilos están desnudos, pero loa avellanos florecen. Los pájaros cantan entre los brotes jóvenes.
Yelena está agachada cogiendo flores. Se gira y mira sonriendo:
- ¡Qué maravilla...!¿No te parece un día alegre y luminoso?
Sí, me siento lleno de felicidad y de luz. Miro sus ojos, quiero decirle que ella misma es la felicidad personificada, la luminosidad. Sonrío de forma involuntaria.
- Llevo tanto tiempo sin verte - me dice - ¿Dónde has estado?¿Cómohas vivido?¿Qué cosas has visto?¿Has pensado alguna vez en mí?
Se ruboriza antes de que pueda darle una respuesta.
- Estaba tan preocupada por ti...
No recuerdo haber vivido nunca un momento como éste. Los lirios del valle están florecidos y la primavera puede respirarse. Nubes como ovejas lanosas se diluyen en el cielo, las unas dentro de las otras. Mi alma no cabe en sí de gozo: Yelena se preocupa por mí.
- ¿Sabes? Vivo sin prestarle atención a la vida. Te miro y me pareces otra persona, alguien dulce y tierno. Sí, para mí eres como un extraño...¿Acaso te conozco?¿Acaso me conoces? No necesitamos... No necesitamos saber nada el uno del otro. Estamos bien así, ¿no te parece?¿No es cierto que así estamos bien...?
Y añade sonriendo y en voz baja:
- No, tienes que decírmelo ¿A qué te has dedicado?¿Cómo has vivido?
- Pero tú lo sabes - le digo, y ella baja los ojos.
- Entonces, ¿es cierto?¿Eres uno de esos terroristas?
- Lo soy.
Una sombra parpadea en su rostro. Me toma de la mano sin decir nada.
- Escucha - dice al fin - No entiendo nada de política. Pero explícame una cosa. ¿Por qué necesitas matar?¿Por qué? Mira qué hermoso es todo... Es primavera, los campos florecen, los pájaros cantan. ¿Y en qué te hace pensar?¿Es que vives sólo para la muerte? Dime, amor mío, ¿por qué?
Quiero decirle que una mancha de sangre sólo se lava con más sangre, que estamos obligados en contra de nuestra voluntad, que una revolución necesita del terrorismo, y que la gente necesita una revolución. Pero lo cierto es que no soy capaz de articular palabras. Porque sé que para ella sólo serán eso, palabras, y que jamás llegará a comprenderme.
...
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