Bartleby farewell letter to his readers

Dear readers:

It is difficult to explain my end, many do not understand, I can only say that my final represents the human duality and how I see the world.

I can only say that my neglect to answer, to stop doing what is ordered me, or what society considers politically correct at the time of a life, is not easy, as many, I had many doubts at first, but seeing so much rottenness in the human race, I lost all desire to act like the others, my faith in humanity disappeared, and I managed to strengthen my will to do what he identifies me “I would prefer don’t do it”. A small but significant words that achieved to confuse the owner of the law office, at the point that he could feel some sympathy for me; I rebelled against the world without raising a weapon, without hurting anyone physically, although I caused much confusion in a man who moved in a harsh environment, who was swimming with sharks.

I am proud to have accomplished much, with “I would prefer don’t do it” I hope you will power becomes fierce as mine, perhaps many of the things I did, you can’t do them, but I want to make a precedent, the will of one man can achieve many things, use will to boost your lives, find north and do what you like.

In my case, I did the things I wanted, I died in solitude, I was always faithful to my principles of denial. Few people achieve to die doing something that they really love. “I died in my own law” I was master of my fate from start to finish.

Dear readers, do not want to feel sorry for me, thinking I was the master of my life, the only one responsible for my end, nobody could control my destiny. If you achieve to do the same, it will be a great feat, as I did, you may feel real owners of yourselves.

With Love

Bartleby.

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Nobody is Kenya

On January 7, 2015 the world quaked before the massacre of eleven journalists’ Charlie Hebdo in Paris. Black silks, convictions of all the international leaders, covers, details of attack, je suis Charlie, everyone was. In almost every corner of the world the people wrote about freedom of expression, on the development of the islam and the integration of Muslims in secular France. There was talk of sociology, history, psychology unheard verbiage. Mass demonstrations, all the streets, must condemn the attack. All went Charlie.

On March 24, the news event offers us another blow to the spirit: Germanwings flight 9525, a subsidiary of Lufthansa, crashed in the Alps, leaving 150 casualities. Dead men and women who hurt us, for the essence of tragedy. It was no accident, it was a deliberate act of a kamikaze decided to occupy a name in the history of aviation passenger. Congratulations, Andreas Lubitz, you got it.

We shudder and we continue doing so as the investigation proceeds. An array of experts has invaded the media during the last two weeks: psychiatrists and psychologists, pilots, recruitment experts and other specialists who wanted to get in the investigation. And it is well. All were germanwings. All were the Airbus A320. An all continue being.

On April 2, another tragedy strikes, albeit with less force: the murder of 147 students at the University of Garissa, Kenya, by Al Shabab militia. it doesn’t open covers, a little is reported and bad, correspondents of major national newspapers report from Burkina Faso, from South Africa, from Madagascar, thousands of kilometers. They do what they can. But … Where are the special envoys? Disgust dead rotting somewhere in the newsroom. No money to send anyone. Not to Kenya.

Where are the Africanist, experts in terrorism or international policy, theologians attempt to explain why the slaughter in Kenya? In our ears Al Shabab, Boko Haram, Al Qaeda, the Islamic State … all is the same. The Specialists (again I repeat,  the specialists, not the pundits) probably tell you that is not true, it probably explain the reasons for this bloody attack (if they may be reasons), the objective of Al Shabab, the impact of this attack. But that will not happen, Kenya will never be in the covers, international leaders never go outside to say No to terrorism in the basement of the world, never hundreds of thousands of people hitting the streets to condemn something you do not care, we are left Going to be away? No one will be Garissa, because the dead beyond our navel not interested.

Based on these criteria, comes to light why not interested in the slaughter of Kenya, or citizens, or to the media. It is not profitable because it produces no emotion, no psychological proximity to the subject of the event and because after all … nobody cares what happens in Africa, unfortunately. The media, they are not interested in that interests us what happens in Africa., Unfortunately.

Foam and nothing else

Here is a very awsome story by Hernando Tellez, written in 1908.

Translated by me.

He said nothing when he entered. I was passing the best of my razors back and forth on a strop. When I recognized him I started to tremble. But he didn’t notice. Hoping to conceal my emotion, I continued sharpening the razor. I tested it on the meat of my thumb, and then held it up to the light. At that moment be took off the bullet-studded belt that his gun holster dangled from. He hung it up on a wall hook and placed his military cap over it. Then be turned to me, loosening the knot of his tie, and said, “It’s hot as hell. Give me a shave.” He sat in the chair.
I estimated be bad a four-day beard. The four days taken up by the latest expedition in search of our troops. His face seemed reddened, burned by the sun. Carefully, I began to prepare the soap. I cut off a few slices, dropped them into the cup, mixed in a bit of warm water, and began to stir with the brush. Immediately the foam began to rise. “The other boys in the group should have this much beard, too.” I continued stirring the lather.

“But we did all right, you know. We got the main ones. We brought back some dead, and we’ve got some others still alive. But pretty soon they’ll all be dead.”

“How many did you catch?” I asked.

“Fourteen. We had to go pretty deep into the woods to find them. But we’ll get even. Not one of them comes out of this alive, not one.”

He leaned back on the chair when he saw me with the lather-covered brush in my hand. I still had to put the sheet on him. No doubt about it, I was upset. I took a sheet out of a drawer and knotted it around my customer’s neck. He wouldn’t stop talking. He probably thought I was in sympathy with his party.

“The town must have learned a lesson from what we did the other day,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied, securing the knot at the base of his dark, sweaty neck.

“That was a fine show, eh?”

“Very good,” I answered, turning back for the brush. The man closed his eyes with a gesture of fatigue and sat waiting for the cool caress of the soap. I had never had him so close to me. The day he ordered the whole town to file into the patio of the school to see the four rebels hanging there, I came face to face with him for an instant. But the sight of the mutilated bodies kept me from noticing the face of the man who had directed it all, the face I was now about to take into my hands. It was not an unpleasant face, certainly. And the beard, which made him seem a bit older than he was, didn’t suit him badly at all. His name was Torres. Captain Torres. A man of imagination, because who else would have thought of hanging the naked rebels and then holding target practice on certain parts of their bodies? I began to apply the first layer of soap. With his eyes closed, be continued. “Without any effort I could go straight to sleep,” he said, “but there’s plenty to do this afternoon.” I stopped the lathering and asked with a feigned lack of interest: “A firing squad?” “Something like that, but a little slower.” I got on with the job of lathering his beard. My bands started trembling again. The man could not possibly realize it, and this was in my favor. But I would have preferred that he hadn’t come. It was likely that many of our faction had seen him enter. And an enemy under one’s roof imposes certain conditions. I would be obliged to shave that beard like any other one, carefully, gently, like that of any customer, taking pains to see that no single pore emitted a drop of blood. Being careful to see that the little tufts of hair did not lead the blade astray. Seeing that his skin ended up clean, soft, and healthy, so that passing the back of my hand over it I couldn’t feel a hair. Yes, I was secretly a rebel, but I was also a conscientious barber, and proud of the preciseness of my profession. And this four-days’ growth of beard was a fitting challenge.

I took the razor, opened up the two protective arms, exposed the blade and began the job, from one of the sideburns downward. The razor responded beautifully. His beard was inflexible and hard, not too long, but thick. Bit by bit the skin emerged. The razor rasped along, making its customary sound as fluffs of lather mixed with bits of hair gathered along the blade. I paused a moment to clean it, then took up the strop again to sharpen the razor, because I’m a barber who does things properly. The man, who had kept his eyes closed, opened them now, removed one of his hands from under the sheet, felt the spot on his face where the soap had been cleared off, and said, “Come to the school today at six o’clock.” “The same thing as the other day?” I asked horrified. “It could be better,” he replied. “What do you plan to do?” “I don’t know yet. But we’ll amuse ourselves.” Once more he leaned back and closed his eyes. I approached him with the razor poised. “Do you plan to punish them all?” I ventured timidly. “All.” The soap was drying on his face. I had to hurry. In the mirror I looked toward the street. It was the same as ever: the grocery store with two or three customers in it. Then I glanced at the clock: two-twenty in the afternoon. The razor continued on its downward stroke. Now from the other sideburn down. A thick, blue beard. He should have let it grow like some poets or priests do. It would suit him well. A lot of people wouldn’t recognize him. Much to his benefit, I thought, as I attempted to cover the neck area smoothly. There, for sure, the razor had to be handled masterfully, since the hair, although softer, grew into little swirls. A curly beard. One of the tiny pores could be opened up and issue forth its pearl of blood. A good barber such as I prides himself on never allowing this to happen to a client. And this was a first-class client. How many of us had he ordered shot? How many of us had he ordered mutilated? It was better not to think about it. Torres did not know that I was his enemy. He did not know it nor did the rest. It was a secret shared by very few, precisely so that I could inform the revolutionaries of what Torres was doing in the town and of what he was planning each time he undertook a rebel-hunting excursion. So it was going to be very difficult to explain that I had him right in my hands and let him go peacefully -alive and shaved.

The beard was now almost completely gone. He seemed younger, less burdened by years than when he had arrived. I suppose this always happens with men who visit barber shops. Under the stroke of my razor Torres was being rejuvenated-rejuvenated because I am a good barber, the best in the town, if I may say so. A little more lather here, under his chin, on his Adam’s apple, on this big vein. How hot it is getting! Torres must be sweating as much as I. But he is not afraid. He is a calm man, who is not even thinking about what he is going to do with the prisoners this afternoon. On the other hand I, with this razor in my hands, stroking and re-stroking this skin, trying to keep blood from oozing from these pores, can’t even think clearly. Damn him for coming, because I’m a revolutionary and not a murderer. And how easy it would be to kill him. And he deserves it. Does be? No! What the devil! No one deserves to have someone else make the sacrifice of becoming a murderer. What do you gain by it? Nothing. Others come along and still others, and the first ones kill the second ones and they the next ones and it goes on like this until everything is a sea of blood. I could cut this throat just so, zip! zip! I wouldn’t give him time to complain and since he has his eyes closed he wouldn’t see the glistening knife blade or my glistening eyes. But I’m trembling like a real murderer. Out of his neck a gush of blood would spout onto the sheet, on the chair, on my hands, on the floor. I would have to close the door. And the blood would keep inching along the floor, warm, ineradicable, uncontainable, until it reached the street, like a little scarlet stream. I’m sure that one solid stroke, one deep incision, would prevent any pain. He wouldn’t suffer. But what would I do with the body? Where would I hide it? I would have to flee, leaving all I have behind, and take refuge far away, far, far away. But they would follow until they found me. “Captain Torres’ murderer. He slit his throat while he was shaving him a coward.” And then on the other side. “The avenger of us all. A name to remember. (And here they would mention my name.) He was the town barber. No one knew he was defending our cause.”

And what of all this? Murderer or hero? My destiny depends on the edge of this blade. I can turn my hand a bit more, press a little harder on the razor, and sink it in. The skin would give way like silk, like rubber, like the strop. There is nothing more tender than human skin and the blood is always there, ready to pour forth. A blade like this doesn’t fail. It is my best. But I don’t want to be a murderer, no sir. You came to me for a shave. And I perform my work honorably. . . . I don’t want blood on my hands. Just lather, that’s all. You are an executioner and I am only a barber. Each person has his own place in the scheme of things. That’s right. His own place.

Now his chin bad been stroked clean and smooth. The man sat up and looked into the mirror. He rubbed his hands over his skin and felt it fresh, like new.

“Thanks,” he said. He went to the hanger for his belt, pistol and cap. I must have been very pale; my shirt felt soaked. Torres finished adjusting the buckle, straightened his pistol in the holster and after automatically smoothing down his hair, he put on the cap. From his pants pocket be took out several coins to pay me for my services. And he began to bead toward the door. In the doorway he paused for a moment, and turning to me he said:

“They told me that you’d kill me. I came to find out. But killing isn’t easy. You can take my word for it.” And he headed on down the street.

Name Tale: Espuma y nada más (Foam and nothing else)

Author: Hernando Tellez

Country: Colombia.

Original Language: Spanish.

Translate by me.

Making public opinion

April 2

In 1917, The President Woodrow Wilson announced that the United States would enter in the First World War.

Four and a half months before, Wilson had been reelected as the peace nominee.

The public opinion received his pacifist speeches and his declaration of war with the same enthusiasm.

Edward Bernays was the principal author of this miracle.

When the war ended, Bernays publicly acknowledged that they had been invented photos and anecdotes which ignited the war spirit of the masses.

This advertising success opened a brilliant career.

Bernays became the advisor to several presidents and the most powerful businessmen in the world.

Reality is not what is, if not what I say it is: he developed better than anyone modern collective manipulation techniques that push people to buy soap or war.

Excerpt taken from: Eduardo Galeano para los pobres.

Translated by me.

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Ecotourism Park

On January 17, I had the great opportunity to attend an expedition, I will never forget, an expedition, which allowed me to reconnect with nature, reflection with fun. A good trip to do with friends, family and couple.

Ecotourism Natural Park “Mana Dulce” Located in the village “Belen de Malachí” Just 4 Miles from the town “Agua de Dios” in Cundinamarca, Colombia.

I leave you some pictures that speak for themselves, the beauty of the trails, and such wonderful activities that can develop in this park

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Why call things wrongly?

I am critical as a person, it bothers me when people invent things that are not there. I mean they give inappropriate comments to a video, I found out the scandal that caused the video I will show below.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KWZGAExj-es

In her defense, I can say that is an unbiased opinion because no part of my tastes, is curious, because I see the previous picture of the video that showed in the newspapers of my country, the first image that came to my mind was that is song is about conflict between fathers and daughters, I am not her fan, because it is not the musical genre that I usually hear, but I’m not closed to new opinions, I found this video showing a very artistic way conflicts that we can have with our fathers, and it bothers me they say it’s incitement to pedophilia as a woman when I saw it and I did not find an incitement to pedophilia.

I found a comment in youtube video very successful, I will stick here, because it is prudent and I totally agree.

the video is suppose to be about a father and daughter. the little girl is suppose to be sia and shia is suppose to be her father. and the cage is suppose to represent the trapped mind both of them have. and how they would have conflict personalities due to that so they would fight about it alot. and Sia is able to escape and understand. But she wanted her father to have the same freedom as she did. so she went back for him. but it was too late for him because as an adult your mind is already set there is no Changing it. so she couldn’t help him escape. but she learned from it and become stronger for it. Posted by: Pascuala Feliciano in youtube.

Review: World Wars. History Channel documentary

Recently, I had the opportunity to see this documentary about events that drastically changed the story, the trailer caught me immediately and made me want to tune my TV at time and day on which this documentary was launched in my country.

The documentary, it is quite informative, has very good pictures and really takes you back at this years when these wars were developed, with respect to the facts, it became a faithful adaptation, without completely destroying what we have read in history books.

It is interesting parallel that made the documentary of all those people who took part in the World Wars, you can see the circumstances, the historical era in which they grew influenced, what they became for history. The actors chosen for this documentary are physically very similar to their counterparts in history, and all that, was in the documentary without reading several books at the same time to analyze all the characters, the drama that are added to some scenes with classical music, while attacks occur, is very well done in documentary.

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