sexta-feira, março 30, 2007

another kick at the can

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Thursday May 24 2007

Paul KoesterPaul KoesterPaul KoesterPaul Koester

24/05/07, Laura Drake, Mountie's original notes into shooting now destroyed, Source.

Tuesday May 22 2007

22/05/07, Gary Mason, Today, the Mountie who shot this mill worker will begin to quench B.C.'s thirst for answers, Source.

Monday April 15 2007

15/04/07, Jeff Sallot, RCMP's Crisis of Confidence, Source.

Friday March 30 2007

RCMP GableMonday April 2 2007

I thought maybe I was depending a little too much on the Globe, so I found this in Macleans, and sure enough, a slightly different and more detailed take on it: 29/03/07, Kady O'Malley & Chris Selley, RCMP scandal deepens, (Source).

Friday March 30 2007

Zaccardelli
"While trying to expose these wrongdoings, which were both criminal and code-of-conduct violations, I had face-to-face meetings and complaints up to and including Commissioner Zaccardelli. I was met with inaction, delays, roadblocks, obstruction and lies. The person who orchestrated most of this coverup was Commissioner Zaccardelli."

Ron Lewis, retired RCMP staff sergeant.

"The cover-up of wrongdoing and the protection of those favoured by senior management has become a common thread running through the members' complaints. In fact, RCMP management's practice of transferring officers facing legitimate complaints by regular members is now being likened to the conduct of the Catholic Church in protecting its priests accused of misconduct."

lawyers for B.C. Mounted Police Professional Association & Mounted Police Association of Ontario.


From the Globe:
   Editorial, Accountability and the RCMP, (Source).
   Timeline: RCMP scandals and setbacks since 2006, (Source).
   Daniel Leblanc, Another gust in growing Mountie gale, (Source).
   Jeff Sallot & Daniel Leblanc, RCMP faces twin probes in alleged pension fraud, (Source).
   Brian Laghi & Oliver Moore, Mounties allege fraud in pension management, (Source).
   Greg McArthur, MPs probe case of controversial RCMP agent, (Source).

Bernard ShapiroBernard Shapiro

That Bernard Shapiro should pick this week to walk away says it all for me. There is very little moral ground anywhere near these governments and their agencies. Rotten nearly to the core. Ethics? Morality? In Ottawa? Not! And there is a time for good people to walk away from it without disgrace. Difficult for him no doubt.

Maybe the winds of Climate Change will blow them all clean; and if not clean, then at least away.


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quinta-feira, março 29, 2007

Situação de Emergência - n° 09-2007

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In a nutshell the fish are dying in All Saints' Bay near Salvador, Bahia, Brazil - an area often referred to as 'paradise'.

Not too far from São Roque de Paraguaçu where a biggish Petrobras installation is located. Probably irrelevant since the bay is basically a sewer for the 2 million or so people living around it. A regular (if not condoned) practice among local "fishermen" is to use dinamite. I did find one news article about one of them who blew himself up doing it; should have kept the link ...

Salvador BahiaSalvador BahiaSalvador BahiaSalvador Bahia

14/03/07, 20 toneladas de peixe surgem mortas na praia, (Source).
26/03/07, Desastre ambiental vitima 50 toneladas de peixe na BA, (Source).
26/03/07, Tiago Décimo, Desastre ambiental mata 50 toneladas de peixe na Bahia, (Source).
26/03/07, Desastre ambiental vitima 50 toneladas de peixe na BA, (Source).
27/03/06, Ibama intensifica combate à pesca com explosivo na Bahia, (Source).
28/03/07, O Eco, Salada verde, (Source).
26/03/07, Moradores de Salinas começam a passar fome, (Source).
23/03/07, Nádya Argôlo, Fim de semana de alerta, (Source).

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quarta-feira, março 28, 2007

accentuate the positive

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Sócrates Carvalho Pinto de SousaLater on:

José Sócrates Carvalho Pinto de Sousa.

... this good news probably belongs here too: Massive Solar Plant Opens in Portugal. "Massive" in this case means 11 Mw, hardly massive beside a 1000 Mw nuclear plant - but yeah, massive in hope, a hummingbird beak-full, a teaspoon-full bedad! Good on Jose Socrates and the Portuguese!

First we have Gwynne Dyer, back in February sometime:

Gwynne Dyer
"It's a cheap, quick, one-time fix, but we need such fixes ... Virtue flourishes in the most unexpected places."

What do John Howard, Fidel Castro, and Hugo Chavez have in common?

22/02/07, Gwynne Dyer, A Quick Fix, (Source).

A-and then we have Margaret Wente in the Globe yesterday:

Margaret Wente
"What he doesn't say is that he tends to pick the most sensational studies and ignore the ones that contradict them."

27/03/07, Margaret Wente, Just another end-is-nigh climate guy?, (Source).

I dunno - I read Tim Flannery's book, The Weather Makers, and found it so even handed and convincing that I bought copies for my daughter and nephew. Margaret calls the guy a cherry-picker - but it is spoken in a tone that I remember from my high-school days in Toronto, plump chicks from Rosedale voicing bourgeois vege-pap.

Not forgetting Johnny Mercer:

Gather 'round me, everybody
Gather 'round me while I'm preachin'
Feel a sermon comin' on me
The topic will be sin and that's what I'm ag'in'
If you wanna hear my story
The settle back and just sit tight
While I start reviewin'
The attitude of doin' right

You've got to accentuate the positive
Eliminate the negative
And latch on to the affirmative
Don't mess with Mister In-Between

You've got to spread joy up to the maximum
Bring gloom down to the minimum
Have faith or pandemonium's
Liable to walk upon the scene

To illustrate my last remark
Jonah in the whale, Noah in the ark
What did they do just when everything looked so dark?

(Man, they said "We'd better accentuate the positive")
("Eliminate the negative")
("And latch on to the affirmative")
Don't mess with Mister In-Between (No!)
Don't mess with Mister In-Between

(Ya got to spread joy up to the maximum)
(Bring gloom down to the minimum)
(Have faith or pandemonium's)
(Liable to walk upon the scene)

You got to ac (yes, yes) -cent-tchu-ate the positive
Eliminate (yes, yes) the negative
And latch (yes, yes) on to the affirmative
Don't mess with Mister In-Between
No, don't mess with Mister In-Between

Finally, Saint Matthew:

"But let your communication be, Yea, yea; Nay, nay."

See previous post: Yea, Yea; Nay, Nay.

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terça-feira, março 27, 2007

Talking Darfur to Death

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Saturday March 31 2007

New York Times Editorial: March 31, 2007, Talking Darfur to Death

The world has been discussing the genocide in Darfur for more than three years. But some 200,000 deaths later, it has yet to take effective action to force the Sudanese government to stop sponsoring the mass murder, rape, torture and forcible evictions being carried out on its orders in the region.

Yesterday, the United Nations Human Rights Council at last expressed its deep concern over human rights violations in Darfur. That modest advance was made possible by the welcome willingness of several African countries to set aside their usual reluctance to talk about their continent’s human rights problems.

But in practical terms, it was only a baby step. Despite an earlier finding by the council’s own investigative team that the Sudanese government “orchestrated” and took part in “large-scale international crimes,” the resolution failed to identify the Sudanese government as the author of these crimes.

Slow progress is also visible in the Arab League, where other leaders reportedly subjected Sudan’s president, Omar Hassan al-Bashir, to tough questioning over Darfur at this week’s summit meeting. Their voices are crucial. Khartoum cannot dismiss Arab critics as colonialists or crusaders against Islam. But it will take more than discreet conference diplomacy to end the slaughter.

Once again, there are reports that Sudan will allow a United Nations-African Union force in Darfur. Concerted international action, including a strong protective force, would be the best response. But until now, Sudan has done all it can to delay that. The remaining people of Darfur cannot wait much longer. It is past time for other countries to insist that Khartoum end its obstructionism, which has cost thousands of additional lives.

The diplomatic timidity of the handful of governments that have denounced the horrors in Darfur has been almost as frustrating as the callousness of the many that will not. The European Union, for example, has no meaningful sanctions of its own against the responsible Sudanese leaders. The United States, which has been enforcing financial sanctions against a list of companies and individuals linked to the Darfur genocide, needs to expand the list, toughen the sanctions and persuade its allies, in Europe and elsewhere, to apply similar restrictions.

The United Nations has repeatedly disgraced itself by its halfhearted and inadequate response to the gravest human rights challenge it has faced since it failed the same genocide test in Rwanda more than a decade ago. The Security Council, which has authorized an international force, must now see to it that it is actually dispatched. The Human Rights Council, which should focus moral pressure on the Sudanese government, holds back from doing so. And Secretary General Ban Ki-moon and his representatives have too often been taken in by Mr. Bashir’s hollow assurances.

China and a shrinking bloc of nonaligned nations have repeatedly put the sovereign right of Sudan’s rulers to annihilate minorities ahead of the international community’s legal responsibility to prevent genocide and protect human rights.

Other international leaders need to demonstrate that they can act as well as talk, or else fine words and empty deeds will be the epitaph for the dwindling survivors of Darfur.

Tuesday March 27 2007

Sir John Holmes
"It illustrated precisely the problem we are facing. If that can happen to me on a fairly high-profile visit they knew all about, you can imagine what it's like for ordinary humanitarian workers."
     Sir John Holmes, UN emergency relief co-ordinator in Sudan.


Darfur27/03/07, Steve Bloomfield: Darfur aid relief 'close to collapse', UN chief warns, (Source).
16/03/07, Economist: The UN and Darfur, Watching, but still waiting, (Source).

What the fuck do I know eh? Some photograph taken in some desert some where some when some how. What is the use of any of this hand-wringing anyway? None really eh? Turn yourself into another whining NDP nitwit? Ai ai ai.

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segunda-feira, março 26, 2007

rackets, ho hum

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“The bottom line is that insurance companies make money when they don’t pay claims. They’ll do anything to avoid paying, because if they wait long enough, they know the policyholders will die.”
     Mary Beth Senkewicz, ex-exec with National Association of Insurance Commissioners.


26/03/07, Charles Duhigg: Aged, Frail and Denied Care by Their Insurers, (Source).

R. Glenn HilliardConseco.
Conseco: Board & Management.
Conseco: Chairman R. Glenn Hilliard.
Forbes: R. Glenn Hilliard.

Conseco bankruptcy in 2003? Insider trading by Hilliard? At sixty-three years old and with eight hundred grand plus a year, I'd say he's not worried.

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domingo, março 25, 2007

casting crowns

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The four and twenty elders fall down before him that sat on the throne, and worship him that liveth for ever and ever, and cast their crowns before the throne, saying, Thou art worthy, O Lord, to receive glory and honour and power: for thou hast created all things, and for thy pleasure they are and were created.
     Revelations, Chapter 4.


William Blake, The Four and Twenty Elders Casting their Crowns before the Divine Throne.

Love Divine
John Wesley, 1747
.
 Simple Twist of Fate
Bob Dylan, 1974
.
Love divine, all loves excelling,
Joy of heaven to earth come down;
Fix in us thy humble dwelling;
All thy faithful mercies crown!
Jesus, Thou art all compassion,
Pure unbounded love Thou art;
Visit us with Thy salvation;
Enter every trembling heart.

Breathe, O breathe Thy loving Spirit,
Into every troubled breast!
Let us all in Thee inherit;
Let us find that second rest.
Take away our bent to sinning;
Alpha and Omega be;
End of faith, as its Beginning,
Set our hearts at liberty.

Come, Almighty to deliver,
Let us all Thy life receive;
Suddenly return and never,
Never more Thy temples leave.
Thee we would be always blessing,
Serve Thee as Thy hosts above,
Pray and praise Thee without ceasing,
Glory in Thy perfect love.

Finish, then, Thy new creation;
Pure and spotless let us be.
Let us see Thy great salvation
Perfectly restored in Thee;
Changed from glory into glory,
Till in heaven we take our place,
Till we cast our crowns before Thee,
Lost in wonder, love, and praise.
 


They sat together in the park
As the evening sky grew dark,
She looked at him and he felt a spark
Tingle to his bones.
'Twas then he felt alone
And wished that he'd gone straight
And watched out for a simple twist of fate.

They walked along by the old canal
A little confused, I remember well
They stopped into a strange hotel
With the neon burnin' bright.
He felt the heat of the night
Hit him like a freight train
Moving with a simple twist of fate.

A saxophone someplace far off played
As she was walkin' by the arcade.
As the light bust through a beat-up shade
Where he was wakin' up,
She dropped a coin into the cup
Of a blind man at the gate
And forgot about a simple twist of fate.

He woke up, the room was bare
He didn't see her anywhere.
He told himself he didn't care,
Pushed the window open wide,
Felt an emptiness inside
To which he just could not relate
Brought on by a simple twist of fate.
He hears the ticking of the clocks
And walks along with a parrot that talks,
Hunts her down by the waterfront docks
Where the sailors all come in.
Maybe she'll pick him out again,
How long must he wait
Once more for a simple twist of fate.

People tell me it's a sin
To know and feel too much within.
I still believe she is my twin,
But I lost the ring.
She was born in spring,
But I was born too late
To blame it on a simple twist of fate.

So I knelt there at the delta,
at the alpha and the omega,
at the cradle of the river and the seas.
And like a blessing come from heaven
for something like a second
I was healed and my heart was at ease.

     Leonard Cohen, Light as the Breeze.


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quinta-feira, março 22, 2007

it ain't me, babe (!)

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Someone to close his eyes for you,
Someone to close his heart.

     Bob Dylan, It Ain't Me, Babe.

Thou shalt be free as mountain winds;
But then exactly do all points of my command.

     Prospero, Tempest, end of Act I.


Cyndia Sieden ArielCyndia Sieden ArielCyndia Sieden ArielCyndia Sieden ArielCyndia Sieden
Cyndia Sieden, Meredith Oakes, Thomas Adès, Royal Opera House, Covent Garden.

Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell.
 Full fadom fiue thy Father lies,
Of his bones are Corrall made:
Those are pearles that were his eies,
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a Sea-change
Into something rich, & strange:
Sea-Nimphs hourly ring his knell.


     William Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act I, Scene II, at Gutenberg.

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domingo, março 18, 2007

Campanha da Fraternidade

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Oração da Campagna

Deus criador, Pai da familia humana, Vós formastes a Amazônia, maravilha da vida, bênção para o Brasil e para o mundo. Despertai em nós o respeito e a admiração pela obra que vossa mão entregou aos nossos cuidados. Ensinai-nos a reconhecer o valor de cada criatura que vive na terra, cruza os ares ou se move nas águas. Perdoai, Senhor, a ganância e o egoísmo destruidor; moderai nossa sede de posse e poder. Que a Amazônia, berço acolhedor de tanta vida, seja também o chão da partilha fraterna, pátria solidária de povos e culturas, casa de muitos irmãos e irmãs. Enviai-nos todos em missão! O Evangelho da vida, luz e graça para o mundo, fazendo-nos discípulos e missionários de Jesus Cristo, indique o caminho da justiça e do amor; e seja anúncio de esperança e de paz para os povos da Amazônia e de tudo o Brasil.
Amém.

Creator God, Father of the human family, You made Amazonia, marvel of life, blessing for Brazil and for the world. Awaken in us respect and admiration for the work that your hand delivered into our care. Teach us to recognize the value of each creature that lives on earth, crosses the sky or moves in the waters. Forgive, Father, the greed and self interest that destroys; moderate our thirst for control and power. May Amazonia, welcoming source of so much life, also be the ground of fraternal sharing, and a strong country of peoples and cultures, a house of many brothers and sisters. Send us all on a mission! O Evangelist of life, light and grace for the world, make us disciples and missionaries of Jesus Christ, show the path of justice and love; and be the announcement of hope and peace for the peoples of Amazonia and all of Brazil.
Amen.



Sweet dreams are made of this
Who am I to disagree?
I travel the world
And the seven seas
Everybody's looking for something.

Some of them want to use you
Some of them want to get used by you
Some of them want to abuse you
Some of them want to be abused.

Sweet dreams are made of this
Who am I to disagree?
I travel the world
And the seven seas
Everybody's looking for something.

Hold your head up - Keep your head up - Movin' on
Hold your head up - Movin' on - Keep your head up - Movin' on
Hold your head up - Movin' on - Keep your head up - Movin' on
Hold your head up - Movin' on - Keep your head up.


Madonna EcologicoMadonna Ecologicojust another dipstick 50+ year old I guess ... 'the cause'? 'stay with the cause'? what cause would that be exactly? must have something to do with menopause ... the text itself has something, a quality ... anyway, she ain't no prophet, you figgure it out ...

A-and the Sunday magazine of Jornal do Brasil, o Ecologico, is telling me that Madonna is Green. Right ... green like a good Stilton cheese? well, I guess ... deep thoughts ...

Bob said somewhere:

Mister Jinx and Miss Lucy, they jumped in the lake
I'm not that eager to make a mistake.




Stones in Brasil - Like a Rolling Stone.
Bob Dylan - Positively 4th Street.
Unbelievable.
Bob Dylan - Like A Rolling Stone 1966.
Bob Dylan-Carlos Santana - Blowin' In The Wind.
Bob Dylan & Joan Baez - Blowin' In The Wind (1976).
Bob Dylan - It Ain't Me Babe 1975.
Bob Dylan - Oh, Sister.

... and is our purpose not the same on this earth
to love and follow His direction ...


long way round ...

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sábado, março 17, 2007

Dread, Chris Alexander, Heisenberg

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This process is so severely flawed that I can hardly undertake it anymore. A simple business of presenting some little flow of thoughts - and the technology makes it soooo difficult and long that in the end I just give up ... cumbrous, picky details, no tools ...

and Christopher Alexander's books seem not to be on-line, I no longer have them at hand ... ai ai ai ... ok, enough ...

Henri René Albert Guy de Maupassant
La Ficelle.
 
The Piece of String.
Sur toutes les routes autour de Goderville, les paysans et leurs femmes s'en venaient vers le bourg, car c'était jour de marché. Les mâles allaient, à pas tranquilles, tout le corps en avant à chaque mouvement de leurs longues jambes torses, déformées par les rudes travaux, par la pesée sur la charrue qui fait en même temps monter l'épaule gauche et dévier la taille, par le fauchage des blés qui fait écarter les genoux pour prendre un aplomb solide, par toutes les besognes lentes et pénibles de la campagne. Leur blouse bleue, empesée, brillante, comme vernie, ornée au col et aux poignets d'un petit dessin de fil blanc, gonflée autour de leur torse osseux, semblait un ballon prêt à s'envoler, d'où sortait une tête, deux bras et deux pieds.

Les uns tiraient au bout d'une corde une vache, un veau. Et leurs femmes, derrière l'animal, lui fouettaient les reins d'une branche encore garnie de feuilles, pour hâter sa marche. Elles portaient au bras de larges paniers d'où sortaient des têtes de poulets par-ci, des têtes de canards par-là. Et elles marchaient d'un pas plus court et plus vif que leurs hommes, la taille sèche, droite et drapée dans un petit châle étriqué, épinglé sur leur poitrine plate, la tête enveloppée d'un linge blanc collé sur les cheveux et surmontée d'un bonnet.

Puis un char à bancs passait, au trot saccadé d'un bidet, secouant étrangement deux hommes assis côte à côte et une femme dans le fond du véhicule, dont elle tenait le bord pour atténuer les durs cahots.

Sur la place de Goderville, c'était une foule, une cohue d'humains et de bêtes mélangés. Les cornes des boeufs, les hauts chapeaux à longs poils des paysans riches et les coiffes des paysannes émergeaient à la surface de l'assemblée. Et les voix criardes, aiguës, glapissantes, formaient une clameur continue et sauvage que dominait parfois un grand éclat poussé par la robuste poitrine d'un campagnard en gaieté, ou le long meuglement d'une vache attachée au mur d'une maison. Tout cela sentait l'étable, le lait et le fumier, le foin et la sueur, dégageait cette saveur aigre, affreuse, humaine et bestiale, particulière aux gens des champs.

Maître Hauchecorne, de Bréauté, venait d'arriver à Goderville, et il se dirigeait vers la place, quand il aperçut par terre un petit bout de ficelle. Maître Hauchecorne, économe en vrai Normand, pensa que tout était bon à ramasser qui peut servir ; et il se baissa péniblement, car il souffrait de rhumatismes. Il prit par terre le morceau de corde mince, et il se disposait à le rouler avec soin, quand il remarqua, sur le seuil de sa porte, maître Malandain, le bourrelier, qui le regardait. Ils avaient eu des affaires ensemble au sujet d'un licol, autrefois, et ils étaient restés fâchés, étant rancuniers tout deux. Maître Hauchecorne fut pris d'une sorte de honte d'être vu ainsi par son ennemi, cherchant dans la crotte un bout de ficelle. Il cacha brusquement sa trouvaille sous sa blouse, puis dans la poche de sa culotte ; puis il fit semblant de chercher encore par terre quelque chose qu'il ne trouvait point, et il s'en alla vers le marché, la tête en avant, courbé en deux par ses douleurs.

Il se perdit aussitôt dans la foule criarde et lente, agitée par les interminables marchandages. Les paysans tâtaient les vaches, s'en allaient, revenaient, perplexes, toujours dans la crainte d'être mis dedans, n'osant jamais se décider, épiant l'oeil du vendeur, cherchant sans fin à découvrir la ruse de l'homme et le défaut de la bête.

Les femmes, ayant posé à leurs pieds leurs grands paniers, en avaient tiré leurs volailles qui gisaient par terre, liées par les pattes, l'oeil effaré, la crête écarlate. Elles écoutaient les propositions, maintenaient leurs prix, l'air sec, le visage impassible, ou bien tout à coup, se décidant au rabais proposé, criaient au client qui s'éloignait lentement : - C'est dit, maît'Anthime. J'vous l'donne.

Puis peu à peu, la place se dépeupla et l'angélus sonnant midi, ceux qui demeuraient trop loin se répandirent dans les auberges.

Chez Jourdain, la grande salle était pleine de mangeurs, comme la vaste cour était pleine de véhicules de toute race, charrettes, cabriolets, chars à bancs, tilbury, carrioles innommables, jaunes de crotte, déformées, rapiécées, levant au ciel, comme deux bras, leurs brancards, ou bien le nez par terre et le derrière en l'air.

Tout contre les dîneurs attablés, l'immense cheminée, pleine de flamme claire, jetait une chaleur vive dans le dos de la rangée de droite. Trois broches tournaient, chargées de poulets, de pigeons et de gigots ; et une délectable odeur de viande rôtie et de jus ruisselant sur la peau rissolée, s'envolait de l'âtre, allumait les gaietés, mouillait les bouches.

Toute l'aristocratie de la charrue mangeait là, chez maît'Jourdain, aubergiste et maquignon, un malin qui avait des écus. Les plats passaient, se vidaient comme les brocs de cidre jaune. Chacun racontait ses affaires, ses achats et ses ventes. On prenait des nouvelles des récoltes. Le temps était bon pour les verts, mais un peu mucre pour les blés.

Tout à coup le tambour roula, dans la cour, devant la maison. Tout le monde aussitôt fut debout, sauf quelques indifférents, et on courut à la porte, aux fenêtres, la bouche encore pleine et la serviette à la main.

Après qu'il eut terminé son roulement, le crieur public lança d'une voix saccadée, scandant ses phrases à contretemps : - Il est fait assavoir aux habitants de Goderville, et en général à toutes les personnes présentes au marché, qu'il a été perdu ce matin, sur la route de Beuzeville, entre neuf heures et dix heures, un portefeuille en cuir noir contenant cinq cents francs et des papiers d'affaires. On est prié de le rapporter à la mairie, incontinent, ou chez maître Fortuné Houlbrèque, de Manerville. Il y aura vingt francs de récompense.

Puis l'homme s'en alla. On entendit encore une fois au loin les battements sourds de l'instrument et la voix affaiblie du crieur;

Alors on se mit à parler de cet événement, en énumérant les chances qu'avait maître Houlbrèque de retrouver ou de ne pas retrouver son portefeuille. Et le repas s'acheva.

On finissait le café, quand le brigadier de gendarmerie parut sur le seuil.

Il demanda :
- Maître Hauchecorne, de Bréauté, est-il ici ?

Maître Hauchecorne, assis à l'autre bout de la table, répondit :
- Me v'là.

Et le brigadier reprit :
- Maître Hauchecorne, voulez-vous avoir la complaisance de m'accompagner à la mairie ? M. le maire voudrait vous parler.

Le paysan, surpris, inquiet, avala d'un coup son petit verre, se leva et, plus courbé encore que le matin, car les premiers pas après chaque repos étaient particulièrement difficiles, il se mit en route en répétant:
- Me v'là, me v'là

Et il suivit le brigadier.

Le maire l'attendait, assis dans un fauteuil. C'était le notaire de l'endroit, homme gros, grave, à phrases pompeuses.
- Maître Hauchecorne, dit-il, on vous a vu ce matin ramasser, sur la route de Beuzeville, le portefeuille perdu par maître Houlbrèque, de Manerville.

Le campagnard, interdit, regardait le maire, apeuré déjà par ce soupçon qui pesait sur lui, sans qu'il comprît pourquoi.
- Mé, mé, j'ai ramassé çu portafeuille ?
- Oui, vous-même.
- Parole d'honneur, j' n'en ai seulement point eu connaissance.
- On vous a vu.
- On m'a vu, mé ? Qui ça qui m'a vu ?
- M. Malandain, le bourrelier.

Alors le vieux se rappela, comprit et, rougissant de colère.
- Ah ! i m'a vu, çu manant ! I m'a vu ramasser ct'e ficelle-là, tenez, m'sieu le Maire.

Et fouillant au fond de sa poche, il en retira le petit bout de corde.
Mais le maire, incrédule, remuait la tête :
- Vous ne me ferez pas accroire, maître Hauchecorne, que M. Malandain, qui est un homme digne de foi, a pris ce fil pour un portefeuille ?

Le paysan, furieux, leva la main, cracha de côté pour attester son honneur, répétant :
- C'est pourtant la vérité du bon Dieu, la sainte vérité, m'sieu le Maire. Là sur mon âme et mon salut, je l'répète.

Le maire reprit :
- Après avoir ramassé l'objet, vous avez même encore cherché longtemps dans la boue si quelque pièce de monnaie ne s'en était pas échappée.

Le bonhomme suffoquait d'indignation et de peur.
- Si on peut dire !... si on peut dire !...des menteries comme ça pour dénaturer un honnête homme ! Si on peut dire !...

Il eut beau protester, on ne le crut pas.

Il fut confronté avec M. Malandain, qui répéta et soutint son affirmation. Ils s'injurièrent une heure durant. On fouilla, sur sa demande, maître Hauchecorne. On ne trouva rien sur lui.

Enfin le maire, fort perplexe, le renvoya, en le prévenant qu'il allait aviser le parquet et demander des ordres.

La nouvelle s'était répandue. A sa sortie de la mairie, le vieux fut entouré, interrogé avec une curiosité sérieuse et goguenarde, mais où n'entrait aucune indignation. Et il se mit à raconter l'histoire de la ficelle. On ne le crut pas. On riait.

Il allait, arrêté par tous, arrêtant ses connaissances, recommençant sans fin son récit et ses protestations, montrant ses poches retournées, pour prouver qu'il n'avait rien.

On lui disait :
- Vieux malin, va !

Et il se fâchait, s'exaspérant, enfiévré, désolé de n'être pas cru, ne sachant que faire, et contant toujours son histoire.

La nuit vient; Il fallait partir. Il se mit en route avec trois voisins à qui il montra la place où il avait ramassé le bout de corde ; et tout le long du chemin il parla de son aventure.

Le soir, il fit une tournée dans le village de Bréauté, afin de la dire à tout le monde. Il ne rencontra que des incrédules.

Il en fut malade toute la nuit.

Le lendemain, vers une heure de l'après-midi, Marius Paumelle, valet de ferme de maître Breton, cultivateur à Ymauville, rendait le portefeuille et son contenu à maître Houlbrèque, de Manerville. Cet homme prétendait avoir en effet trouvé l'objet sur la route ; mais ne sachant pas lire, il l'avait rapporté à la maison et donné à son patron.

La nouvelle se répandit aux environs. Maître Hauchecorne en fut informé. Il se mit aussitôt en tournée et commença à narrer son histoire complétée du dénouement. Il triomphait.

- C'qui m'faisait deuil, disait-il, c'est point tant la chose, comprenez-vous ; mais c'est la menterie. Y a rien qui vous nuit comme d'être en réprobation pour une menterie.

Tout le jour il parlait de son aventure, il la contait sur les routes aux gens qui passaient, au cabaret aux gens qui buvaient, à la sortie de l'église le dimanche suivant. Il arrêtait des inconnus pour la leur dire. Maintenant il était tranquille, et pourtant quelque chose le gênait sans qu'il sût au juste ce que c'était. On avait l'air de plaisanter en l'écoutant. On ne paraissait pas convaincu. Il lui semblait sentir des propos derrière son dos.

Le mardi de l'autre semaine, il se rendit au marché de Goderville, uniquement poussé par le besoin de conter son cas. Malandain, debout sur sa porte, se mit à rire en le voyant passer. Pourquoi ?

Il aborda un fermier de Criquetot, qui ne le laissa pas achever et, lui jetant une tape dans le creux de son ventre, lui cria par la figure : "Gros malin, va!" Puis lui tourna les talons.

Maître Hauchecorne demeura interdit et de plus en plus inquiet. Pourquoi l'avait-on appelé "gros malin" ?

Quand il fut assis à table, dans l'auberge de Jourdain, il se remit à expliquer l'affaire. Un maquignon de Montivilliers lui cria :
- Allons, allons, vieille pratique, je la connais, ta ficelle !

Hauchecorne balbutia :
- Puisqu'on l'a retrouvé çu portafeuille ?

Mais l'autre reprit :
- Tais-toi, mon pé, y en a qui trouve et y en a un qui r'porte. Ni vu ni connu, je t'embrouille !

Le paysan resta suffoqué. Il comprenait enfin. On l'accusait d'avoir fait reporter le portefeuille par un compère, par un complice.

Il voulut protester. Toute la table se mit à rire.

Il ne put achever son dîner et s'en alla, au milieu des moqueries.

Il rentra chez lui, honteux et indigné, étranglé par la colère, par la confusion, d'autant plus atterré qu'il était capable, avec sa finauderie de Normand, de faire ce dont on l'accusait, et même de s'en vanter comme d'un bon tour. Son innocence lui apparaissait confusément comme impossible à prouver, sa malice étant connue. Et il se sentait frappé au coeur par l'injustice du soupçon.

Alors il recommença à conter l'aventure, en allongeant chaque jour son récit, ajoutant chaque fois des raisons nouvelles, des protestations plus énergiques, des serments plus solennels qu'il imaginait, qu'il préparait dans ses heures de solitude, l'esprit uniquement occupé par l'histoire de la ficelle; On le croyait d'autant moins que sa défense était plus compliquée et son argumentation plus subtile.

- Ca, c'est des raisons d'menteux, disait-on derrière son dos.

Il le sentait, se rongeait les sangs, s'épuisait en efforts inutiles.
Il dépérissait à vue d'oeil.
Les plaisants maintenant lui faisaient conter "la Ficelle" pour s'amuser, comme on fait conter sa bataille au soldat qui a fait campagne. Son esprit, atteint à fond, s'affaiblissait.

Vers la fin de décembre, il s'alita.

Il mourut dans les premiers jours de janvier et, dans le délire de l'agonie, il attestait son innocence, répétant :

- Une 'tite ficelle ...une 'tite ficelle ... t'nez, la voilà, m'sieu le Maire.
 Along all of the roads around Goderville the peasants and their wives were coming toward the burgh because it was market day. The men were proceeding with slow steps, the whole body bent forward at each movement of their long twisted legs; deformed by their hard work, by the weight on the plow which, at the same time, raised the left shoulder and swerved the figure, by the reaping of the wheat which made the knees spread to make a firm "purchase," by all the slow and painful labors of the country. Their blouses, blue, "stiff-starched," shining as if varnished, ornamented with a little design in white at the neck and wrists, puffed about their bony bodies, seemed like balloons ready to carry them off. From each of them two feet protruded.

Some led a cow or a calf by a cord, and their wives, walking behind the animal, whipped its haunches with a leafy branch to hasten its progress. They carried large baskets on their arms from which, in some cases, chickens and, in others, ducks thrust out their heads. And they walked with a quicker, livelier step than their husbands. Their spare straight figures were wrapped in a scanty little shawl pinned over their flat bosoms, and their heads were enveloped in a white cloth glued to the hair and surmounted by a cap.

Then a wagon passed at the jerky trot of a nag, shaking strangely, two men seated side by side and a woman in the bottom of the vehicle, the latter holding onto the sides to lessen the hard jolts.

In the public square of Goderville there was a crowd, a throng of human beings and animals mixed together. The horns of the cattle, the tall hats, with long nap, of the rich peasant and the headgear of the peasant women rose above the surface of the assembly. And the clamorous, shrill, screaming voices made a continuous and savage din which sometimes was dominated by the robust lungs of some countryman's laugh or the long lowing of a cow tied to the wall of a house. All that smacked of the stable, the dairy and the dirt heap, hay and sweat, giving forth that unpleasant odor, human and animal, peculiar to the people of the field.

Maître Hauchecome of Breaute had just arrived at Goderville, and he was directing his steps toward the public square when he perceived upon the ground a little piece of string. Maître Hauchecome, economical like a true Norman, thought that everything useful ought to be picked up, and he bent painfully, for he suffered from rheumatism. He took the bit of thin cord from the ground and began to roll it carefully when he noticed Maître Malandain, the harness maker, on the threshold of his door, looking at him. They had heretofore had business together on the subject of a halter, and they were on bad terms, both being good haters. Maître Hauchecome was seized with a sort of shame to be seen thus by his enemy, picking a bit of string out of the dirt. He concealed his "find" quickly under his blouse, then in his trousers' pocket; then he pretended to be still looking on the ground for something which he did not find, and he went toward the market, his head forward, bent double by his pains.

He was soon lost in the noisy and slowly moving crowd which was busy with interminable bargainings. The peasants milked, went and came, perplexed, always in fear of being cheated, not daring to decide, watching the vender's eye, ever trying to find the trick in the man and the flaw in the beast.

The women, having placed their great baskets at their feet, had taken out the poultry which lay upon the ground, tied together by the feet, with terrified eyes and scarlet crests.

They heard offers, stated their prices with a dry air and impassive face, or perhaps, suddenly deciding on some proposed reduction, shouted to the customer who was slowly going away: "All right, Maître Authirne, I'll give it to you for that."

Then little by little the square was deserted, and the Angelus ringing at noon, those who had stayed too long scattered to their shops.

At Jourdain's the great room was full of people eating, as the big court was full of vehicles of all kinds, carts, gigs, wagons, dumpcarts, yellow with dirt, mended and patched, raising their shafts to the sky like two arms or perhaps with their shafts in the ground and their backs in the air.

Just opposite the diners seated at the table the immense fireplace, filled with bright flames, cast a lively heat on the backs of the row on the right. Three spits were turning on which were chickens, pigeons and legs of mutton, and an appetizing odor of roast beef and gravy dripping over the nicely browned skin rose from the hearth, increased the jovialness and made everybody's mouth water.

All the aristocracy of the plow ate there at Maître Jourdain's, tavern keeper and horse dealer, a rascal who had money. The dishes were passed and emptied, as were the jugs of yellow cider. Everyone told his affairs, his purchases and sales. They discussed the crops. The weather was favorable for the green things but not for the wheat.

Suddenly the drum beat in the court before the house. Everybody rose, except a few indifferent persons, and ran to the door or to the windows, their mouths still full and napkins in their hands.

After the public crier had ceased his drumbeating he called out in a jerky voice, speaking his phrases irregularly:

"It is hereby made known to the inhabitants of Goderville, and in general to all persons present at the market, that there was lost this morning on the road to Benzeville, between nine and ten o'clock, a black leather pocketbook containing five hundred francs and some business papers. The finder is requested to return same with all haste to the mayor's office or to Maître Fortune Houlbreque of Manneville; there will be twenty francs reward."

Then the man went away. The heavy roll of the drum and the crier's voice were again heard at a distance.

Then they began to talk of this event, discussing the chances that Maître Houlbreque had of finding or not finding his pocketbook.

And the meal concluded. They were finishing their coffee when a chief of the gendarmes appeared upon the threshold.

He inquired:
"Is Maître Hauchecome of Breaute here?"

Maître Hauchecome, seated at the other end of the table, replied:
"Here I am."

And the officer resumed:
"Maître Hauchecome, will you have the goodness to accompany me to the mayor's office? The mayor would like to talk to you."

The peasant, surprised and disturbed, swallowed at a draught his tiny glass of brandy, rose and, even more bent than in the morning, for the first steps after each rest were specially difficult, set out, repeating: "Here I am, here I am."

The mayor was awaiting him, seated on an armchair. He was the notary of the vicinity, a stout, serious man with pompous phrases.
"Maître Hauchecome," said he, "you were seen this morning to pick up, on the road to Benzeville, the pocketbook lost by Maître Houlbreque of Manneville."

The countryman, astounded, looked at the mayor, already terrified by this suspicion resting on him without his knowing why.
"Me? Me? Me pick up the pocketbook?"
"Yes, you yourself."
"Word of honor, I never heard of it."
"But you were seen."
"I was seen, me? Who says he saw me?"
"Monsieur Malandain, the harness maker."

The old man remembered, understood and flushed with anger.
"Ah, he saw me, the clodhopper, he saw me pick up this string here, M'sieu the Mayor." And rummaging in his pocket, he drew out the little piece of string.

But the mayor, incredulous, shook his head.
"You will not make me believe, Maître Hauchecome, that Monsieur Malandain, who is a man worthy of credence, mistook this cord for a pocketbook."

The peasant, furious, lifted his hand, spat at one side to attest his honor, repeating:
"It is nevertheless the truth of the good God, the sacred truth, M'sieu the Mayor. I repeat it on my soul and my salvation."

The mayor resumed:
"After picking up the object you stood like a stilt, looking a long while in the mud to see if any piece of money had fallen out."

The good old man choked with indignation and fear.
"How anyone can tell--how anyone can tell--such lies to take away an honest man's reputation! How can anyone---"

There was no use in his protesting; nobody believed him. He was confronted with Monsieur Malandain, who repeated and maintained his affirmation. They abused each other for an hour. At his own request Maître Hauchecome was searched; nothing was found on him.

Finally the mayor, very much perplexed, discharged him with the warning that he would consult the public prosecutor and ask for further orders.

The news had spread. As he left the mayor's office the old man was sun rounded and questioned with a serious or bantering curiosity in which there was no indignation. He began to tell the story of the string. No one believed him. They laughed at him.

He went along, stopping his friends, beginning endlessly his statement and his protestations, showing his pockets turned inside out to prove that he had nothing.

They said:
"Old rascal, get out!"

And he grew angry, becoming exasperated, hot and distressed at not being believed, not knowing what to do and always repeating himself.

Night came. He must depart. He started on his way with three neighbors to whom he pointed out the place where he had picked up the bit of string, and all along the road he spoke of his adventure.

In the evening he took a turn in the village of Breaute in order to tell it to everybody. He only met with incredulity.

It made him ill at night.

The next day about one o'clock in the afternoon Marius Paumelle, a hired man in the employ of Maître Breton, husbandman at Ymanville, returned the pocketbook and its contents to Maître Houlbreque of Manneville.

This man claimed to have found the object in the road, but not knowing how to read, he had carried it to the house and given it to his employer.

The news spread through the neighborhood. Maître Hauchecome was informed of it. He immediately went the circuit and began to recount his story completed by the happy climax. He was in triumph.

"What grieved me so much was not the thing itself as the lying. There is nothing so shameful as to be placed under a cloud on account of a lie."

He talked of his adventure all day long; he told it on the highway to people who were passing by, in the wineshop to people who were drinking there and to persons coming out of church the following Sunday. He stopped strangers to tell them about it. He was calm now, and yet something disturbed him without his knowing exactly what it was. People had the air of joking while they listened. They did not seem convinced. He seemed to feel that remarks were being made behind his back.

On Tuesday of the next week he went to the market at Goderville, urged solely by the necessity he felt of discussing the case. Malandain, standing at his door, began to laugh on seeing him pass. Why?

He approached a farmer from Crequetot who did not let him finish and, giving him a thump in the stomach, said to his face:
"You big rascal."

Then he turned his back on him.

Maître Hauchecome was confused; why was he called a big rascal?

When he was seated at the table in Jourdain's tavern he commenced to explain "the affair."

A horse dealer from Monvilliers called to him:
"Come, come, old sharper, that's an old trick; I know all about your piece of string!"

Hauchecome stammered:
"But since the pocketbook was found."

But the other man replied:
"Shut up, papa, there is one that finds and there is one that reports. At any rate you are mixed with it."

The peasant stood choking. He understood. They accused him of having had the pocketbook returned by a confederate, by an accomplice.

He tried to protest. All the table began to laugh.

He could not finish his dinner and went away in the midst of jeers.

He went home ashamed and indignant, choking with anger and confusion, the more dejected that he was capable, with his Norman cunning, of doing what they had accused him of and ever boasting of it as of a good turn. His innocence to him, in a confused way, was impossible to prove, as his sharpness was known. And he was stricken to the heart by the injustice of the suspicion.

Then he began to recount the adventures again, prolonging his history every day, adding each time new reasons, more energetic protestations, more solemn oaths which he imagined and prepared in his hours of solitude, his whole mind given up to the story of the string. He was believed so much the less as his defense was more complicated and his arguing more subtile.

"Those are lying excuses," they said behind his back.

He felt it, consumed his heart over it and wore himself out with useless efforts. He wasted away before their very eyes.

The wags now made him tell about the string to amuse them, as they make a soldier who has been on a campaign tell about his battles. His mind, touched to the depth, began to weaken.

Toward the end of December he took to his bed.

He died in the first days of January, and in the delirium of his death struggles he kept claiming his innocence, reiterating:

"A piece of string, a piece of string--look--here it is, M'sieu the Mayor."


Chris Alexander.
from, The Timeless way of Building; The Quality Without a Name:

"There is a central quality which is the root criterion of life and spirit in a man, a town a building, or a wilderness. This quality is objective and precise, but it cannot be named. The search which we make for this quality, in our own lives, is the central search of a person, and the crux of any individual person's story. It is the search for those moments and situations when we are most alive."

When my father was a young man he was sick with rheumatic fever and while he was convalescing he read the entire works of Guy de Maupassant. This coloured his life - and mine, because at about the time he told me this story I was reading Guy de Maupassant in french class, and then more thoroughly in english translations.

Werner Heisenberg.

It seems to me that Alexander's distinction is a case of a more general tendency; a Heisenberg Principle of grammar.

This showed up in a silly hollywood movie last night - The Good Shepherd, a quote from Hesiod’s Theogony? Bulfinch? dunno ...

Aeneas and the Sibyl: "I am no goddess," said the Sibyl; "I have no claim to sacrifice or offering. I am mortal; yet if I could have accepted the love of Apollo I might have been immortal. He promised me the fulfilment of my wish, if I would consent to be his. I took a handful of sand, and holding it forth, said, 'Grant me to see as many birthdays as there are sand grains in my hand.' Unluckily I forgot to ask for enduring youth."

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terça-feira, março 13, 2007

Tirinhas

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Joan ArmatradingJoan Armatrading

Some days the bear will eat you.
Some days you'll eat the bear.

     Joan Armatrading, 1981.


Os Malvados / André Dahmer

Pequeno Mundo Blogueiro / Little Blogger World
YOU NEVER IMAGINED THIS SERIES, BUT YOU WERE HOPING FOR IT.

Pequeno Mundo Blogueiro

ONE DAY THE RETARDS WON THE RIGHT TO PUBLISH ON THE INTERNET.
I'm a genius, I made a blog all by myself.
THESE RETARDS TRIED TO INFLUENCE OTHER RETARDS.
I write about things I don't understand for people incapable of learning.
AND IT WAS THE GREAT VOLUME OF RETARDED INFORMATION THAT MADE BLOGGERS INTO OPINION MAKERS.
Can I leave the address of the blog Fausto?
Look at that! A triumph of Brazilian communication!

"Escola da Vida é o nome carinhoso dado ao desorganizado índice de tirinhas dos www.malvados.com.br, o site mais difícil de navegar no planeta. Quando você escreve ao autor reclamando que não consegue achar uma ou outra tirinha específica, tenha uma certeza: ele também não." "'School of Life' is the cute name given to the disorganized index at www.malvados.com.br, the most difficult site to find your way about in on the planet. When you write to the author complaining that you can't find a specific cartoon you can be certain that he can't find it either."

O Reino Encantado de Dom Ináfio da Filva / Ota

www.ota.com.br.

Dom Ináfio

Inafio, you are not paying me the least attention.
Mariva, don't bother me, I am busy!
You know I have to read these self-help books so I can become a better person.
How to be kind to women.

O Pato / Ciça - Cecília Vicente de Azevedo Alves Pinto

Ciça Pato

According to authorized sources ...
... things will get worse ...
Good Night.

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sábado, março 10, 2007

Visita ao inferno / Visit to Hell

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4,400 R$ a month is not a fortune - but it is enough to put someone through college and then some.



""

Visita ao inferno por R$ 4.400
Siro Darlan, desembargador

JB Online, 07 de março de 2007
 A visit to hell for 4,400 R$
(about 2,200 US/CAN dollars)
Após ler no jornal que um jovem privado da liberdade custava ao contribuinte R$ 4.400 por mês, tive a curiosidade de visitar uma unidade destinada a ressocializar adolescentes. Visitei o Instituto Padre Severino, acompanhado do vice-presidente da OAB-RJ (Ordem dos advogados do Brasil - Rio de Janeiro) e oito Conselheiros Tutelares. After reading in the newspaper that a youngster in custody costs the taxpayer 4,400 R$ a month, I had the curiosity to visit a site dedicated to the re-socialization of adolescents. I visited the Padre Severino Institute, acompanied by the vice-president ot the OAB-RJ (The Order of Lawyers of Brazil, Rio de Janeiro) and eight Case Workers (?).
Não foi surpresa saber que onde só cabem 130 jovens havia 230 internados. Horrorizada, a equipe que visitava o Instituto Padre Severino constatou que o lugar que chamam de cama é um beliche de cimento sem colchão, onde dormem dois, às vezes três jovens adolescentes. Escova de dentes só tem aqueles que recebem dos familiares - assim mesmo é cortada pela metade pelos agentes de segurança. O local destinado à higiene pessoal, infestado de ratos e baratas, e a comida servida em quentinhas frias e com limite de cinco minutos para engolirem o que é servido duas vezes ao dia. As oficinas profissionalizantes não funcionam porque há mais de três anos não recebe material e os mestres estão ociosos. A única oficina ainda resiste no aprendizado de fazer pipas graças a doações dos funcionários ao esforçado professor. 
Os jovens permanecem enjaulados nas celas infectas e promíscuas de onde só saem para o refeitório e para as salas de aula, único serviço que funciona bem graças ao convênio com a Secretaria de Educação e aos esforços das professoras que se dedicam ao ensino básico e precário dos jovens infratores. Os médicos e medicamentos são raros, não há antibióticos, e muitos jovens apresentam sinais de violência em seus corpos sem o tratamento adequado. Sarna e coceiras são constatados sem maior esforço através de simples visualização. Não é sequer fornecido aos jovens um chinelo, e muitos, exceto aqueles que recebem dos familiares, andam descalços no chão imundo e impuro. 
Contudo o Brasil é signatário do documento que impõe aos países civilizados o respeito às Regras Mínimas das Nações Unidas para a Proteção dos Jovens Privados de Liberdade. E ao se verificar que os jovens brasileiros estão sendo submetidos a condições indignas identifica-se a preocupação do presidente da República ao atribuir à falta de respeito à legislação por parte dos administradores públicos as causas reais da violência. 
Reza o referido documento que o sistema de justiça da infância e da juventude deverá respeitar os direitos e a segurança dos jovens e fomentar seu bem-estar físico e mental. Não deveria ser economizado esforço para abolir, na medida do possível, a prisão de jovens. Foi encontrado na unidade um jovem com 14 anos privado da liberdade há 30 dias por haver sido pego pescando em área proibida. E o mais grave é que, contrariando norma legal, encontrava-se no mesmo espaço físico de outros que haviam cometido atos infracionais mais graves. 
O Brasil está obrigado a garantir que todos os centros de detenção patrocinem ao jovem privado de liberdade uma alimentação adequadamente preparada e servida nas horas habituais, em qualidade e quantidade que satisfaçam as normas da dietética, da higiene e da saúde e, na medida do possível, às exigências religiosas e culturais. 
Quem é o infrator? A autoridade governamental que descumpre a Constituição do país e até mesmo os compromissos assumidos com a comunidade internacional ou o jovem que, diante desse exemplo de transgressão, comete atos infracionais? Não seria o caso de cobrar dos adultos exemplos e coerência no desempenho de suas funções públicas para então discutir-se redução de responsabilidade penal para jovens? 
O Ministério Público obteve da autoridade governamental o compromisso de respeito a uma lei que está em vigor há mais de 16 anos e assinou com o governo do Estado um Termo de Ajustamento de Conduta pelo qual o governo estadual se comprometeu a cumprir alguns artigos do ECA. Mais uma vez deixou de cumprir os compromissos assumidos e deixou o Ministério Público com um título de execução na mão e os adolescentes infratores, só eles que foram punidos, continuam na escola do crime e da violência. 
Como ressocializar esses jovens mantendo-os no viveiro realimentador da violência que os vitimiza desde sua concepção? O resto é hipocrisia e continuar enganando a sociedade através do desvio do verdadeiro debate que pode levar a paz social tão almejada. E o mais grave: se são destinados R$ 4.400 para manter cada adolescente enjaulado nas condições mais desumanas, para onde está indo tanto dinheiro? 

Siro Premiação.
Siro Entrevista.
Siro Entrevista Mix Brasil.
Siro Entrevista.
Escola de Circo Pequeno Tigre (damned pdf's !).
Escola de Circo Pequeno Tigre.

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