The call is this Saturday 27 at 19 pm. in Independence Square (Mendoza), all together by the National People's Project.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Pink Brown Cm Before Period
... The last rites
The call is this Saturday 27 at 19 pm. in Independence Square (Mendoza), all together by the National People's Project.
The call is this Saturday 27 at 19 pm. in Independence Square (Mendoza), all together by the National People's Project.
Quickbooks 2007 Mac Product Number
My mother was murdered on February 3, 1977, at 2.05 of the morning, at the corner of Santamarina y Chubut, Citadel. His death certificate says: "Multiple gunshot wounds. NN female, slim, 1.65, dyed blond hair. " None of his blue eyes. May have tight eyelids the moment before the shot. Maybe it was dark in the morgue or had accumulated too many bodies and seemed in vain to score a stupid data when the holder of the blue eyes she was dead and to those pupils of water on your eyelashes falling like a tide of corruption just waiting for them.
My mother is now, namely, a skull with few teeth, a jawbone assigned morphologically, tibias and femurs, radii and ulnae, clavicles. Sure I make a mistake in the listing of the bones, the truth is that his torso is still missing. She
, no.
Now I can trace a path from his years of silence. Their years underground. His choking anonymous.
Where was I the night she was killed?, I asked a friend. I can not know, was 10 and was waiting. As I waited until now even though he knows he would not return.
Some of it has returned with the remains of his body, with traces of his last day.
My brother asked if she had been shot from the front or back.
There are things we can never know.
has a shot in the leg. Until her skull was pink '85. There were scraps of meat, the remains of what I had kissed. Blow it back to earth without a caress without a consolation for the long death of anonymity. Was excavated, photographed, cataloged and reburied. It ended up decomposing in a bag, his body mingled with others who were also riddled the same night, which were collected from a corner in Citadel after the repressive finish their task and began his state bureaucracy. So my mother has her death certificate signed and sealed as the expected or hoped for some news of him.
At that time my father used to ask when we would view it. I thought it would be prey to the end of the day were policemen who had entered and destroyed the house where she lived, my brothers and me, her friend, Gladys Porcel, her boyfriend, Juan Carlos Arroyo. The three missing the Argentine Forensic Anthropology Team returned to us, 34 years later to we can finally say goodbye. Because until now we finished it. And now, when I know that what is left of it rests in a box with so many skeletons as yet unnamed, awaiting an official entry form and rituals we invent for it, now I can not finish me off. Although time is compressed and I suddenly feel like the 10 year old girl who heard his voice seen as a repressor of questioning and even promised him "for me would give you a rose, but you're not helping me" . She was not helping and that is enough to know me for a gesture of dignity that probably squeezed until the cows on a torture table. I can not believe what it was that rose but could never stop inquiring about the cruelty of the oppressors against the captive women.
"All my life I come over," said his friend Laly when he learned of the identification of the bones of my mother in Spain, where he was me, but luck would have it that day can not embrace. My life also came up. And that last night on some unknown factors such as fog began to dissipate by noon becomes new questions: Who heard the shots? Who advised to withdraw the bodies? "I wore a skirt that the painting itself? Someone gave him hand before the flurry of disconnected as a puppet of tow? Who saw his blue eyes? Who knew that he would not drop your tabs to conquer this gesture all you needed? Did you have shoes on? Where are the platforms that were never down?
there something real that is beginning to take shape. My mother was killed at dawn on February 3, 1977. I was ten. My brother John just two. Santiago, eight. Andrew, five. The four we miss you, mom, and so far we have done what we can with your absence and your presence intermittent.
There is a page of a book she gave me shortly before the end, is written with the letter and says, "For Martha, my partner, who is learning to call their own joys and struggles of Latin American people." Pompous dedication for a girl of 44 wants to remain Martita and learning that what he was when you were with me. Now I just got married for the first time, love and a family impossible, but rather be: my love, Albertine, my two sons with twenty years of distance between them, a granddaughter, three dogs, two cats, a number of friends about which I know I can break down and get up with my eyes closed. Nobody cares about these details, except to me because they are proof that I survived. More than that, I have lived all these years and looking for you is like my family forged. Or seek justice for you. Or looking for a language in which to name you.
Someone once told me that in the concentration camp where he spent three long months, the women changed clothes between them to feel that they dressed in the morning. Or at that time became diffuse closure tomorrow. This story calls you, Mom.
I cried like a baby on any shoulder or on all the friends of EAAF while I recounted what they knew about you. I lovingly rescued from a mass grave in the cemetery of San Martín. Lovingly told me "there a coxal could still be in your mom "with the same love with which my friend Rachel told me she wanted to be my velority planner. A remnant of black humor to save us all and all of this wreckage on the ground which means I found you, Mom.
more quiet, Rachel called me later to say she had been shot in the chest in a clash between policemen and thieves who had nothing to do, that the bullets do not hurt. Own death, I imagine, does not hurt. What hurts is that life goes on as if nothing, ten, twenty, thirty years. And it hurts especially because they also found their balms.
All words jumbled and due to the burial not yet the case, now that meet your demise 34 years and barely a month since we returned from suffocation under the earth, the anonymity, the comfort of a ritual to boot once and for all the little girl clings the window waiting for the knock knock of the missile in the village will bring you back.
all of this and all that still I can not name it I found you. An endpoint for a text that I will continue writing for a showdown that may start at once to let go.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Mary J Blige Hair - Wigs
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At all times your writings are considered property under your intellectual and protected under a copyleft license.
HOW TO ENTER Send us things
Feel free to send us whatever you want (poems, letters or articles) or in pdf, doc or plain text to dartanach@hotmail.com and the sooner we will post, if not big deal, also send us a picture (of whatever) that reflects something about the writing.
If you want to write to the blog
If you want to be editor of the blog send us a brief summary of you and a picture that identifies you to the previous email (does not have to leave you if you want). You can upload the post you want, whenever you want and what want. For more details
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Monday, November 15, 2010
Duplicate Vision Coverage Vsp
Matissklos (the blog "Bits" Angela Urondo)
Sunday November 14, 2010
How to write a column a summary of this moment when everything comes together? if I have so many unanswered questions that I was accumulating for years, to write an entire diary. How do you summarize 35 years? during the first 20, I was denied access to the truth. And then? another 15 years of hard work of re-construction: my life, my history, my identidàt. And now? my expectation is so great as my uncertainty, so many emotions I can barely spinning some random thoughts, disorganized.
(I think I'm going to see their faces at that rate, the executioners and as a whip, something inside me says, "nothing new, Angelita, and saw those faces," and I feel a kind of giddiness, alarm to think what might happen if to see them again, suddenly, I remembered what I forgot all of them. )
no words to say the unsayable. Matissklo Massklo Urbinek say the child, in me.
had to paddle in mud to get here. Overhead obstacles had to overcome the most difficult, sticks out a thousand times the wheel and learn to stand up and keep going, after tripping over a fantastic Petra on the road. We had to put a lot of will and courage to succeed. He must have a lot of truth falling from mature. Had to be very rotten dirt under the carpet, very smelly, to go beyond the fences that had been imposed and to be visible. For many years
sing, that where they were, the were going to look ... one day, sooner or later, we were going to find. Justice was going to find. And this is the time. All of the above, all pre-trial is in the past, ending 34 years of Pre-Trial. And not just a pun, is to begin to put some things in place, even if it hurts.
The road to justice, which were built as a utopia, a dream, is now on the threshold of reality. What can happen to a dream come true? I am afraid to disappoint. In principle, I've learned that Justice and Judiciary, does not always mean the same thing. That judges are not always Just. That while offenders are in jail, neighbors remain todos.Y sinister secrets while, still there, waiting to come to light, while we still do not know what happened to our familares, who have not (to) become (while Mom remains in the hands of them) still appear as encrypted messages, like bread crumbs along the way, the keys to that end, they still could not rebuild.
then to 34 years after the events, have come to this court, in this context, it feels like a small victory, which sometimes makes me smile, want to celebrate and raise their fingers in V, because it has cost us so very much to reach up here, but make no mistake, this is not an easy time, or happy, or anything, this is just a principle of order and there is nothing to celebrate. Justice need to be now, just and effective, so this story can start being a little less sad.
time ago a colleague, the daughter of the disappeared, had he felt so stressed, mobilized into the depths with the trial in Chaco for his dad, one of those killed in the slaughter of Margarita Belen. And then I remembered another time, like 14 or 15 years ago, when we begin to recognize and meet the children and how our reality was then, when the roof of the fair were the laws of impunity and pardons, and had to live with reconciliarorio state discourse, the closed-door policy and had to endure so much injustice, which had to bear the genocidal escraches only form of justice as possible. At that time, we are indignant total impunity, we stress the loss on the loss, the trigger-and the overwhelming feeling of no-future, and remembering all that context, I reflected on the present and the trials of genocide: that stress this is positive as expected ... and sleep.
synthesize my expectations about the trial: to occur and be fair. Everything else is hope: to find, namely, to rebuild, to heal, able to look forward without the dark veil of mourning.
not too late, because they have not stopped hurting. Posted by Ms. Angelita
in
Sunday November 14, 2010
How to write a column a summary of this moment when everything comes together? if I have so many unanswered questions that I was accumulating for years, to write an entire diary. How do you summarize 35 years? during the first 20, I was denied access to the truth. And then? another 15 years of hard work of re-construction: my life, my history, my identidàt. And now? my expectation is so great as my uncertainty, so many emotions I can barely spinning some random thoughts, disorganized.
(I think I'm going to see their faces at that rate, the executioners and as a whip, something inside me says, "nothing new, Angelita, and saw those faces," and I feel a kind of giddiness, alarm to think what might happen if to see them again, suddenly, I remembered what I forgot all of them. )
no words to say the unsayable. Matissklo Massklo Urbinek say the child, in me.
had to paddle in mud to get here. Overhead obstacles had to overcome the most difficult, sticks out a thousand times the wheel and learn to stand up and keep going, after tripping over a fantastic Petra on the road. We had to put a lot of will and courage to succeed. He must have a lot of truth falling from mature. Had to be very rotten dirt under the carpet, very smelly, to go beyond the fences that had been imposed and to be visible. For many years
sing, that where they were, the were going to look ... one day, sooner or later, we were going to find. Justice was going to find. And this is the time. All of the above, all pre-trial is in the past, ending 34 years of Pre-Trial. And not just a pun, is to begin to put some things in place, even if it hurts.
The road to justice, which were built as a utopia, a dream, is now on the threshold of reality. What can happen to a dream come true? I am afraid to disappoint. In principle, I've learned that Justice and Judiciary, does not always mean the same thing. That judges are not always Just. That while offenders are in jail, neighbors remain todos.Y sinister secrets while, still there, waiting to come to light, while we still do not know what happened to our familares, who have not (to) become (while Mom remains in the hands of them) still appear as encrypted messages, like bread crumbs along the way, the keys to that end, they still could not rebuild.
then to 34 years after the events, have come to this court, in this context, it feels like a small victory, which sometimes makes me smile, want to celebrate and raise their fingers in V, because it has cost us so very much to reach up here, but make no mistake, this is not an easy time, or happy, or anything, this is just a principle of order and there is nothing to celebrate. Justice need to be now, just and effective, so this story can start being a little less sad.
time ago a colleague, the daughter of the disappeared, had he felt so stressed, mobilized into the depths with the trial in Chaco for his dad, one of those killed in the slaughter of Margarita Belen. And then I remembered another time, like 14 or 15 years ago, when we begin to recognize and meet the children and how our reality was then, when the roof of the fair were the laws of impunity and pardons, and had to live with reconciliarorio state discourse, the closed-door policy and had to endure so much injustice, which had to bear the genocidal escraches only form of justice as possible. At that time, we are indignant total impunity, we stress the loss on the loss, the trigger-and the overwhelming feeling of no-future, and remembering all that context, I reflected on the present and the trials of genocide: that stress this is positive as expected ... and sleep.
synthesize my expectations about the trial: to occur and be fair. Everything else is hope: to find, namely, to rebuild, to heal, able to look forward without the dark veil of mourning.
not too late, because they have not stopped hurting. Posted by Ms. Angelita
in
21:18 
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Cervical Cancer Jab Does It Hurt
NKV!
After the death of our former president has been corroborated, but this proves a big surprise, that among many / as Argentine / still circulates as a Hate impressive celebrations shouts of "Viva la patria!" futile attempts to get a pan and cheer the finitude of human existence. Thousands of cowardly anonymous comments at the foot of cool digital press notes. It has been a fratricidal hatred, instinct own historical aristocracies class engaged in asserting its right to let live and to kill in pursuit of their interests.
hate is deaf, but informal institutions, demonstrated against the gaucho, against the poor immigrant, anti-anarchist, anti-Peronist, against women, against the university subversive against organized workers against the unemployed, against piquetero against the villero and abroad, against Argentina's poor and humiliated to fight for rights and representation. All this hatred was compacted and fired at the figure of Nestor Kirchner.
Our former president was generous, I grabbed everything and put the chest to the slurs, the ridicule, punishment and constant mindless journalism spokesman today more than ever, the establishment and country oligarch. All the time, every editorial, every broadcast news and commentary ominous pre argumentative, Néstor Kirchner was relentlessly beaten coward for trying to bring a positive change in a country that had suffered a downward spiral, degenerative more than fifty years. Organized brutally inhumane hell.
However, there was the hatred that prevailed the dark day of his death. Pain was driven by a love of life and justice expressed in millions of Argentines who lit up the dramatic loss. And the country finally had a monopoly facing a people who rejected her and her representatives. Could not look at the sides, was everywhere, all around him.
Many came from the mud of the exclusion, the slime of nonsense, the brute repression. Unbelievers, dehistoricized, ignorant and ignored. All of this was leaking, the process was slow, was a constant mistrust. However, some sooner others later so we were invited for an inclusive policy, and today we are millions.
Forgiveness (we should have been before) and thanks (for your patience) Néstor Kirchner. Cristina Force! We are standing watch, and we will fight to not back an inch of progress made and to continue the same path of social justice. With and in us the Latin American Argentina, Nestor Kirchner lives. Rodrigo Farías
After the death of our former president has been corroborated, but this proves a big surprise, that among many / as Argentine / still circulates as a Hate impressive celebrations shouts of "Viva la patria!" futile attempts to get a pan and cheer the finitude of human existence. Thousands of cowardly anonymous comments at the foot of cool digital press notes. It has been a fratricidal hatred, instinct own historical aristocracies class engaged in asserting its right to let live and to kill in pursuit of their interests.
hate is deaf, but informal institutions, demonstrated against the gaucho, against the poor immigrant, anti-anarchist, anti-Peronist, against women, against the university subversive against organized workers against the unemployed, against piquetero against the villero and abroad, against Argentina's poor and humiliated to fight for rights and representation. All this hatred was compacted and fired at the figure of Nestor Kirchner.
Our former president was generous, I grabbed everything and put the chest to the slurs, the ridicule, punishment and constant mindless journalism spokesman today more than ever, the establishment and country oligarch. All the time, every editorial, every broadcast news and commentary ominous pre argumentative, Néstor Kirchner was relentlessly beaten coward for trying to bring a positive change in a country that had suffered a downward spiral, degenerative more than fifty years. Organized brutally inhumane hell.
However, there was the hatred that prevailed the dark day of his death. Pain was driven by a love of life and justice expressed in millions of Argentines who lit up the dramatic loss. And the country finally had a monopoly facing a people who rejected her and her representatives. Could not look at the sides, was everywhere, all around him.
Many came from the mud of the exclusion, the slime of nonsense, the brute repression. Unbelievers, dehistoricized, ignorant and ignored. All of this was leaking, the process was slow, was a constant mistrust. However, some sooner others later so we were invited for an inclusive policy, and today we are millions.
Forgiveness (we should have been before) and thanks (for your patience) Néstor Kirchner. Cristina Force! We are standing watch, and we will fight to not back an inch of progress made and to continue the same path of social justice. With and in us the Latin American Argentina, Nestor Kirchner lives. Rodrigo Farías
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Boobs Of Pakisthan Women
For the people it belongs to the people ... Aníbal
Demaría and Jose Figueroa Viviana
Always
gets to the main hall
Where is the engine that drives the light
And there always does his job better
The repairman Silvio Rodríguez
dreams
Someone reinstitution of the right to dream among Argentines. We know
. Others do not.
it because the founding dreams are part of the human condition. Dream again parents waiting for children to come. Do not dream in vain grandmothers waiting to reunite with his grandchildren. It is absurd that the old dream of the future also. Nor does it happen to them as life-giving to young people.
people also dream about the future. Because no one dreams alone.
But when dreams are injured, or exchanged for a nightmare it hurts the whole universe.
That's when it becomes urgent the presence of those who are willing to work in the repair of broken dreams. And the unavoidable task for it is love, spite of them the oligarchs. True
both Eros and Thanatos live in the human heart. And do not peacefully, of course. His struggle shakes the existence of unforeseen ways.
times, transforming the devastating force of Thanatos in power struggle in the service of preserving life.
Times, exposing the most deadly rogues.
A man has died and has entered history through the front door. With him went back to dreaming.
Some will be more than satisfied with the death. Celebrating their pathetic feeling with a hint of shame and loneliness of their small ambitions.
Many other people in the world - from throughout the Americas to the Old World - have mourn, loudly and in broad daylight, with our loss.
has not been for those infamous revelers, the deep grief of other people ... but for us all. Because
This is Our Dead. 
Demaría and Jose Figueroa Viviana
Always
gets to the main hall
Where is the engine that drives the light
And there always does his job better
The repairman Silvio Rodríguez
dreams
Someone reinstitution of the right to dream among Argentines. We know
. Others do not.
it because the founding dreams are part of the human condition. Dream again parents waiting for children to come. Do not dream in vain grandmothers waiting to reunite with his grandchildren. It is absurd that the old dream of the future also. Nor does it happen to them as life-giving to young people.
people also dream about the future. Because no one dreams alone.
But when dreams are injured, or exchanged for a nightmare it hurts the whole universe.
That's when it becomes urgent the presence of those who are willing to work in the repair of broken dreams. And the unavoidable task for it is love, spite of them the oligarchs. True
both Eros and Thanatos live in the human heart. And do not peacefully, of course. His struggle shakes the existence of unforeseen ways.
times, transforming the devastating force of Thanatos in power struggle in the service of preserving life.
Times, exposing the most deadly rogues.
A man has died and has entered history through the front door. With him went back to dreaming.
Some will be more than satisfied with the death. Celebrating their pathetic feeling with a hint of shame and loneliness of their small ambitions.
Many other people in the world - from throughout the Americas to the Old World - have mourn, loudly and in broad daylight, with our loss.
has not been for those infamous revelers, the deep grief of other people ... but for us all. Because
This is Our Dead.
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