Adonis Diaries

Archive for July 30th, 2016

Militia leaders “Table de dialogue”, Dialogue Table in Beirut?

طاولة الحوار

Do you know that old farting militia leaders who ruled during 13 years of civil war, still believe that they control the political system in Lebanon?

Next week, the two dozen heads invited themselves for the 21 round, around a table designed in Italy, to sit their stinking asses around and talk about how to resume ruling Lebanon without losing any of their financial and economic privileges.

“La commission de dialogue national . ” And who commissioned these militia leaders to discuss in our names?

Jamil Berry shared his opinion on FB

21 e INVITATION

On fait semblant d’inviter, et les invités viennent et font semblant d’assister.
Certains font semblant de s’excuser , mais la réunion aura effectivement lieu .
On fait semblant de proposer et d’aucuns font semblant d’écouter.
Un club fermé, qui, à force sent le renfermé .


Renfermé dans sa rétention et ses dogmes qui puent la non ouverture.
Renfermé dans ses mensonges qui ressemblent à s’y méprendre à ceux de l’invité d’en face.
Renfermé car l’air qu’il expire est si vicié qu’aucun de ses membres n’inspirera jamais confiance.
Un club où pas un seul invité n’a un dixième d’idéologie en commun avec son voisin de chaise.


Un club où la notion même de l’autre a cessé de paraitre pour transparaitre.
Le pire c’est que chacun s’y croit plus roublard, plus intelligent que tous les autres.
Un ” Dialogue ” qui consiste à deviner en un temps record ” à quoi celui qui prend la parole, veut-il en venir
Et ça rigole, et ça joue des coudes, et ça sourit.

À qui montre les plus belles dents. Genre ce qui se fait de plus cher en dents ” implants artificiels ” comme sont devenus leurs rapports.

Un équivalent de dix Rolex dans chaque gueule de la meute .
Un club qui en est à sa troisième dentition, et qui garde cependant la dent longue . Normal .

On veut le maximum. Pour soi , et pour une partie de sa communauté .
Un club dont les membres ont une seule chose en commun :
Leur langue.

Langue faite du même matériau que la table autour de laquelle ils se réunissent. Le bois .
L’appellation en français reste plus décente : “la commission de dialogue national . ”
Elle en est à sa 21ème réunion .
Elle n’en demeure pas moins une réunion autour d’une table.


Les libanais ont fini par occulter le mot ” Commission Nationale ” et ne parlent plus que de”Table de dialogue”
La sagesse populaire est très méritoire .

Elle a fini par ne plus voir les “humains”mais la “table ”
طاولة الحوار
Et les membres réunis , eux mêmes trop bien emboités autour de cette table de bois .


Des Pinocchios du troisième âge , qui ne bandent plus que du nez …

Jamil BERRY

 Who owns all the major brands in the world?

All the biggest product brands in the world are owned by a handful of corporation.

Food, cleaning products, banks, airlines, cars, media companies… everything is in the hands of these megacorporations. These graphics show how everything is connected.

Consumer goods

In the supermarket—as you can see in the graphic at the top—Mondelez, Kraft, Coca-Cola, Nestlé, Pepsico, P&G, Johnson&Johnson, Mars, Danone, General Mills, Kellogg’s, and Unilever own everything.

Asad Abukhalil shared a link.
Kinja
These graphics show how everything is connected.
sploid.gizmodo.com|By Jesus Diaz

Financial assets

It doesn’t stop in the supermarket, of course. Our money is all in the hands of a few megacorporations too. Here’s all the stuff that merged into Citigroup, JP Morgan Chase, Bank of America, and Wells Fargo since 1996.

Now, according to MotherJones, 54% of all the financial assets in the United States are owned by just 10 institutions.

(click to see all the graphics)

Time says: “My story of eagle and storm”; (Apr. 28, 2010)

Waiting for the storm to hit

How could they cope with a storm?

What could they do in the desert?

Where is the storm?

It is on the horizon, hesitating?

A tramp at the hotel entrance.

Old eagle, maybe the last of his species,

Lonely, quiet, waiting for the storm,

A chauffeur waiting for his master.

Old eagle is tired of tasting occasional serene clouds,

An old chef tasting the remains of a banquet.

Queen storm is taking her time in front of the mirror.

Old eagle is ready to chase out the storm up front;

What could an eagle could do with a worn out beak,

Decrepit and turned straight from frequent shattering on rocks.

How could old eagle hurry to meet the storm

A tottering bicycle crossing river bed?

For years, old eagle’s white feathers have been dirty,

Dirtier than an old waiter’s apron.

A gentle breeze nudging old eagle from rock to rock

From plain to plain

A bored old soldier in a camp

Anxious for his last battle, confronting a fly.

A soothing breeze floated over old eagle;

He fluttered, a youth touched by the first girl,

Old eagle heaves a sigh; he is reminiscing youth

Strong wings spanning the valley, glittering with sweat.

Tiny birds, out of breath, trailing valiantly behind,

Mobs running after the King’s horse

Chants hoarse, hallelujah feeble.

Old eagle is back dozing, sun scorching, epoch stretching out.

Suddenly, the universe blackened;

The world is still, but old eagle’s tail is waving.

Old eagle is hopping in circle,

A baby lamb welcoming its mother.

The storm thundered and hastened,

An ice skater showing off.

Old eagle is whispering an old victory song;

An eagle fallen off mountain tops,

A bride with no pendants and no cries.

Old eagle opened his old beak and retreated,

In respect of his old master and teacher.

Old eagle is spinning amid his broken plumes,

His shouts clacking like rifle bullets

A mass of blood, proudly lecturing

On the art of thirsting and ripping apart enemies.

The storm danced around old eagle and sneaked away.

Old eagle is mad; he is jumping cat like,

A scared baby stumbling for the door knob,

A drunkard coming back in the bar

Kicked out a hundred times.

Old eagle is wailing like a baby.

The storm lost steam on the sea shore,

Medals and crowns scattered’

The bludgeoned face of a boxer,

A drunk washing his face.

Mighty storm is aching:

It recollects that a tiny creature fought to death.

Mighty storm is sprawled on the beach:

A monstrous tent shrinking to a headgear,

Tears dropping in eagle’s shape.

Note 1: A liberal translation from a poem by late Syrian poet Mohammad al Maghout

Note 2: Though Mohammad al Maghout published this poem in early 1990, a few thought that it referred to the failed US invasion of Iraq in 2003


adonis49

adonis49

adonis49

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