segunda-feira, 11 de maio de 2009
A 50 word Saga that I like- By Ana Sofia
Milly sat in her car and drove to the fish pond. She had lost her friends and family, and decided to drown.A guy was already in the water, struggling. She ripped her shirt, dived, and saved him.Now they have a home, three kids, and a dog called Steve.
My favourite short story- By Ana Sofia
The Dead Boy at Your Window
By Bruce Holland Rogers
In a distant country where the towns had improbable names, a woman looked upon the unmoving form of her newborn baby and refused to see what the midwife saw. This was her son. She had brought him forth in agony, and now he must suck. She pressed his lips to her breast.“But he is dead!” said the midwife.“No,” his mother lied. “I felt him suck just now.” Her lie was as milk to the baby, who really was dead but who now opened his dead eyes and began to kick his dead legs. “There, do you see?” And she made the midwife call the father in to know his son.The dead boy never did suck at his mother's breast. He sipped no water, never took food of any kind, so of course he never grew. But his father, who was handy with all things mechanical, built a rack for stretching him so that, year by year, he could be as tall as the other children.When he had seen six winters, his parents sent him to school. Though he was as tall as the other students, the dead boy was strange to look upon. His bald head was almost the right size, but the rest of him was thin as a piece of leather and dry as a stick. He tried to make up for his ugliness with diligence, and every night he was up late practicing his letters and numbers.His voice was like the rasping of dry leaves. Because it was so hard to hear him, the teacher made all the other students hold their breaths when he gave an answer. She called on him often, and he was always right.Naturally, the other children despised him. The bullies sometimes waited for him after school, but beating him, even with sticks, did him no harm. He wouldn't even cry out.One windy day, the bullies stole a ball of twine from their teacher's desk, and after school, they held the dead boy on the ground with his arms out so that he took the shape of a cross. They ran a stick in through his left shirt sleeve and out through the right. They stretched his shirt tails down to his ankles, tied everything in place, fastened the ball of twine to a buttonhole, and launched him. To their delight, the dead boy made an excellent kite. It only added to their pleasure to see that owing to the weight of his head, he flew upside down.When they were bored with watching the dead boy fly, they let go of the string. The dead boy did not drift back to earth, as any ordinary kite would do. He glided. He could steer a little, though he was mostly at the mercy of the winds. And he could not come down. Indeed, the wind blew him higher and higher.The sun set, and still the dead boy rode the wind. The moon rose and by its glow he saw the fields and forests drifting by. He saw mountain ranges pass beneath him, and oceans and continents. At last the winds gentled, then ceased, and he glided down to the ground in a strange country. The ground was bare. The moon and stars had vanished from the sky. The air seemed gray and shrouded. The dead boy leaned to one side and shook himself until the stick fell from his shirt. He wound up the twine that had trailed behind him and waited for the sun to rise. Hour after long hour, there was only the same grayness. So he began to wander.He encountered a man who looked much like himself, a bald head atop leathery limbs. “Where am I?” the dead boy asked.The man looked at the grayness all around. “Where?” the man said. His voice, like the dead boy's, sounded like the whisper of dead leaves stirring.A woman emerged from the grayness. Her head was bald, too, and her body dried out. “This!” she rasped, touching the dead boy's shirt. “I remember this!” She tugged on the dead boy's sleeve. “I had a thing like this!”“Clothes?” said the dead boy.“Clothes!” the woman cried. “That's what it is called!”More shriveled people came out of the grayness. They crowded close to see the strange dead boy who wore clothes. Now the dead boy knew where he was. “This is the land of the dead.”“Why do you have clothes?” asked the dead woman. “We came here with nothing! Why do you have clothes?”“I have always been dead,” said the dead boy, “but I spent six years among the living.”“Six years!” said one of the dead. “And you have only just now come to us?”“Did you know my wife?” asked a dead man. “Is she still among the living?”“Give me news of my son!”“What about my sister?”The dead people crowded closer.The dead boy said, “What is your sister's name?” But the dead could not remember the names of their loved ones. They did not even remember their own names. Likewise, the names of the places where they had lived, the numbers given to their years, the manners or fashions of their times, all of these they had forgotten. “Well,” said the dead boy, “in the town where I was born, there was a widow. Maybe she was your wife. I knew a boy whose mother had died, and an old woman who might have been your sister.”“Are you going back?”“Of course not,” said another dead person. “No one ever goes back.”“I think I might,” the dead boy said. He explained about his flying. “When next the wind blows....”“The wind never blows here,” said a man so newly dead that he remembered wind.“Then you could run with my string.”“Would that work?”“Take a message to my husband!” said a dead woman.“Tell my wife that I miss her!” said a dead man.“Let my sister know I haven't forgotten her!”“Say to my lover that I love him still!”They gave him their messages, not knowing whether or not their loved ones were themselves long dead. Indeed, dead lovers might well be standing next to one another in the land of the dead, giving messages for each other to the dead boy. Still, he memorized them all. Then the dead put the stick back inside his shirt sleeves, tied everything in place, and unwound his string. Running as fast as their leathery legs could manage, they pulled the dead boy back into the sky, let go of the string, and watched with their dead eyes as he glided away.He glided a long time over the gray stillness of death until at last a puff of wind blew him higher, until a breath of wind took him higher still, until a gust of wind carried him up above the grayness to where he could see the moon and the stars. Below he saw moonlight reflected in the ocean. In the distance rose mountain peaks. The dead boy came to earth in a little village. He knew no one here, but he went to the first house he came to and rapped on the bedroom shutters. To the woman who answered, he said, “A message from the land of the dead,” and gave her one of the messages. The woman wept, and gave him a message in return.House by house, he delivered the messages. House by house, he collected messages for the dead. In the morning, he found some boys to fly him, to give him back to the wind's mercy so he could carry these new messages back to the land of the dead.So it has been ever since. On any night, head full of messages, he may rap upon any window to remind someone -- to remind you, perhaps -- of love that outlives memory, of love that needs no names.
By Bruce Holland Rogers
In a distant country where the towns had improbable names, a woman looked upon the unmoving form of her newborn baby and refused to see what the midwife saw. This was her son. She had brought him forth in agony, and now he must suck. She pressed his lips to her breast.“But he is dead!” said the midwife.“No,” his mother lied. “I felt him suck just now.” Her lie was as milk to the baby, who really was dead but who now opened his dead eyes and began to kick his dead legs. “There, do you see?” And she made the midwife call the father in to know his son.The dead boy never did suck at his mother's breast. He sipped no water, never took food of any kind, so of course he never grew. But his father, who was handy with all things mechanical, built a rack for stretching him so that, year by year, he could be as tall as the other children.When he had seen six winters, his parents sent him to school. Though he was as tall as the other students, the dead boy was strange to look upon. His bald head was almost the right size, but the rest of him was thin as a piece of leather and dry as a stick. He tried to make up for his ugliness with diligence, and every night he was up late practicing his letters and numbers.His voice was like the rasping of dry leaves. Because it was so hard to hear him, the teacher made all the other students hold their breaths when he gave an answer. She called on him often, and he was always right.Naturally, the other children despised him. The bullies sometimes waited for him after school, but beating him, even with sticks, did him no harm. He wouldn't even cry out.One windy day, the bullies stole a ball of twine from their teacher's desk, and after school, they held the dead boy on the ground with his arms out so that he took the shape of a cross. They ran a stick in through his left shirt sleeve and out through the right. They stretched his shirt tails down to his ankles, tied everything in place, fastened the ball of twine to a buttonhole, and launched him. To their delight, the dead boy made an excellent kite. It only added to their pleasure to see that owing to the weight of his head, he flew upside down.When they were bored with watching the dead boy fly, they let go of the string. The dead boy did not drift back to earth, as any ordinary kite would do. He glided. He could steer a little, though he was mostly at the mercy of the winds. And he could not come down. Indeed, the wind blew him higher and higher.The sun set, and still the dead boy rode the wind. The moon rose and by its glow he saw the fields and forests drifting by. He saw mountain ranges pass beneath him, and oceans and continents. At last the winds gentled, then ceased, and he glided down to the ground in a strange country. The ground was bare. The moon and stars had vanished from the sky. The air seemed gray and shrouded. The dead boy leaned to one side and shook himself until the stick fell from his shirt. He wound up the twine that had trailed behind him and waited for the sun to rise. Hour after long hour, there was only the same grayness. So he began to wander.He encountered a man who looked much like himself, a bald head atop leathery limbs. “Where am I?” the dead boy asked.The man looked at the grayness all around. “Where?” the man said. His voice, like the dead boy's, sounded like the whisper of dead leaves stirring.A woman emerged from the grayness. Her head was bald, too, and her body dried out. “This!” she rasped, touching the dead boy's shirt. “I remember this!” She tugged on the dead boy's sleeve. “I had a thing like this!”“Clothes?” said the dead boy.“Clothes!” the woman cried. “That's what it is called!”More shriveled people came out of the grayness. They crowded close to see the strange dead boy who wore clothes. Now the dead boy knew where he was. “This is the land of the dead.”“Why do you have clothes?” asked the dead woman. “We came here with nothing! Why do you have clothes?”“I have always been dead,” said the dead boy, “but I spent six years among the living.”“Six years!” said one of the dead. “And you have only just now come to us?”“Did you know my wife?” asked a dead man. “Is she still among the living?”“Give me news of my son!”“What about my sister?”The dead people crowded closer.The dead boy said, “What is your sister's name?” But the dead could not remember the names of their loved ones. They did not even remember their own names. Likewise, the names of the places where they had lived, the numbers given to their years, the manners or fashions of their times, all of these they had forgotten. “Well,” said the dead boy, “in the town where I was born, there was a widow. Maybe she was your wife. I knew a boy whose mother had died, and an old woman who might have been your sister.”“Are you going back?”“Of course not,” said another dead person. “No one ever goes back.”“I think I might,” the dead boy said. He explained about his flying. “When next the wind blows....”“The wind never blows here,” said a man so newly dead that he remembered wind.“Then you could run with my string.”“Would that work?”“Take a message to my husband!” said a dead woman.“Tell my wife that I miss her!” said a dead man.“Let my sister know I haven't forgotten her!”“Say to my lover that I love him still!”They gave him their messages, not knowing whether or not their loved ones were themselves long dead. Indeed, dead lovers might well be standing next to one another in the land of the dead, giving messages for each other to the dead boy. Still, he memorized them all. Then the dead put the stick back inside his shirt sleeves, tied everything in place, and unwound his string. Running as fast as their leathery legs could manage, they pulled the dead boy back into the sky, let go of the string, and watched with their dead eyes as he glided away.He glided a long time over the gray stillness of death until at last a puff of wind blew him higher, until a breath of wind took him higher still, until a gust of wind carried him up above the grayness to where he could see the moon and the stars. Below he saw moonlight reflected in the ocean. In the distance rose mountain peaks. The dead boy came to earth in a little village. He knew no one here, but he went to the first house he came to and rapped on the bedroom shutters. To the woman who answered, he said, “A message from the land of the dead,” and gave her one of the messages. The woman wept, and gave him a message in return.House by house, he delivered the messages. House by house, he collected messages for the dead. In the morning, he found some boys to fly him, to give him back to the wind's mercy so he could carry these new messages back to the land of the dead.So it has been ever since. On any night, head full of messages, he may rap upon any window to remind someone -- to remind you, perhaps -- of love that outlives memory, of love that needs no names.
Report a visit- By Ana Sofia
Since 25 June of 2007 the city of Lisbon counts with a new and very important museum. I´m talking about “Museu Colecção Berardo de Arte Moderna Contemporânea”- installed in the Centre of Expositions of Cultural Centre of Belém.
In this space all the public, Portuguese or not, can enjoy the big names of the international art from centuries XX to XXI.
The initial draft of the Berardo Collection was to install in the Exhibition Center of the Centre Cultural of Belém, a permanent museum collection based on that collection.
The main objectives of this collection, I find the second, were to constitute an international contemporary museum, contributing to the affirmation of Lisbon as a destination for cultural tourism, to inform the general public in the development of art, based on an exhibition didactics and dynamic, enable the development of a broad program of cultural and educational animation, done by an Educational Services in conjunction with the creators, critics and teachers of various levels of education
Deepening the dialogue with other collections and spoils, expanding the scope of the collection, are also targets presented in the "construction" of this museum, as well as enabling the exchange of exhibitions and other works with other institutions and thus to discover different styles of art modern and also the circulation of works of the Collection.
The Berardo Collection is recognized internationally as a collection of art of great significance that can follow the main artistic movements of sec. XX. Representing more than 70 artistic currents and showing a strong and educational museum. This presents itself as a source of creativity and opportunities for innovation, not only by the richness of content, but also by constant acquisition of new works, allowing different readings of contemporary art.
After the visit to the Berardo Collection Museum, I could understand what really moves a collector. This is not just a curiosity, but what is collected, the passion for the subject itself. In a way, the collector demand and meets the work that others would also like to find and gather. The collector becomes reality, in fact, the dreams of others. The relationship between the individual's dream and the dream of the other traces the fate of the collection and to ensure its place in the community. In my view this collection expressed an exercise in open-minded, why is so peculiar and captivated me so much.
In this space all the public, Portuguese or not, can enjoy the big names of the international art from centuries XX to XXI.
The initial draft of the Berardo Collection was to install in the Exhibition Center of the Centre Cultural of Belém, a permanent museum collection based on that collection.
The main objectives of this collection, I find the second, were to constitute an international contemporary museum, contributing to the affirmation of Lisbon as a destination for cultural tourism, to inform the general public in the development of art, based on an exhibition didactics and dynamic, enable the development of a broad program of cultural and educational animation, done by an Educational Services in conjunction with the creators, critics and teachers of various levels of education
Deepening the dialogue with other collections and spoils, expanding the scope of the collection, are also targets presented in the "construction" of this museum, as well as enabling the exchange of exhibitions and other works with other institutions and thus to discover different styles of art modern and also the circulation of works of the Collection.
The Berardo Collection is recognized internationally as a collection of art of great significance that can follow the main artistic movements of sec. XX. Representing more than 70 artistic currents and showing a strong and educational museum. This presents itself as a source of creativity and opportunities for innovation, not only by the richness of content, but also by constant acquisition of new works, allowing different readings of contemporary art.
After the visit to the Berardo Collection Museum, I could understand what really moves a collector. This is not just a curiosity, but what is collected, the passion for the subject itself. In a way, the collector demand and meets the work that others would also like to find and gather. The collector becomes reality, in fact, the dreams of others. The relationship between the individual's dream and the dream of the other traces the fate of the collection and to ensure its place in the community. In my view this collection expressed an exercise in open-minded, why is so peculiar and captivated me so much.
Bikes Text - By Ana Sofia
How does the bike enhance the lives of people on the CD? What do they use the bikes for?
The bikes have a huge impact in people´s lives. According to the people in the Cd they provide jobs as a Newspaper Deliver and supply transport. With a bike people can ride quickly and transport newspapers across the streets.
The job that people can get as a newspaper deliver is related with the fact of having a bike and this job help them helping their families and feeling more independent.
To sum up, bikes are a very important instrument in New Deli because they are a strong source of employment for the young people mostly, and they are a huge help for the industry of Distribution.
The bikes have a huge impact in people´s lives. According to the people in the Cd they provide jobs as a Newspaper Deliver and supply transport. With a bike people can ride quickly and transport newspapers across the streets.
The job that people can get as a newspaper deliver is related with the fact of having a bike and this job help them helping their families and feeling more independent.
To sum up, bikes are a very important instrument in New Deli because they are a strong source of employment for the young people mostly, and they are a huge help for the industry of Distribution.
Katharine´s biography- By Ana Sofia
Today she´s teaching University Nova de Lisboa but in the past Katharine Hurlstone travelled by several countries throughout the world, studied Biology but teaches English… A life full of adventure, stories to tell and most important: the journey isn´t finish yet.
Katharine was born on the 21st of October in 1964 in England, Darlington. Her parents are John and Margot. According to her she had a very happy childhood.
She attended Denten primary school between six and eleven years old, Stainddrop comprehensive school- secondary school between eleven and sixteen and Darlington 6th Form College and Southampton University.
With a passion for animals, she used to have a gold fish and adopted a cat that had five kittens so she kept six cats for sixteen years and with the help of her grandmother she got a pony- when she was about 12 years old.
While she was young, Katharine wanted to be a vet before she wanted to become a teacher. But later she thought she would like to become a teacher because she had two brothers and likes interacting with people.
Katharine studied Biology for three years, from 1983 to 1986. From 86 to 87 she went to Loughbrough to get her teacher´s license- Post graduate certificate in education- and in 87 she started by teaching math’s.
After a bad experience with the first year teaching math’s she decided to travel around the world. So she lived in Surrey ( in England) where she taught two years, lived one year in Australia, fourteen years in Japan, six months in Greece and Brazil and one year in Chile. She wanted to travel to see the world. She went to Iceland, America, and New Zealand and when she was in Australia she was a English teacher.
In 1991 Katharine went back to England to get her teacher´s license.
Speaking about the countries she says she likes the sense of humor and the wide spaces of Australia, the food in Thailand, the Philippines beaches, and the British sense of humor. She liked living Japan because it was a very clean space.
Her favorite books are the life of the Pie, The time traveller´s wife, The catcher in the Rye.
Katharine describes herself as being a quiet person who likes movies, her friends, living by the sea and likes going out to restaurants.
Her happiest moment in life was when she got a degree at University and managed to get a job and go home for her family.
Katharine speaks Spanish (in a medium level), French, Japanese and Portuguese (in an elementary level).
At the moment she´s living in Portugal after have spent fourteen years in Japan.
Katharine was born on the 21st of October in 1964 in England, Darlington. Her parents are John and Margot. According to her she had a very happy childhood.
She attended Denten primary school between six and eleven years old, Stainddrop comprehensive school- secondary school between eleven and sixteen and Darlington 6th Form College and Southampton University.
With a passion for animals, she used to have a gold fish and adopted a cat that had five kittens so she kept six cats for sixteen years and with the help of her grandmother she got a pony- when she was about 12 years old.
While she was young, Katharine wanted to be a vet before she wanted to become a teacher. But later she thought she would like to become a teacher because she had two brothers and likes interacting with people.
Katharine studied Biology for three years, from 1983 to 1986. From 86 to 87 she went to Loughbrough to get her teacher´s license- Post graduate certificate in education- and in 87 she started by teaching math’s.
After a bad experience with the first year teaching math’s she decided to travel around the world. So she lived in Surrey ( in England) where she taught two years, lived one year in Australia, fourteen years in Japan, six months in Greece and Brazil and one year in Chile. She wanted to travel to see the world. She went to Iceland, America, and New Zealand and when she was in Australia she was a English teacher.
In 1991 Katharine went back to England to get her teacher´s license.
Speaking about the countries she says she likes the sense of humor and the wide spaces of Australia, the food in Thailand, the Philippines beaches, and the British sense of humor. She liked living Japan because it was a very clean space.
Her favorite books are the life of the Pie, The time traveller´s wife, The catcher in the Rye.
Katharine describes herself as being a quiet person who likes movies, her friends, living by the sea and likes going out to restaurants.
Her happiest moment in life was when she got a degree at University and managed to get a job and go home for her family.
Katharine speaks Spanish (in a medium level), French, Japanese and Portuguese (in an elementary level).
At the moment she´s living in Portugal after have spent fourteen years in Japan.
Al Gore: biography - By Ana Sofia
U.S. Vice President. Born Albert Arnold Gore Jr., on March 31, 1948, in Washington, D.C. His father, Albert Gore Sr., a congressman from Tennessee, served in the House of Representatives. His mother, Pauline (La Fon) Gore, was one of the first women to graduate from Vanderbilt Law School. At once a Washington thoroughbred and a hometown Tennessean, Gore grew up accustomed to both environments. In the nation’s capital, Gore attended the exclusive St. Alban’s Episcopal School for Boys. In Tennessee, he worked on his family’s farm. Gore then attended Harvard, where he roomed with future actor Tommy Lee Jones. He earned a degree with high honors in government in 1969 after writing a senior thesis titled "The Impact of Television on the Conduct of the Presidency, 1947-1969." After struggling with his conscience about his opposition to the Vietnam War, Gore, who was drafted for service that year, decided to enter the military. Though his father lost his next bid for the Senate, Al Gore Jr.’s decision to join the military helped allay the concerns of his father’s constituency about Al Gore Sr.’s opposition to the war. Gore served his time in Vietnam as an army reporter. When he returned to the States in 1971, he worked as a reporter at the Tennessean. When he was later moved to the city politics beat, Gore uncovered political and bribery cases that led to convictions. While at the Tennessean, Gore, a Baptist, also studied philosophy and phenomenology at Vanderbilt University. In 1974, he enrolled in Vanderbilt’s law school. Just two years later, he began to campaign for the Democratic nomination for Tennessee’s Fourth District congressional seat. When he won the nomination over Stanley Rogers, it was a big enough success to predict his win in the 1976 general election. After serving four terms, Gore jumped at the chance to fill the open Tennessee senatorial seat. He won the election in 1984. Among other things, Gore was particularly active in environmental issues. He played an integral role in the creation and passage of the 1980 Superfund bill to clean up chemical spills and dangerous land dumps. He has also worked for nuclear disarmament. In 1988, Gore made a bid for the Democratic nomination for the presidency. He won five southern states on Super Tuesday, but eventually lost to Michael Dukakis. Gore remained in the Senate until presidential candidate Bill Clinton chose him as his running mate in 1992. They were elected into office that year and re-elected in 1996. While in office, Gore continued to display concern for the environment. In 1992, he wrote Earth in the Balance: Healing the Global Environment (1992). He also worked to cut back on government bureaucracy. Though it was Clinton who came under fire so often during their terms, Gore’s political image suffered when he was investigated by the Justice Department in 1997 and 1998 for his fund-raising activities during the 1996 re-election campaign. Gore came under fire for, among other things, making a number of fund-raising telephone calls from his office in the White House—a possible violation of a civil service law that bars elected officials from using federal property to solicit campaign contributions. In both 1997 and 1998, Attorney General Janet Reno refused to assign an independent counsel to investigate Gore’s truthfulness when questioned under oath about his fund-raising practices. A renewed inquiry into Gore’s fund-raising activities began in the spring and summer of 2000, and the head of the Justice Department’s campaign finance unit again recommended that Reno appoint an special prosecutor. In August, after publicly defending her previous decisions in a June Senate hearing, Reno rejected his recommendation. In his 2000 presidential campaign, Gore faced down an early challenge from former Senator Bill Bradley, emerging victorious in every primary election. Bradley withdrew from the race in early March 2000, stating that he supports Gore and calling for unity within the Democratic Party. Gore emerged from the primaries unscathed, but is facing a tough race with the Republican presidential nominee, George W. Bush, and his running mate, former Secretary of Defense Richard B. Cheney. On August 8, 2000, Gore made his long-awaited announcement of a running mate, choosing Senator Joseph I. Lieberman of Connecticut. Lieberman is the first Orthodox Jew ever to be named on the ticket for a major national party. His strong support of campaign finance reform is expected to help Gore deflect Republican criticism of his past fund-raising activities. Lieberman was also the first prominent Democrat to publicly chastise President Clinton for his admitted affair with former White House intern Monica Lewinsky, and his presence on the ticket will give Gore some much-needed distance from the less savory aspects of the Clinton legacy. Gore and Lieberman received their party's formal nomination at the Democratic National Convention in Los Angeles in mid-August. Gore has been married to Mary Elizabeth Aitcheson, who he met at a school dance during his senior year of high school, since 1969. Known as “Tipper,” Mrs. Gore has been involved in the campaign for labeling of music that contains sexually explicit content. In 1999, Mrs. Gore also made news when she publicly spoke about suffering from depression. The Gores have four children: Karenna Gore Schiff (who has assumed an increasingly important role as an advisor to her father), Kristin, Sarah, and Albert III
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