"We were Adobe" said his owner
(I hope I translate it decently: Photoshop quiebra tras terremoto. "Es que eramos de Adobe" Dice el gerente)
Chilean jokes about the earthquake. In Chile dark humour it's a MUST. So we are having a field day making all kind of macabre jokes.
Do you know that the last democratically elect conservative in Chile started his mandate with a HUGE earthquake? The same situation we are facing now.
There is a civic leson we need to learn:
DON'T VOTE CONSERVATIVE.
We face three earthquakes in less than an hour: 7.2, 6.9 and 6.0 Ritcher Scale.
See photos of the earthquakes during the ceremony. The interantional presidents faces are funny
By the way. I'm sick of earthquakes and Tsunamies.
I want normality to return. My strenght it's starting to crumble.
If night caught them in the road they will sleep in our house. I don't want to host them. I don't want to see their pain. I want to hide in my bed away from the world.
We will received them and hold them anyway. We will face the suffer of our people.
Would you please stop trembling?.
221 tremors in a week - 46 in my city - it's a little bit too much to fragile chilean nerves.(Your foreschoks are pretty much the same as the mainshock we experience back in 1985 earthquake). If you can't stop moving please don't tremble during night so at least we can get a decent night sleep.
We apretiate your effort to get the much needed calm.
(By the way things are starting to get normal for the families that don't have damage in our homes. We are now having light, water, comunications: internet, cell phone. Gas is back. Food and cash it's still dificult to find as ATM are running out of money and supermarket are "out". We brought some money and food from Santiago.)
I copy and paste this excellent article: In Chile, life between tremors
In Santiago, we feel both lucky and guilty to have been stricken with an earthquake registering 8.0 instead of an 8.8, as it was in Maule and Bío-Bío to the south. Still, most people now keep a glass of water close by as a makeshift seismometer, to see if the rumbles they keep feeling are real or imagined.
We are as shattered as the windows and mirrors that tumbled when that 300-mile fault tore open in the middle of a late-summer night. People are shaking, living in a daze of anxiety, sadness, exhilaration, gossip and a tremendous need to connect with one another and feel that the quake is over.
It is not.
Not all the country is down. Friends got together in cracked buildings with no power for Sunday lunch with not-so-cold chardonnay, to swap stories from the front. People lined up at the local hot dog franchise, reading sold-out editions of all the local papers.
I was scheduled to fly to Nashville Sunday night, but I’m still here, hooked to the news that’s breaking every minute. Near where I went to change my ticket, office workers with no offices shared espressos and anecdotes. The sight of our main airport “not open until further notice” has added a feeling of isolation to this tragedy.
For two decades, since we have been “modern” in this faraway country, we have felt like part of the world. Now, especially in places like tsumani-swiped Constitución, all our supposed advances seem in jeopardy.
The quake hit Chile in the middle of a presidential transition and right smack at the start of our bicentennial celebration. It’s a testament to our infrastructure and social institutions that the whole country didn’t fall down. But we did stumble. And now, live on HDTV, we hear things that make us remember the dark days of Gen. Augusto Pinochet, words like “the missing,” “curfew” and “state of emergency.”
Rumors come and go: The phones are down; that’s true at the moment. Running water will stop for a day; who knows? Supermarkets are full of people and empty shelves. You worry that no one is in charge or, if they are, the situation is too big to handle without force. The real tremor rumbling beneath the rubble is the threat of social upheaval, especially in Concepción and Talcahuano, where ships lie in the streets.
We are in a state of suspension. People are tired and perhaps spent, feeling they can’t make it through another one. A friend told me that, from his window, he watched a church steeple crumble. We have the sensation of having met, face to face and in pitch dark, the big one.
The worst part of the memory, many people say, is not the quake itself but the anxiety that came immediately afterward, when our cellphones were out and we couldn’t reach our loved ones. For two or three hours Saturday morning, all Chileans were very alone. We felt as if we were at the end of the world. Which in a way is true.
Alberto Fuguet is the author of the novels “The Movies of My Life” and “Missing (una investigación).”
The difference with Haiti, it's that Chile has a working State. A democratic, not corrupt and organize State. This is THE most powerful disaster of our history. We can help our self but it's not enough, we really need external help.
This fic is owed to geminiscorp,
Again scatteredlogic, How would I thank you?
They had tipped her that "Eros & Thanathos" was a unique independent Muggle bookstore at Perarchori, at Ithaki
Maybe she could leave this for later and look for a new place in which to drink a sketos?
Ever since she arrived in Perarchori two months ago, she had been experiencing problems crossing that street. Not that she first noticed it, but the closer she got to the store, the more she felt this great urge to go and explore the rest of the island. So far she had made four excursions towards Homer's land, read the Iliad and the Odyssey twice, visited Kioni and Vathy more times that it was worth, before it struck her as odd behaviour. After a few more tries she contacted Bill Weasley to ask for an amulet against magical shields; the owl takes three days to find Bill and more than a week to come back.
Bill’s recommendation had been simple, for this particular ward, stating aloud a piece of the Odyssey in which
So there she was again, looking at this cute little bookstore, fighting the urge to go and visit again that lovely Monastery near the top of the mountain to drink coffee with the monks.
Inhaling deeply, Hermione cried to no one:
“Bright Ithaca is my home: it has a mountain,
Leaf-quivering Neriton, far visible.
Around are many islands, close to each other,
Doulichion and Same and wooded Zacynthos.
towards dusk; the rest, apart, face dawn and sun”.
A few people passing next to her mumbled in Greek what she guessed was a reprobatorial comment, but she didn't care.
The shield was neutralized; she could feel it. She wasn’t happy, though. She knew that the magic was made by the amulet and not cast by her; that brought to her a deep sense of loss that struck her with force. Ever since she started investigating this estrange phenomenon with Death at wizzarding culture, her well build inner wards had melted, making her crave magic; the mystery added by the bookstore dilemma, has turn her sabbatical, not in the self search travel she hoped, but into a intense mourning for what she has lost years ago.
She tried to divert her feelings and concentrate on the task at hand. Hermione consciously held her breath, and then lether breath out slowly while crossing the street. Why did the chicken cross the road? She snorted; she remembered facing torture at the Malfoys’ Manor when she was young; in the middle of that traumatic experience, her mind wouldn't shut up. Making bad jokes and seeing the irony in an unexpected turn of events was a habit that had brought her more than one problem through the years.
Hermione crossed to the little red door that welcomed Muggle buyers from all over
Do forgive me; it’s my first time in here. I don’t see any clerk or someone who could help me. I’m researching the phenomenon of Intermittences of Death in ancient cultures; well that was stupid, she thought, this woman will have no idea what I’m looking for.
The woman assed her while thinking of an answer, her face impassive. You know better than me that life and dead has no intermittence. Chuckling she changed her deep tone for a more pragmatic one: “Still, you might want to check in the last corridor, at the south wing”. Something in her eyes reminds her of Dumbledore. “Good Lord, how long since I last thought of him?”.
Locating it – a grey shadowy corridor, a bit anticlimactic after the gorgeous bookshelves she has step by on her way here – Hermione caressed the side of a few books with her fingers, distracted by the smell of humidity and her own disappointment, not really looking at the volumes. Another reader was near; diffused between the shades and shadows, bent over the pages of a book, totally engrossed and oblivious to his surroundings. She had to go back a few steps, when it struck her as someone she knew, as she had seen him so many times in her childhood. Hermione slowly approached him. Just a few steps, clasping her mouth, her eyes wide. She could see him dressed in layers of clothes: Close-cut textured jacket, a black cashmere turtleneck and a shirt with dark-based fussy patterns. It couldn’t be him, she thought, not alive, not in Muggle clothes. “Lovely logical train of thought, Granger, she congratulated her self” but then, there were his large thin hands and his sharp aura – for lack of a better word – that make her believe her gut instinct, so she called to him:
In non fandom related topic
"I am still young, and the passions of youth
and my experience on those sweet pleasures
exacerbate the torment of the flesh,
and their assaults against me are more fierce,
the weaker the nature is that they assault. (...)
Men give me praise, but I deserve no praise from God,
who searches heart and mind and see all in secrets places"ago
Abelard:I will always love you, I will always carry you in my spirit. Nor should you be surprised that twisted jealousy should turn its eyes towards such a conspicuous and fitting friendship as ours, because if we were miserable, we could undoubtedly live among others however we liked without any malicious attention. Therefore, let them backbite, let them drag us down, let them gnaw, let them waste away inside, let them derive their bitterness from our good things. You will still be my life, my breath, my restoration in difficulty, and finally, my complete joy. Farewell, you who make me fare well.