Skoči na vsebino

none

Lunatik
 Prikaži profil  Najdi objave

  • Št. objav

    3.421

  • Član od

  • Zadnji obisk

  • Zmagovalni dnevi

    9

 Vrsta vsebine 

Zapisi na blogu, ki jih je objavil/a none

  1. none

    BlackRock

    Avtor: none,

    Zanimivo kako nam pri nas perejo možgančke s tem, da nas bodo tuji investirorji
    rešili in bo vse boljše....Realsnost je čisto drugačna, ti investitorji, ki v veliki meri predstavljajo
    ogromne sklade nimajo drugega cilja kot snovanje neskončnih dobičkov za svoje delničarje,
    po domače, they give a shit about people!
     
    Poglejte zanimiv prispevek....
     
    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zp7vgOqgpBg
  2. none

    System

    Avtor: none,

    Capitalism Makes Me Sick by Ina P.
     
     
     
     
    Ed.’s note: The following was delivered at the Rail’s “Rant Rhapsody Redux: Missives from the American Fall” on October 16 at the Bowery Poetry Club.
     
     
     
    Alice Walker told me recently that writing is so organic to her
    nature, so essential to her being—such an inevitable flow—that she finds
    people criticizing her work as silly as criticizing a wisteria’s
    growth. And that’s how I feel about Occupy Wall Street. I love it
    because it’s not making claims or demands in a way that feels like one
    more assault in the endless war of ideas and name-calling between
    political factions, not just another engine belching away in the noise
    factory that makes up our politics, with everyone talking so much nobody
    is ever really heard. It just is, taking root and growing everywhere.
     
     
    People are inhabiting their cities and their stories, sharing their
    real untriumphant, non-heroic lives in a way that’s real and meaty and
    intimate, not 140-character smartassisms, not Facebook updates that
    reinforce some fictional persona meant to impress. Just being real
    people, rooted in place and time. Here. Present. I love that.
     
     
    So I’m going to just be my real self here, too, shaped by capitalism
    like we all inescapably are. I want to tell you how it’s affected me and
    why I care that we start healing. Why the Occupy movement feels like
    spiritual medicine for everyone who encounters it with an open heart.
     
     
    The current system is so monolithic it’s hard to remember that it’s
    just one more mirage like all power, another set of illusions, like
    advertising and pornography, whose functions are to generate fear and
    desire and keep us mesmerized, inert, debilitated by self-doubt. Telling
    us our souls feel empty or in pain because we don’t yet have this or
    that, him or her, and that the people who do are better. That there’s
    something out there you can buy or achieve that will finally stop the
    fear, the aching inside that tells you you’re nothing until you have it,
    and that everybody knows.
     
     
    I’ve never told anyone except my husband and a couple of very close
    friends what I’m about to tell you, not my comrades in activism for whom
    I would have died at times, not my girlfriends or my kiki gay
    boyfriends or anyone. But I’m tired of hiding and I just want to be. I
    want to follow the example of everyone down on Wall Street, of everyone
    around the world today who has thrown off the fear and judgment for
    being unemployed, or underemployed, indebted, disabled, disrespected,
    and otherwise low status in our society.
     
     
    I take such strength in being reminded that that’s practically
    everyone. And that if we can stop hating ourselves because the system
    devalues us, if we can start loving ourselves exactly as we are, and
    loving each other, the world will simply be radically, gloriously
    different. The illusion of power we suffer, which makes us enslave and
    oppress and hurt each other, will simply cease to be.
     
     
    So here’s my American story.
     
     
    http://www.brooklynrail.org/article_image/image/8731/parker-web1.jpgPhoto by Zachary Garlitos.
     
    Capitalism makes me sick. I’m not just talking about moral revulsion,
    nor speaking metaphorically: I am actually sick. I spent my first 30
    years in a near constant state of economic terror and the traumas that
    came with it. And now I am in pain almost all the time, pain brought on
    by the stress of trying to survive in this system.
     
     
    My mother was abandoned with two babies, chronically depressed, always
    broke, deeply traumatized by all kinds of wild shit she did as the ’60s
    wound to a violent, madcap, drug-induced close in L.A.
    By the time I was three and my brother was six months old, I was her
    only support and became her shrink and confidant, her helper, the bright
    shining girl who she needed to think could withstand anything and bring
    light back to the darkness.
     
     
    She must have been too afraid of ending up like her sisters—one a
    violent delusional paranoid schizophrenic and the other a junkie—to ask
    for help from her parents, and had nobody else to turn to. She had no
    illusions that becoming dependent on welfare would do anything but
    worsen our prospects so she worked like a dog at menial jobs and tried
    desperately to keep her head—our heads—above water as best she could. We
    went without a lot—we ran out of food sometimes but she’d scare up a
    bag of rice or take us to a bar with free happy hour snacks and we’d
    make it through. She tried to make our homes beautiful without spending a
    dime. She tried very hard, never, ever gave up, never took a vacation
    or a break in 20 years. But she was partially broken by it all and the
    system didn’t ever quite work for her.
     
     
    Money was always a problem.
     
     
    She couldn’t afford childcare so I went to my aunt and uncle’s after
    school. My aunt would turn tricks in the bedroom for drugs. My uncle
    would do coke and heroin and smoke pot at the living room table with his
    penis out while I played on the floor. He would masturbate with my hair
    while I tried to eat dinner or draw or do my school work. He’d pick me
    up and touch me. He’d watch me playing with an intensity and a fury that
    I knew could boil into extreme violence if I crossed him. I shut down. I
    escaped into fantasies of being a princess who accidentally ended up
    here and would someday be rescued. I confided only in my imaginary
    friends, and thought I had to keep taking it because I feared for my
    little brother and cousin if I didn’t.
     
     
    At school and on TV, the emerging ethos of
    the Reagan ’80s told me that poverty was a moral disease, that drugs
    were evil, and that abnormal sexuality was a spiritual sickness
    affecting the wicked and the weak. I didn’t know that I wasn’t complicit
    or to blame for what was happening. Some would say it was a matter of
    liberal cultural decay brought on by the sick, destructive radicalism of
    the ’60s. My parents and aunt and uncle were disillusioned, burned-out
    former hippies, distraught over the course the world was taking, left
    behind by the system, and I believed it all. Since I came from them, I
    thought I was all of those things too.
     
     
    I was smart and charismatic and ended up testing into a magnet program
    in a wealthy elementary school. The kids made fun of my unkempt
    appearance, my wardrobe. The one time they saw my dad they spent a week
    telling me he looked like the janitor. I was always ashamed of myself
    for not having what they had. I thought I was horribly ugly because I
    looked nothing like Christie Brinkley or any of the well-groomed,
    Guess-jeaned girls in my class.
     
     
    I blamed myself for my circumstances, and became adept at hiding them.
    I’d get dropped off in front of strangers’ nice houses and then walk a
    mile or two home to where we really lived. I told people my dad was off
    on daring adventures or business when he was really a homeless meth
    addict by then, hooked on the working man’s drug in his own nightmare
    cycle of working to feed an addiction to keep working to feed the
    addiction. He lived in his truck, he showed up every few months or years
    to violently explode at my mother, to scream about her and me and my
    brother sucking out his lifeblood in the form of child support which he
    was always far behind on.
     
     
    I fantasized that he’d show up healed and rescue us, but for years
    actually expected to hear he had died every time the phone rang. If only
    we didn’t cost so much money, if only I could provide for myself, my
    dad would feel better and come back and love me, my mom would have time
    for me, I’d be as good as the kids at school, and they would like me.
     
     
    It was just a matter of money.
     
     
    I was terrified of the other parents at school. I was scared of my
    teachers who treated me like trash, said underhanded things about my
    mom’s non-participation in PTA and field trips and bake sales in front of the other kids. The DARE program
    told me to turn in any adults I saw using drugs but they were so
    prevalent around me I knew my brother and I would be taken away if I
    told, so I kept silent, became a master of revealing nothing of myself
    or my life.
     
     
    I knew I was bad and to be blamed because I couldn’t bear to think it
    was the whole world, that it was the system we lived in that was mean
    and dangerous. The system seemed to work for everyone else so it must be
    me. I wanted to thrive someday. I had to have hope to survive. I knew
    that I didn’t stack up but I hoped someday I would.
     
     
    When I was 11 I exploded in hatred and pain and told my mother what my
    uncle had been doing. She called the cops and I had to be interviewed
    twice about all the sordid details I could remember, carefully
    protecting my mother’s complicity so I wouldn’t lose my home and my
    brother. But she was overly honest with them and because of her felony
    conviction and her admission that she and my uncle were drug buddies now
    and sometime lovers in their “wild years,” she was deemed an unsuitable
    witness. It would be a kid against a grown-up, me against my uncle
    whose father had been a big lawyer in town, who knew people, whose wife
    and friends would stand by him. The cops slunk away, the case was never
    prosecuted. The system deemed my victimization worthless; we were too
    poor, too damaged to count. I thought it was a judgment on me. I thought
    I would have to work very, very hard to become a person of value, to
    deserve to live and to be safe.
     
     
    My uncle wasn’t ostracized. My grandmother, the closest person I had
    to a protector, constantly reminded me that my uncle was at least a good
    provider—he had a union job at the docks and put food on the table—and
    so was a much better father to my cousin than my own father was to me.
     
     
    Money, it always came down to money.
     
     
    Human value was defined by money, the same lesson over and over. I was
    told to buck up, kiddo, that others had it worse than me. And by now I
    was going to school with kids who probably did. In order to go on, I
    focused only on how lucky I was. At least I hadn’t been raped. At least
    my mother wasn’t shooting drugs and turning tricks. I needed to place
    myself somewhere up from the bottom of the scale because I didn’t know
    the difference between my real value and what the system deemed it to
    be.
     
     
    My dad once told me his parenting philosophy was summed up by the song
    “A Boy Named Sue,” and for years I thought that twisted lesson somehow
    seemed fair, that everything that happened was only what was best for me
    because of who I was, how low I’d started, because of what I deserved
    to endure in order to become something better.
     
     
    I wanted to join the system because it was my only hope of escape. I
    got straight As, perfect test scores. I sunk myself into ballet classes
    six days a week to avoid going home, to have a silent, voiceless,
    structured form through which I could express myself yet reveal nothing.
    Perfection was the only possibility, anything else was failure.
     
     
    I was always stressed out and on the verge of tears but I wasn’t
    allowed to cry or show weakness, especially not around my mother who was
    too stressed and stretched thin to experience it as anything but
    another burden. I had debilitating pains in my belly. They happened at
    school once and an ambulance took me to the emergency room. My mother
    was furious for costing her the money. The stress got worse, the pain
    got worse, and I swallowed it down. Someone like me can’t afford to be
    sick. It was my fault for being weak. My fault for being flawed. Work,
    accomplish, escape.
     
     
    It was all going to come down to money.
     
     
    When I was 17, the L.A. riots broke out. I
    was going to one of the toughest schools in the area—4,500 kids, drug
    dogs, metal detectors, bullet holes in the classroom ceilings from
    flying shots outside. And the school exploded in a race riot. I saw one
    kid get his brains smashed out of his skull on the pavement. The cops
    were everywhere swarming and arresting my schoolmates. But they ignored
    me or smiled at me, asked me if I was okay, urged me to get home safely.
    For the first time ever, my white skin became my defining feature in a
    way I hadn’t noticed before—I was on the more powerful side of the big
    struggle simply by virtue of my color. I had privilege in a way I’d
    never realized and that meant power to do something useful. I was on the
    wrong side of justice, not a victim of the system but a beneficiary of
    it.
     
     
    It made me sick to think I was complicit in anyone else ever feeling
    the way I had until then—worthless, alienated, shamed, abandoned,
    humiliated, deprived, terrified, discriminated against for an accident
    of birth. I had wanted to be a dancer or a filmmaker, but decided art
    was an indulgence someone like me couldn’t afford until I made the whole
    world just and fair for everyone, made sure no little girls ever felt
    like I had again. Then I could indulge in dreams. Then I would deserve
    to follow my bliss. I found left politics and became a true believer. I
    would save the world in order to be of adequate value to be worth saving
    myself.
     
     
    I moved to New York because it was as far away from home as I could
    get. It was anonymous and I could start again, take hold of my
    bootstraps, and pull myself into something better without my family
    weighing me down. I tried to work in documentary film—a version of what I
    actually wanted to do that I could justify to myself—but by economic
    necessity accidentally ended up working my way up in leftist publishing
    and non-profits as a publicist or press agent or whatever you want to
    call it. I was a professional manipulator of language, a professional
    co-dependent for the leaders of the left. I hated it but because of my
    background I was a natural, and at least I felt useful.
     
     
    I worked extremely hard. I was very good at shaping myself around the
    needs of others. I never said no to anyone or anything who needed my
    help. I derived all my value through helping other people’s dreams and
    aspirations, causes and careers. And my job constantly reinforced my
    second-class status, even in the movement. I was never the center of
    anything, always a facilitator off to the side, so it felt familiar.
    Like I wasn’t asking for more than I deserved.
     
     
    I did a few things I’m proud of, hopefully did more good than harm.
    But on balance nothing was ever an accomplishment of my own. I knew that
    my labors were only ever a cover for the fact that I was starting from
    so far behind the mark. Every hard sprint forward only got me to the
    starting line. Any victory belonged to whomever I was working behind,
    never to me. My voice counted for nothing but everyone else’s was
    critically important and I could express what I thought through them;
    with my help they would be heard and things would get better. Then it
    would be my turn to be somebody, to do what I wanted to do.
     
     
    Inside the institutions of the left, like all institutions that exist
    within capitalism, I discovered the same reverence for the rich and
    powerful as everywhere else. Almost all the executive directors and
    publishers came from wealth. There were family dynasties whose children
    were guaranteed access, guaranteed to start out as people whose voices
    did count.
     
     
    I knew I couldn’t be better born and I was never going to make real
    money working for hard causes and non-profit institutions. I began to
    wonder if I’d taken the wrong road, if I could have done more good and
    gained more respect, more value, if I’d focused first on making millions
    on Wall Street and then turned to philanthropy. There were millionaires
    who lived lavishly off the dirty fruits of others’ labors, either
    “earned” or inherited, but whom everybody fawned over for their bravery
    in coming around to the good cause, for hosting great parties, for
    giving big money. They got the awards, the accolades, the invitations. I
    was just the help. I began to get cynical.
     
     
    It turned out that it still came down to money. Capitalism was everywhere, inescapable, and corrosive.
     
     
    I was stressed out all the time and became very resentful, very hurt
    by small slights, gutted by what I experienced as betrayal of the
    unspoken contract in my head: that if I supported everyone else, they’d
    finally make me feel valuable, treat me that way, pay me on time, say
    thank you. So I worked harder, thinking it all might come true someday
    if I just tried one more time, did it better, put more into it. I was
    still trapped in the calculus of capitalism: if you work hard enough you
    will earn your place at the table.
     
     
    I ran on pure adrenaline. My back started hurting all the time. I was,
    miraculously, happily married by now and we wanted to have kids but I
    was infertile without explanation. I worked on, ground on, ignored the
    pain and the symptoms—figuring I didn’t deserve what I wanted anyway. I
    didn’t stop to go to the doctor. No room for weakness. I self-medicated
    in order to work: exercise, pot, Xanax, Aleve. All of it overtaxed my
    adrenal system further and the hormonal response got worse.
     
     
    My memory declined—I couldn’t remember entire conversations, books I’d
    read, films I’d seen, ideas I’d had, appointments or commitments I’d
    made. My reputation started to slip. At the same time, old memories I’d
    suppressed in order to function started flashing before my eyes in the
    middle of the workday and the night. I got scared of other people and
    what they would think of me if they saw me like this and I had to
    explain what was happening. I stopped attending events. I stopped seeing
    friends. I hid.
     
     
    And yet I carried on at work, because there was no stopping. There was
    no going without a paycheck for two weeks, or losing my business
    through which I paid my health insurance and that of my husband and
    employees, no losing whatever ground I’d gained on the road out of where
    I’d come from.
     
     
    It came down to money, there was no way around it.
     
     
    My left piriformis finally spasmed and hardened, which pinched my
    sciatic nerve. Then the hardening and spasming spread to my glutes,
    hamstrings, IT bands, hip flexors, outer obliques, shins and calves, all
    my spinal muscles, and the muscles between my ribs. The muscles pulled
    on my spine and a disc slipped. I was paralyzed in bed and couldn’t roll
    over or move without excruciating, blinding pain for two weeks.
     
     
    I thought I was going to die and told my loving husband to leave me
    because I didn’t want to burden him. I didn’t call any friends to come
    help me. I was gutted when I ran into a former activist comrade one day
    while I was trying painfully and slowly to get down the block and into a
    physical therapist’s office; instead of offering to help me, which I
    desperately needed, all he did was tell me about some project he was
    working on, how I could help, and then leave me standing there, alone
    and scared. It reinforced what I’d always suspected: that nobody cared
    about me, only about what I could do for them. That the system was total
    and inescapable, a reflection of human nature like the right had always
    claimed. I hit the bottom of my despair.
     
     
    And then, for the first time in my life, I just let go. I stopped
    struggling against it. I stopped worrying what it would mean to our
    finances. And even in pain I felt an immediate, blissful grace in the
    powerlessness of surrender, the peace of being fully in the present,
    totally in my body, just being. The pain was a gift: a thunderbolt
    directly to my nervous system, a literal pain in my ass manifesting
    itself from spiritual pain, telling me I had to stop trying to earn love
    and just be love. And in order to do that, I had to love myself first.
    It was time to occupy my own life, value my own gifts, go forward in
    faith instead of fear. No more sacrificing my life to be part of the
    system, or to reform the system, or even to fight it.
     
     
    And no matter what, no matter what work I ended up doing, or what path
    I took, my value moment to moment would have nothing to do with money.
     
     
    The typical personality type among chronic pain sufferers is someone
    who can’t say no to taking care of everyone around her, someone who
    bears the stress of financial and emotional support for her family,
    someone who suppresses her needs so she can be of service to everyone
    else instead. Selfless, self-sacrificing. In other words, the typical
    American woman.
     
     
    It is a disease of capitalism. It tells us we’re worth nothing unless
    we somehow make the system work for us and our families—to get all the
    things for ourselves and for them we think makes us all acceptable,
    worthwhile, attractive, lovable. We negate our own selves and our dreams
    in a futile attempt to become people of value. We don’t realize that we
    already are from the moment we’re born. And all the odds are stacked
    against the system working for most of us—there’s not a mainstream
    economic indicator that shows anything but rapidly consolidating wealth
    for a tiny few and losses for everyone else. We kill ourselves to
    achieve what is unachievable, and blame ourselves and each other for
    failing. For being “losers.”
     
     
    Economic deprivation and stress beget trauma, trauma begets deprivation,
    cascading down through generations. It’s the only real trickle-down in
    our economic system. And if you look at all the other diseases of
    capitalism—obesity, cancer, diabetes, heart disease, mental illness,
    addiction, and so on—we are nearly all sick and suffering from it in one
    shape or another. It’s killing us all.
     
     
    And it all comes down to nothing: to dirty, filthy, illusory money.
     
     
    I’m sick and tired of writing manifestos in my head to make sense of
    capitalism, to reform or to fix it. I’m sick and tired of justifying my
    physical presence in the world through my labor value or my political
    value. I’m sick and tired of waiting for a future where everything’s
    better and I can finally be my whole, real self.
     
     
    For all our sisters and brothers who can make it to the occupation sites
    around the world and the many more who can’t, it’s time to not just
    occupy our cities but to inhabit our own bodies and minds, our own
    stories, and our relationships with each other in truth and without
    shame. To stop measuring our own value and everyone else’s by how much
    we have or don’t have. To stop hating ourselves and each other because
    we are rich or poor, because capitalism insists we are nothing more than
    inadequate accumulations of possession and accomplishment, never
    stacking up against the fears and desires it perpetuates through
    illusion. I’m tired of living in fear.
     
     
    I’ve decided to live. I’m going to do whatever is as natural to me as
    the wisteria’s growth is to it, one moment at a time for the rest of
    this short, beautiful life I’ve been given. I’m going to create without
    feeling I have to justify it economically or politically. I’m going to
    join everyone else basking in the sunshine of fellowship and love down
    on Wall Street and around the world in just being myself in all my
    flawed reality. I’m going to remember that I deserve to exist and to
    thrive, just like we all do, just like every living thing does. To
    occupy and inhabit my own self in love, my community in love, my world
    in love, and to have faith that that is enough, that it will spread and
    take root and grow everywhere.
     
  11. none

    911111

    Avtor: none,

    Zanimiva teorija....
     
    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GfF1lt8qAhk
     
    http://www.youtube.com/watch?annotation_id=annotation_4112566099&feature=iv&src_vid=GfF1lt8qAhk&v=Cb8MDFSgUB4
  12. none

    Secret Space Program....

    Avtor: none,

    V tem prispevku bo govora o tajnem vesoljskem programu.
    Konspiracija ali ne, zanimivo razširiti svojo manipulacijo ali tudi ne....
     
    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=37jUImm1PPI&list=TLEqZ5GmfK7E0
     
    Peter Levenda in njegov pogled na to temo:
     
    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cj2qrl6Q2rk
  15. none

    David....novo

    Avtor: none,

    Tu sem našel video posnetek novejše predstavitve David Icka na Wambley-u....
    Sicer vse skupaj začne izgledati kot kak koncert pa vseeno nekaj informacij je uporabnih...)
     
    Prvi del
    Drugi del
    Tretji del
    Četrti del
     
  21. none

    Lep pogovor...

    Avtor: none,

    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xsKGC8Pt_XY
    Prispevek je neposredno povezan z demonstracijami zoper Bilderbergerje...
    Morris se sprašuje kaj predstavlja to slovito skupino in kaj bi naj stalo za njim...
    Sam dvomi v to kar se piše vse o tej skupini in meni, da gre za disinformacijo...
    Meni, da za vsem stojijo Zionisti...
    No, kaj pa vem...Verjetno je vse...
    PA tudi to ni pomembno...Še posebej v zahodni kulturi smo najbolj usmerjeni
    poiskati kdo je kaj naredil narobe, kdo je ta čarovnica in kdo je to in kdo je kriv,
    torej kdo je ta oseba, ki je kriva, ki se ne ujema z našimi prepričanji...
    To je najpomembnejša novica oz. ni novica je konstrukt dneva...
    Zato bi raje povdaril, ne se toliko zanašati na informacije od zunaj,
    ki nikoli ali vsaj verjetno niso resnične, nam nič ne pomagajo na poti naše usode...
    Vsaka misel, pa naj je tako nedolžna lahko uniči vse v nas...Misli so ultimativno
    orožje naše civilizacije...
     
    Tu pa zanimiv intervju nekega Krišna privrženca, ki pa gleda celovito na svet,
    to je zdaj, to je lepo, čista lepota...Niti ni toliko pomembno kdo je, kaj je, ali budist ali....no vidimo,
    da imamo ljudje veliko skupnega...
     
    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IGcMAhmw9oA
  22. none

    DISCLOSURE....na planu

    Avtor: none,

    Vedno več ljudi je mnenja,
    da obstajajo trdni dokazi o teh tujcih iz drugih koncev in krajev vesolja.
    Steven Greer je eden izmed pobudnikov za razkritje in potrditev
    tega tudi s strani vlad, prevsem ZDA je tista,
    ki je zakrita v meglo ignorance in stroge zaupnosti...
    Tisti med nami, ki smo seznanjeni z to tematiko smo že velikokrat slišali o
    tako imenovanih "BLACK PROJECTS", ki se financirajo na skriti način
    brez vednosti javnosti itd...
    Drugače so pa to strogo tajni projekti vojaškega kompleksa, ki bi se naj
    ukvarjali z proti gravitacijsko tehnologijo prekopirano od teh tujih obiskovalcev,
    med drugim tudi razvojem drugih tehnologij, ki bi verjetno lahko celo spremenile
    pot človeštva v bolj uravnoteženo sfero....
    Tu pa videoposnetek konference o razkritju to leto, govori Steven Greer:

     
    Kot vidimo, so bili povabljeni zelo visoki, predvsem bivši funkcionarji na to konferenco razkrivanja.
    V tem prispevku govori bivši obrambni minister Kanade Paul Hellyer....Iz tega govora lahko povzamemo,
    da verjetno večina naših politikov nima pojma kaj se zares dogaja v svetu,
    so tam samo figure na šahovnici....
     

    Ljudje predstavljajmo si kaj bi lahko za naš materijum to v prihodnje pomenilo...
     
    Teh posnetkov je še kar nekaj:





    2 
     
  24. none

    Človek in nasilje!

    Avtor: none,

    Poglejmo, spomnimo se naše agresivnosti in nasilja do vsega drugega, drugačnega...
    A smo se kaj naučili iz zgodovine, se spremenili,....ocenite sami pri sebi.!!!
    Svet je vedno znova in znova v nasilju, enako kot vsak dan pijemo kavo ali se peljemo
    v službo, naslije se ponavlja v nedogled...
     
    Daj mo za primer, čisto sveži posnetek iz Turčije:
     
    Link
     
    Nasilje ustvarja še več nasilja....Če bi se ti strički le zavedali,
    da se borijo le njihove misli..
     
    Link
     
    Demonstracije, ki so vsepovsod enake, se ponavljajo..._Nasilje nad nasiljem...
     

     
    Policija....!!!
     

     

     
    Vojne...!!! Igre???
     

     
    What???? Drugi dan boš na bojišču ubijala ljudi, pa naslednji dan komentirala, kako je bilo super v tem ...! Narobe svet...
     
    Link
     
    ...............ultimativno
     

     
     
    Še pa še....ni konca in kraja......
     
    Link
     
     
    Agresivnost in nasilje....
     

     
     
    ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
     
  25. none
    Še dodatna predstavitev tega izjemnega človeka...Mayita je pred nekaj dnevi objavila tudi nekaj podobnega,
    tu pa je malo bolj poglobljena razprava, za vse tiste med nami, ki jih to bolj zanima....
    Uživajte!
     
    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xVQKwRypb0s
×
×
  • Objavi novo...