המתת השור

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if it deas really come along

don't let it go

don't think that you should not

and wear your guilt fuiling inside like a cheap suit

when hapiness comes along

take it

I have never felt the prisonner of a situation like tonight

it will not last

I will fly with my own wings again, soon

i will get into the flow of air, the one that takes you to India but never gets out there

the air beneath my wings

.

 

  ps sorry it is in french but he gives a clse to precise détails on what are this leader's approaches and from his close entourage too giving us the understanbility of things along another strategical point of view, that of the processus of decision of certain leaders notably in the arab israeli conflict that is what i think is lacking a bit in world history if I may suggest do you see wht I mean Jeremy   now, choosing the right détails and putting them in the right context dépends of course on the talent of the man who makes the analysis   there is no strict principle of evolution but an ever changing context of changing circumstances, changing the change all the time   ah,,,,you must think that i am such a fool by now

Extrait du chapitre 1:

Février 2001: Les chefs de Tsahal ont applaudi l’arrivée d’Ariel Sharon à la présidence du conseil. Le nouveau Premier ministre s’est toujours opposé aux accords d’Oslo, accusant Arafat d’être un terroriste sanguinaire. Les électeurs israéliens ont passé l’éponge sur sa visite sur l’esplanade des mosquées à Jérusalem quarante-huit heures avant le déclenchement de l’Intifada. Ils n’ont pas voulu se souvenir de sa démission forcée du ministère de la Défense après les massacres de Sabra et Chatilla, à Beyrouth, en septembre 1982 . Lui n’a pas oublié. Pendant ses dix-huit années de traversée du désert, il a réfléchit, observé et tiré les leçons de ses erreurs passées. Désormais, il tient compte des sondages d’opinion et écoute les conseils des experts en communication. Lorsque Reouven Adler, l’un des publicitaires qui a orchestré sa campagne électorale, lui a proposé d’adopter le slogan : « Seul Sharon apportera la paix ! » il a éclaté de rire avant de corriger : « Pas de pourparlers sous le feu ! » Mais il n’en reste pas moins que les Israéliens veulent entendre de la bouche de leurs dirigeants des mots d’espoir. Au fil des ans, Sharon a réalisé la futilité de lutter becs et ongles contre le processus de négociation avec les Palestiniens. Autant jouer le jeu de la diplomatie si l’on est en mesure d’imposer les règles. Il est plus facile de laisser les pourparlers s'enliser que de s'y opposer. En 1998, Ariel Sharon est allé jusqu'à recevoir discrètement, dans sa ferme, Mahmoud Abbas, le numéro 2 de l'OLP. Un an plus tard, lors du sommet de Wye River, alors qu’il était ministre des Affaires étrangères de Benjamin Netanyahu, il a fait ses premières armes dans l’action diplomatique auprès de l'OLP, sans aller bien sûr jusqu'à serrer la main de celui qu’il a toujours considéré comme un assassin: Yasser Arafat.
Fin janvier, soit deux semaines, avant le scrutin, l’un de ses principaux conseillers, le général de réserve Méir Dagan, lui a présenté un « Projet de lutte contre la violence dans les territoires ». Il s’agit d’un plan de destruction de l’Autorité palestinienne, de neutralisation d’Arafat et de la direction palestinienne. Il s’agit « d’interdire les transferts de fonds à l’Autorité palestinienne, de porter atteinte aux biens et à la fortune personnelle de ses dirigeants. Les membres de l’autorité autonome impliqués dans le terrorisme feront l’objet d’un "Traitement individuel" progressif allant, selon les cas, de l’arrestation […] à l’expulsion hors de la région jusqu’à l’atteinte physique ». En d’autres termes, l’assassinat. Dagan propose par ailleurs d’exécuter des « opérations militaires et "autres " en zone A (autonome) afin de faire passer le message que ces territoires ne sont pas hors jeu ! » Et d’envisager « des opérations psychologiques destinées à encourager la création d’une alternative à l’Autorité autonome en raison de la déception ressentie par la rue palestinienne face aux dysfonctionnement de l’Autorité et du fait qu’il n’est pas possible de parvenir à un règlement politique ». Le tout dans le cadre d’une politique de la carotte et du bâton. Les secteurs où la violence disparaîtrait devant être récompensés par la levée des bouclages.

Ariel Sharon est ainsi sur la même longueur d’onde que Mofaz et Yaalon. Il sait qu’il peut compter également sur le patron du Shin Beth, Avi Dichter, qui a une vision identique du conflit en noir et blanc. À 48 ans, il a été nommé l’année dernière à la tête du service après le départ d’Ami Ayalon. Ehoud Barak l’a préféré à Israël Hasson, un modéré considéré comme proche des services de sécurité palestiniens. Comme les chefs de l’armée, Mofaz et Yaalon, il est issu de la Sayeret, le commando d’état-major, où il a effectué son service militaire obligatoire avant de rejoindre le Shin Beth. À ses yeux, il n’y a pas de différence entre la direction politique et l’échelon militaire/terroriste des organisations palestiniennes. D’ici la fin de l’année, il saura se débarrasser de Matti Steinberg, l’analyste dont il ne supporte pas les rapports critiques.
En mai 2006, Avi Dichter reviendra sur sa vision d’alors du chef de l’OLP. « Arafat n’a pas contrôlé l’ampleur du soulèvement au contraire de ce que nous disions à l’époque. Arafat n’a pas fomenté l’Intifada. L’Intifada a débuté par un phénomène de boule de neige […] Mais il n’a pas assumé son rôle historique face au peuple palestinien. […] c’était un chef d’État qui n’a pas assumé ses fonctions tel que nous les comprenons. […] des gens qu’il avait nommés et financés se sont transformés en terroristes. Arafat a choisi de ne rien faire et de ne rien dire [contre le terrorisme]. Au contraire de l’image d’un Arafat tout-puissant doté d’une pensée stratégique, à mon regret j’ai vu un Arafat faible, ayant peur de faire son entrée dans l’histoire palestinienne en s’attaquant à une organisation comme le Hamas .»

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אתמול בלילה, התאכזבתי סוםית מאחותי.

יש לי את הרושם שכל המשפחה שלי חושבת שאני פשוט דפוקה

אולי כאשר כולם חושבים כך, הם צודקים באיזה שהוא מקום ..ואנני רואה מה לא בסדר במה שאני עושה

אבל אולי גם יש לי עסק עם אנשים  שהם לא ממש בצד שלי...ולא ממש נדיבים בלשון המטה

הבוקר התעוררתי שוב עם התקף אולקוס..

רבתי עם הבן זוג שלי...כאשר אני כועסת ...וזה כבר שנה שלמה כך נדמה לי...הכעס שלי יוצאת כמו סערה עצומה ולא כדי להיות המוסא של הדבר הזה ...

בצדק הוא קיבל את המנה שלו ...זהו האיתרון של האנשים בוגרים ....הם צודקים רוב הזמן אבל יש קיר מולם...הגיל עושה את זה

ביחס למשפחה שלי, אני רואה את הדבר הזה קורה ללא דרך חזרה כל שהיא וזה נורא ...

כאב ראש עצום גם

טוב שלידי יש אדם, בן זוגי שסופג את הכעס הזה ויודע לאהוב אותי...על זה אני מעריצה אותו...

the epology of kindness and calm

על זה מדובר כאשר עושים פשרות בחיים...בעת שצרה, נמצא ליד אדם אוהב ותומך

מסקנות פשוטות לצרות נפוצות.

המקרה האחרון מורגש כמו הפצצה גרעינית...

על תכתבו לי על חמלה בבקשה

 

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  Morituri Salutamus: Poem for the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Class of 1825 in Bowdoin College Morituri Salutamus: Poem for the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Class of 1825 in Bowdoin College

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807–1882 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis,
Et fugiunt freno non remorante dies.
Ovid, Fastorum, Lib. vi.

"O Cæsar, we who are about to die Salute you!" was the gladiators' cry In the arena, standing face to face With death and with the Roman populace.
O ye familiar scenes,—ye groves of pine, That once were mine and are no longer mine,— Thou river, widening through the meadows green To the vast sea, so near and yet unseen,— Ye halls, in whose seclusion and repose
Phantoms of fame, like exhalations, rose And vanished,—we who are about to die, Salute you; earth and air and sea and sky, And the Imperial Sun that scatters down His sovereign splendors upon grove and town.
Ye do not answer us! ye do not hear! We are forgotten; and in your austere And calm indifference, ye little care Whether we come or go, or whence or where. What passing generations fill these halls, What passing voices echo from these walls, Ye heed not; we are only as the blast, A moment heard, and then forever past.
Not so the teachers who in earlier days Led our bewildered feet through learning's maze; They answer us—alas! what have I said? What greetings come there from the voiceless dead? What salutation, welcome, or reply? What pressure from the hands that lifeless lie? They are no longer here; they all are gone Into the land of shadows,—all save one. Honor and reverence, and the good repute That follows faithful service as its fruit, Be unto him, whom living we salute.
The great Italian poet, when he made His dreadful journey to the realms of shade, Met there the old instructor of his youth, And cried in tones of pity and of ruth: "Oh, never from the memory of my heart
Your dear, paternal image shall depart, Who while on earth, ere yet by death surprised, Taught me how mortals are immortalized; How grateful am I for that patient care All my life long my language shall declare."
To-day we make the poet's words our own, And utter them in plaintive undertone; Nor to the living only be they said, But to the other living called the dead, Whose dear, paternal images appear Not wrapped in gloom, but robed in sunshine here; Whose simple lives, complete and without flaw, Were part and parcel of great Nature's law; Who said not to their Lord, as if afraid, "Here is thy talent in a napkin laid," But labored in their sphere, as men who live In the delight that work alone can give. Peace be to them; eternal peace and rest, And the fulfilment of the great behest: "Ye have been faithful over a few things, Over ten cities shall ye reign as kings."
And ye who fill the places we once filled, And follow in the furrows that we tilled, Young men, whose generous hearts are beating high, We who are old, and are about to die, Salute you; hail you; take your hands in ours, And crown you with our welcome as with flowers!
How beautiful is youth! how bright it gleams With its illusions, aspirations, dreams! Book of Beginnings, Story without End, Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend! Aladdin's Lamp, and Fortunatus' Purse, That holds the treasures of the universe! All possibilities are in its hands, No danger daunts it, and no foe withstands; In its sublime audacity of faith, "Be thou removed!" it to the mountain saith, And with ambitious feet, secure and proud, Ascends the ladder leaning on the cloud!
As ancient Priam at the Scæan gate Sat on the walls of Troy in regal state With the old men, too old and weak to fight, Chirping like grasshoppers in their delight To see the embattled hosts, with spear and shield, Of Trojans and Achaians in the field; So from the snowy summits of our years We see you in the plain, as each appears, And question of you; asking, "Who is he That towers above the others? Which may be Atreides, Menelaus, Odysseus, Ajax the great, or bold Idomeneus?"
Let him not boast who puts his armor on As he who puts it off, the battle done. Study yourselves; and most of all note well Wherein kind Nature meant you to excel. Not every blossom ripens into fruit; Minerva, the inventress of the flute, Flung it aside, when she her face surveyed Distorted in a fountain as she played; The unlucky Marsyas found it, and his fate Was one to make the bravest hesitate.
Write on your doors the saying wise and old, "Be bold! be bold!" and everywhere, "Be bold; Be not too bold!" Yet better the excess Than the defect; better the more than less; Better like Hector in the field to die, Than like a perfumed Paris turn and fly.
And now, my classmates; ye remaining few That number not the half of those we knew, Ye, against whose familiar names not yet The fatal asterisk of death is set, Ye I salute! The horologe of Time Strikes the half-century with a solemn chime, And summons us together once again, The joy of meeting not unmixed with pain.
Where are the others? Voices from the deep Caverns of darkness answer me: "They sleep!" I name no names; instinctively I feel Each at some well-remembered grave will kneel, And from the inscription wipe the weeds and moss, For every heart best knoweth its own loss. I see their scattered gravestones gleaming white Through the pale dusk of the impending night; O'er all alike the impartial sunset throws Its golden lilies mingled with the rose; We give to each a tender thought, and pass Out of the graveyards with their tangled grass, Unto these scenes frequented by our feet When we were young, and life was fresh and sweet.
What shall I say to you? What can I say Better than silence is? When I survey This throng of faces turned to meet my own, Friendly and fair, and yet to me unknown, Transformed the very landscape seems to be; It is the same, yet not the same to me. So many memories crowd upon my brain, So many ghosts are in the wooded plain, I fain would steal away, with noiseless tread, As from a house where some one lieth dead. I cannot go;—I pause;—I hesitate; My feet reluctant linger at the gate; As one who struggles in a troubled dream To speak and cannot, to myself I seem.
Vanish the dream! Vanish the idle fears! Vanish the rolling mists of fifty years! Whatever time or space may intervene, I will not be a stranger in this scene. Here every doubt, all indecision, ends; Hail, my companions, comrades, classmates, friends!
Ah me! the fifty years since last we met Seem to me fifty folios bound and set By Time, the great transcriber, on his shelves, Wherein are written the histories of ourselves. What tragedies, what comedies, are there; What joy and grief, what rapture and despair! What chronicles of triumph and defeat, Of struggle, and temptation, and retreat! What records of regrets, and doubts, and fears! What pages blotted, blistered by our tears! What lovely landscapes on the margin shine, What sweet, angelic faces, what divine And holy images of love and trust, Undimmed by age, unsoiled by damp or dust! Whose hand shall dare to open and explore These volumes, closed and clasped forevermore? Not mine. With reverential feet I pass; I hear a voice that cries, "Alas! alas! Whatever hath been written shall remain, Nor be erased nor written o'er again; The unwritten only still belongs to thee: Take heed, and ponder well what that shall be."
As children frightened by a thunder-cloud Are reassured if some one reads aloud A tale of wonder, with enchantment fraught, Or wild adventure, that diverts their thought, Let me endeavor with a tale to chase The gathering shadows of the time and place, And banish what we all too deeply feel Wholly to say, or wholly to conceal.
In mediæval Rome, I know not where, There stood an image with its arm in air, And on its lifted finger, shining clear, A golden ring with the device, "Strike here!" Greatly the people wondered, though none guessed The meaning that these words but half expressed, Until a learned clerk, who at noonday With downcast eyes was passing on his way, Paused, and observed the spot, and marked it well, Whereon the shadow of the finger fell; And, coming back at midnight, delved, and found A secret stairway leading underground. Down this he passed into a spacious hall, Lit by a flaming jewel on the wall; And opposite, in threatening attitude, With bow and shaft a brazen statue stood. Upon its forehead, like a coronet, Were these mysterious words of menace set: "That which I am, I am; my fatal aim None can escape, not even yon luminous flame!"
Midway the hall was a fair table placed, With cloth of gold, and golden cups enchased With rubies, and the plates and knives were gold, And gold the bread and viands manifold. Around it, silent, motionless, and sad, Were seated gallant knights in armor clad, And ladies beautiful with plume and zone, But they were stone, their hearts within were stone; And the vast hall was filled in every part With silent crowds, stony in face and heart.
Long at the scene, bewildered and amazed The trembling clerk in speechless wonder gazed; Then from the table, by his greed made bold, He seized a goblet and a knife of gold, And suddenly from their seats the guests upsprang, The vaulted ceiling with loud clamors rang, The archer sped his arrow, at their call, Shattering the lambent jewel on the wall, And all was dark around and overhead;— Stark on the floor the luckless clerk lay dead!
The writer of this legend then records Its ghostly application in these words: The image is the Adversary old, Whose beckoning finger points to realms of gold; Our lusts and passions are the downward stair That leads the soul from a diviner air; The archer, Death; the flaming jewel, Life; Terrestrial goods, the goblet and the knife; The knights and ladies, all whose flesh and bone By avarice have been hardened into stone; The clerk, the scholar whom the love of pelf Tempts from his books and from his nobler self.
The scholar and the world! The endless strife, The discord in the harmonies of life! The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, And all the sweet serenity of books; The market-place, the eager love of gain, Whose aim is vanity, and whose end is pain!
But why, you ask me, should this tale be told To men grown old, or who are growing old? It is too late! Ah, nothing is too late Till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate. Cato learned Greek at eighty; Sophocles Wrote his grand Oedipus, and Simonides Bore off the prize of verse from his compeers, When each had numbered more than fourscore years, And Theophrastus, at fourscore and ten, Had but begun his "Characters of Men." Chaucer, at Woodstock with the nightingales, At sixty wrote the Canterbury Tales; Goethe at Weimar, toiling to the last, Completed Faust when eighty years were past. These are indeed exceptions; but they show How far the gulf-stream of our youth may flow Into the arctic regions of our lives, Where little else than life itself survives.
As the barometer foretells the storm While still the skies are clear, the weather warm So something in us, as old age draws near, Betrays the pressure of the atmosphere. The nimble mercury, ere we are aware, Descends the elastic ladder of the air; The telltale blood in artery and vein Sinks from its higher levels in the brain; Whatever poet, orator, or sage May say of it, old age is still old age. It is the waning, not the crescent moon; The dusk of evening, not the blaze of noon; It is not strength, but weakness; not desire, But its surcease; not the fierce heat of fire, The burning and consuming element, But that of ashes and of embers spent, In which some living sparks we still discern, Enough to warm, but not enough to burn.
What then? Shall we sit idly down and say The night hath come; it is no longer day? The night hath not yet come; we are not quite Cut off from labor by the failing light; Something remains for us to do or dare; Even the oldest tree some fruit may bear; Not Oedipus Coloneus, or Greek Ode, Or tales of pilgrims that one morning rode Out of the gateway of the Tabard Inn, But other something, would we but begin; For age is opportunity no less Than youth itself, though in another dress, And as the evening twilight fades away The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.

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