The Wildliza. The Wildliza, the times, the cement, The humity, the local mafia.
The plastic windows, The plastic bags, the plastic people. The mariscadas in the pubs. The people of the mariscadas. The garçons. The fuel, the no fuel, the antifuel, the poetry of the in-absence of the fuel. The rich. The poor. The extremely poor. The people who even don't have the word poor.
The Conselleiros. The secretary of the conselleiros, The secretary of group A of the conselleiro. The lover of the conselleiro. The second woman of the conselleiro. The third Audi of the conseiro. The inexistent degree of the conselleiro. The travels of the conselleiro. The ignorance of the conselleiro. The clothing bill's of the conselleiro.
Wildliza, my land
Saturday, August 18, 2007
The hostel
The hostel.
The hostel is cold, The room is alone.
Smell to men working.
No much, only a little. So cold to smell anything.
Today is friday, normally in that kind of rooms come men to sleep from Monday to Thursday.
The room of the hostel is cold, and all the terrace is of the seventies, from times when the people had money. Yes, from the times in which people had money and they spent it in putting floor tiles in the facade of its houses.
Not now, Not at Freixeiro, not at Ferrolterra. Now the floor tiles fell on the ground.
I go to the bathroom.
Humidity and more cold.
I touch the tubes of the heating
The heat is cold. No heating in winter.
I open the hot water. Is the only hot thing here. Maybe it's a kind of hot-cold water. There're a forgotten and pink used soap, with pink water around it.
I return to the room.
A chair of the sixties, living with a wardrobe of the nineties, probably bought at the hypermarket, that hypermarket that grew with the economic disaster of the eighties.
I see a narrow door. A white and cheap narrow door. I open the door , and there're a small terrace. More humidity, more cold. I see the street. The buildings of three and four floors without elevator, the buildings with floor tiles, the swimming-pool houses, like I like to say.
The light signs of a karaoke.
Cars. Cars of the seventies. Cars of today. All of them, baroque cars like a statue of a virgin in a Galician rural church.
The museums are for the politicians, people use cars.
I return to the room.
There are a small television. very small, with a small antenna. The television is over the mirror, over a little toilet.
The plug of the television it's wrapped by the wires. But at the ceiling there're a low-comsuption light.
Yes, not heating , but you can use the television from the bed. Digital era in the swimming-pool house.
Pink-orange walls.
It's Narón.
The hostel is cold, The room is alone.
Smell to men working.
No much, only a little. So cold to smell anything.
Today is friday, normally in that kind of rooms come men to sleep from Monday to Thursday.
The room of the hostel is cold, and all the terrace is of the seventies, from times when the people had money. Yes, from the times in which people had money and they spent it in putting floor tiles in the facade of its houses.
Not now, Not at Freixeiro, not at Ferrolterra. Now the floor tiles fell on the ground.
I go to the bathroom.
Humidity and more cold.
I touch the tubes of the heating
The heat is cold. No heating in winter.
I open the hot water. Is the only hot thing here. Maybe it's a kind of hot-cold water. There're a forgotten and pink used soap, with pink water around it.
I return to the room.
A chair of the sixties, living with a wardrobe of the nineties, probably bought at the hypermarket, that hypermarket that grew with the economic disaster of the eighties.
I see a narrow door. A white and cheap narrow door. I open the door , and there're a small terrace. More humidity, more cold. I see the street. The buildings of three and four floors without elevator, the buildings with floor tiles, the swimming-pool houses, like I like to say.
The light signs of a karaoke.
Cars. Cars of the seventies. Cars of today. All of them, baroque cars like a statue of a virgin in a Galician rural church.
The museums are for the politicians, people use cars.
I return to the room.
There are a small television. very small, with a small antenna. The television is over the mirror, over a little toilet.
The plug of the television it's wrapped by the wires. But at the ceiling there're a low-comsuption light.
Yes, not heating , but you can use the television from the bed. Digital era in the swimming-pool house.
Pink-orange walls.
It's Narón.
The unemployment card
Dad, the cartoon, why today I can't see the cartoon.
Dad say nothing. Dad arrive later ten minutes. Dad is a criminal for that. Dad don't think so. When you have no work, Galician government give you a card. A card, telling you when you need to return to the unemployment office.
The unemployment office open between 9 a.m to 2 p.m. , but the card says clearly that you need to go between nine and eleven, and if not, you'll lose whatever right . But Pepe was soo tired too waking up today.
DADDYYYY I WANT TO SEE SIN-CHÁN.
Shin-Chan, the name of a cartoon of the Galician TV. Xose, little Xose four years old see the cartoon every evening, when he return from the school.
Pepe say nothing. Pepe arrive ten minutes late because he works every night at a local company, loading potato coats. But no contract, and no money, so enough to eat, not many more.
Mr. José, -says that woman at the unemployment office- we can't guarantee your rights, because in the card put clearly that we renovate the card between nine and eleven, now its time to get attention to look for a job.
Pepe can't go ahead for more time. Pepe say nothing, Pepe see her
SINCHAAAAAANN.
Because these ten minutes, Pepe loses the money which pays the government to him, and that he uses to pay the flat.
Now , where to live?
DAAAAAAADDDY
What it will be about his little Xose. Xosiño, my dear, he lose his mother time ago , he lose his mother because she worked in a company who uses toxic products. A big-fashionable company all around the word, but which it paid nothing to her, nothing for Pepe and Xosiño. No money for Pepe, and no money for little Xosiño.
Pepe starts crying
Dadda why youth are criiiyingggg?
and Xosiño is crying too.
Pepe open the gas. Pepe give a big and strong hug to Xosiño.
Years ago, when Pepe have no money , He went to the sea to look for fish anything, to search for any seafood for the him and his parents.
But not now. Because thirty years and five black tides before, no free food available on the Galician coast.
The gas cover the room while the cartoons of the Galician TV made stupid gags in a Castilian accent.
Dad say nothing. Dad arrive later ten minutes. Dad is a criminal for that. Dad don't think so. When you have no work, Galician government give you a card. A card, telling you when you need to return to the unemployment office.
The unemployment office open between 9 a.m to 2 p.m. , but the card says clearly that you need to go between nine and eleven, and if not, you'll lose whatever right . But Pepe was soo tired too waking up today.
DADDYYYY I WANT TO SEE SIN-CHÁN.
Shin-Chan, the name of a cartoon of the Galician TV. Xose, little Xose four years old see the cartoon every evening, when he return from the school.
Pepe say nothing. Pepe arrive ten minutes late because he works every night at a local company, loading potato coats. But no contract, and no money, so enough to eat, not many more.
Mr. José, -says that woman at the unemployment office- we can't guarantee your rights, because in the card put clearly that we renovate the card between nine and eleven, now its time to get attention to look for a job.
Pepe can't go ahead for more time. Pepe say nothing, Pepe see her
SINCHAAAAAANN.
Because these ten minutes, Pepe loses the money which pays the government to him, and that he uses to pay the flat.
Now , where to live?
DAAAAAAADDDY
What it will be about his little Xose. Xosiño, my dear, he lose his mother time ago , he lose his mother because she worked in a company who uses toxic products. A big-fashionable company all around the word, but which it paid nothing to her, nothing for Pepe and Xosiño. No money for Pepe, and no money for little Xosiño.
Pepe starts crying
Dadda why youth are criiiyingggg?
and Xosiño is crying too.
Pepe open the gas. Pepe give a big and strong hug to Xosiño.
Years ago, when Pepe have no money , He went to the sea to look for fish anything, to search for any seafood for the him and his parents.
But not now. Because thirty years and five black tides before, no free food available on the Galician coast.
The gas cover the room while the cartoons of the Galician TV made stupid gags in a Castilian accent.
Gorse
Mum, mum , where's mum?
The last thoughts in her head, now are the noise of the machines.
The dressmaking machines.
The fashion-machines.
Exploitation it is not fashionable, then let's put the fashinable-brothel in a fashionable-chicken factory, in the middle of the gorse.
She works at a chicken-factory.
Well, there're no chicken, but the air is full of sweet and heat.
Many women, like her, working at the same time in with the fashion-machines.
She tries to think in Pepiño, four years old, so cute, and so small.
She loves to go with Pepiño to the mountain, to go for a walk.
There aren't many free time.
Many weekends she is working.
Go for a walk to the mountain with Pepe, his husband, and with cute Pepiño.
Go picnic, between the gorse, the lovely galician toxos.
Yellows spots of the xorimas, the flowers of the gorse, along the hills, behind the sea.
In other mountain far of the mountain of the fashionable-chicken factory.
When she was a girl, she loved to go with grandpa to the mountain.
Grandpa was a intelligent man.
Grandpa knew the science of to do the zocas, the traditional wood's shoes, essential in other times when there wasn't Wellington's, only zocas.
Lovely days too , near the lareira, with histories between the fire and the tenderness of the family.
Gorse. gorse.
Green and yellow.
Love and denigration.
Mountain and black-sea.
Gorse, toxo's Galician yinyan.
Gorse iconic, in an iconic land.
Sara went with grandpa to collect gorse, to use as firewood.
Sara now was lacing green trousers, one piece, other and a madeinmarroco docket.
Marroco at Galicia.
Sara didn't saw the bodkin, and the red began to dye the green.
She stopped to think about this new kind of gorse, who give her blood on the green, but no histories at the night.
No family tenderness of grandpa.
Only Pepe and Pepiño, her precious treasures.
No toxos for a little of heat, only a broken bloody bodkin for a little of money.
Gorses.
The last thoughts in her head, now are the noise of the machines.
The dressmaking machines.
The fashion-machines.
Exploitation it is not fashionable, then let's put the fashinable-brothel in a fashionable-chicken factory, in the middle of the gorse.
She works at a chicken-factory.
Well, there're no chicken, but the air is full of sweet and heat.
Many women, like her, working at the same time in with the fashion-machines.
She tries to think in Pepiño, four years old, so cute, and so small.
She loves to go with Pepiño to the mountain, to go for a walk.
There aren't many free time.
Many weekends she is working.
Go for a walk to the mountain with Pepe, his husband, and with cute Pepiño.
Go picnic, between the gorse, the lovely galician toxos.
Yellows spots of the xorimas, the flowers of the gorse, along the hills, behind the sea.
In other mountain far of the mountain of the fashionable-chicken factory.
When she was a girl, she loved to go with grandpa to the mountain.
Grandpa was a intelligent man.
Grandpa knew the science of to do the zocas, the traditional wood's shoes, essential in other times when there wasn't Wellington's, only zocas.
Lovely days too , near the lareira, with histories between the fire and the tenderness of the family.
Gorse. gorse.
Green and yellow.
Love and denigration.
Mountain and black-sea.
Gorse, toxo's Galician yinyan.
Gorse iconic, in an iconic land.
Sara went with grandpa to collect gorse, to use as firewood.
Sara now was lacing green trousers, one piece, other and a madeinmarroco docket.
Marroco at Galicia.
Sara didn't saw the bodkin, and the red began to dye the green.
She stopped to think about this new kind of gorse, who give her blood on the green, but no histories at the night.
No family tenderness of grandpa.
Only Pepe and Pepiño, her precious treasures.
No toxos for a little of heat, only a broken bloody bodkin for a little of money.
Gorses.
songs of desperation and elocuence
songs of desperation and elocuence.
among the years remained the true
among the forest remained the
deeply scared by the blind artist
the beauty of the stone reminds
the song of the waves reminds
it's remain the sound of green and yellow gorse.
among the years remained the true
among the forest remained the
deeply scared by the blind artist
the beauty of the stone reminds
the song of the waves reminds
it's remain the sound of green and yellow gorse.
The council as his toy
Paco, Don Paco, is the Mayor.
The Mayor of a council near the coast.
The council have a big big shield, but Don Paco missed these times.
Or at least he says that when people asked him about a shiel from the times of Franco dictatorship.
Don Paco spend the summers in the Franco's camp , when he was young.
Now, he see, everyday, from his windows, the shiel, made of stone and blood,in the park, where the children plays.
While play the children of the democracy.
The democracy of Don Paco.
The Mayor of a council near the coast.
The council have a big big shield, but Don Paco missed these times.
Or at least he says that when people asked him about a shiel from the times of Franco dictatorship.
Don Paco spend the summers in the Franco's camp , when he was young.
Now, he see, everyday, from his windows, the shiel, made of stone and blood,in the park, where the children plays.
While play the children of the democracy.
The democracy of Don Paco.
new spring, at the sea club
New spring at the sea club.
New cocodriles in the chest.
New chest in front of the local caciques.
New local caciques in new yachts.
New yachts in a new harbour.
New harbour at the new spring, made over the old ria (now, were're was the ria, so green was our ria with money from the white industry.
At the end, the iconicity of the cocodriles , is superb in la villa.
New cocodriles in the chest.
New chest in front of the local caciques.
New local caciques in new yachts.
New yachts in a new harbour.
New harbour at the new spring, made over the old ria (now, were're was the ria, so green was our ria with money from the white industry.
At the end, the iconicity of the cocodriles , is superb in la villa.
Puri is a waitress
Puri is a waitress.
Rich yachts in the ria, Bit yachts near the cafeteria of the club.
Gin & tonic, Puri is working every day, and in summer every night.
Puri had a boy, Luis.
Luis died two years ago, because a very strange illness killed him.
Killed him but not to Nick's daughter, from Birmingham, UK.
Nick's come to la villa since three years old.
Mel -Melanie- her daughter, now six years old.
Puri give Perrier to Nick, Juice to Mel.
Puri remember her boy, small boy, cute boy, he will have the same age of Mel, both blue eyes, beautiful couple it will be.
Puri returns to the kitchen of the cafeteria, Puri is crying.
Outside, behind Mel and Nick, is Manolo, another man of the local mafia. As a member, in other times, of the council, he receive many presents, many mariscadas, a full of shit. Now manolo is the owner of many buildings and business. Local mafia.
Puri dry her tears with the tea towel, and go to the terrace, and give Manolo his dry Martini, and thinks about the no help from autonomic government, no help from the council.
No chances to Luis.
No way to survive being a galician woman.
Rich yachts in the ria, Bit yachts near the cafeteria of the club.
Gin & tonic, Puri is working every day, and in summer every night.
Puri had a boy, Luis.
Luis died two years ago, because a very strange illness killed him.
Killed him but not to Nick's daughter, from Birmingham, UK.
Nick's come to la villa since three years old.
Mel -Melanie- her daughter, now six years old.
Puri give Perrier to Nick, Juice to Mel.
Puri remember her boy, small boy, cute boy, he will have the same age of Mel, both blue eyes, beautiful couple it will be.
Puri returns to the kitchen of the cafeteria, Puri is crying.
Outside, behind Mel and Nick, is Manolo, another man of the local mafia. As a member, in other times, of the council, he receive many presents, many mariscadas, a full of shit. Now manolo is the owner of many buildings and business. Local mafia.
Puri dry her tears with the tea towel, and go to the terrace, and give Manolo his dry Martini, and thinks about the no help from autonomic government, no help from the council.
No chances to Luis.
No way to survive being a galician woman.
Xan carallan, British Xan
Three forty, Saturday night.
We're on Sunday, technically, at now.
Two girls from London at a narrow Galician street, Xan said, ' goodness' with a very bad speech, girls don't stop, girl's don't look Xan, girls give no any present of a word to him.
Xan , then , thinks about all, about his family, about dirty times , time ago, at suburbs at London, Father died, because cancer, because only Galicians want to work behind those material, dirty and dangerous and who knows the name of that material. Now his body lies buried in a lost corner, in a forgotten suburb near nowhere, yes, in the kingdom, UK -for sure-.
Xan.
Xan tried to recover the bit of his life at Galicia, he returned with his mother to that village, and had no opportunity, no chances to growing , to made himself a man, only the chance to survive. He was near to lose his leg, working at a building for a local cacique ( landlord ) -good jobs was only not for good workers like Xan, but for wannabe-mafia boys.
Xan carallán, he says, and many dirty words to the church, to the local mafia, to teachers, to politicians, to all the one.
Xan didn't turn his head to see the girls, Xan go on, Xan return home, tomorrow is Sunday , tomorrow another -more dirty words. Fucking, what the hell- Sunday.
Another working-Sunday, you can't work, oh God save me, oh Jesus please pardons my sins, oh priest and sacred heart, save me , but what a hell no money , then Xan, -who's the real carallán?, WHAT THE HELL ARE THE PRIEST AND THE SONS OF THE MAYOR, THE TEACHER WHO HURTED HIM, WHAT THE HELL???, Xan is shouting, a cat jump over the wet stone wall, with a 'tourist: Galicia is not Spain' graffiti- Xan return home, thinks about the girls, no time for a girl, no time for nothing, his old friends,-what a hell- no notice about him, everybody at the university, all the ones cry-cry boys, fathergivememoney to study, fathergivememoney for drugs, fathergivememoney for the yacht.
Xan's shoes, dirty shoes, broken shoes, shoes like a joke of real shoes, and no money to wear decent clothing, and what the hell, Xan, great Xan don't speak English -he was four when he returned Galicia- , only a bad wannabe Castillian-castrapo, and Galician language all the time. He wish speak other languages, see new faces, have other chances.
But other Galician boy. Nothing more.
And nothing less.
We're on Sunday, technically, at now.
Two girls from London at a narrow Galician street, Xan said, ' goodness' with a very bad speech, girls don't stop, girl's don't look Xan, girls give no any present of a word to him.
Xan , then , thinks about all, about his family, about dirty times , time ago, at suburbs at London, Father died, because cancer, because only Galicians want to work behind those material, dirty and dangerous and who knows the name of that material. Now his body lies buried in a lost corner, in a forgotten suburb near nowhere, yes, in the kingdom, UK -for sure-.
Xan.
Xan tried to recover the bit of his life at Galicia, he returned with his mother to that village, and had no opportunity, no chances to growing , to made himself a man, only the chance to survive. He was near to lose his leg, working at a building for a local cacique ( landlord ) -good jobs was only not for good workers like Xan, but for wannabe-mafia boys.
Xan carallán, he says, and many dirty words to the church, to the local mafia, to teachers, to politicians, to all the one.
Xan didn't turn his head to see the girls, Xan go on, Xan return home, tomorrow is Sunday , tomorrow another -more dirty words. Fucking, what the hell- Sunday.
Another working-Sunday, you can't work, oh God save me, oh Jesus please pardons my sins, oh priest and sacred heart, save me , but what a hell no money , then Xan, -who's the real carallán?, WHAT THE HELL ARE THE PRIEST AND THE SONS OF THE MAYOR, THE TEACHER WHO HURTED HIM, WHAT THE HELL???, Xan is shouting, a cat jump over the wet stone wall, with a 'tourist: Galicia is not Spain' graffiti- Xan return home, thinks about the girls, no time for a girl, no time for nothing, his old friends,-what a hell- no notice about him, everybody at the university, all the ones cry-cry boys, fathergivememoney to study, fathergivememoney for drugs, fathergivememoney for the yacht.
Xan's shoes, dirty shoes, broken shoes, shoes like a joke of real shoes, and no money to wear decent clothing, and what the hell, Xan, great Xan don't speak English -he was four when he returned Galicia- , only a bad wannabe Castillian-castrapo, and Galician language all the time. He wish speak other languages, see new faces, have other chances.
But other Galician boy. Nothing more.
And nothing less.
La Villa
La villa, cute village, in other times, now party for drugs, party on yachts.
Danny boy, my Danny boy, wanted to go to the university, no money, no chances.
No jobs in the pub, that pub only to wash- not even that-.
Today arrive a new bag to the beach.
Cocaine.
Black & white beaches for black & white photos.
Black for the fuel, white for the cocaine.
But nobody says anything, police don't talk about that only about their salary, politicians only talk about their money, church only shout about sins.
You know, it's life, but keep away of my daughter that Danny boy, keep away of my business that Danny Boy, but is no problem if Danny boy tomorrow have an accident in the work
Danny boy, my Danny boy, wanted to go to the university, no money, no chances.
No jobs in the pub, that pub only to wash- not even that-.
Today arrive a new bag to the beach.
Cocaine.
Black & white beaches for black & white photos.
Black for the fuel, white for the cocaine.
But nobody says anything, police don't talk about that only about their salary, politicians only talk about their money, church only shout about sins.
You know, it's life, but keep away of my daughter that Danny boy, keep away of my business that Danny Boy, but is no problem if Danny boy tomorrow have an accident in the work
savage Galician: Wildliza is on war
Today is Monday, Wildliza is on war.
There are many empty houses, many empty flats at La Villa, but you can't go inside, forbidden action, it will be.
They, young people, and many young people are looking for be working, but who finds a job, and you can't begin from zero, alone, many taxes.
They can't aim for any European help, when helps are only for the ones who have anything.
They can't occupy a house, because then they will be a savage Galician.
You can't work for yourself without papers -even poor people-, because then your a savage -sons of rich-men don't need to do this, daddy pays taxes-.
But young Galicians can go to a construction, and work inside without papers for the local mafia. This is legal and society will say 'what a normal thing'.
You can't teach without a degree, but is legal than a teacher works and maybe this teacher have no idea about how to teach. Difference is that the family of this teacher have the chances that others don't have and sure that will never had, because savage Galician had no rights, and it says that you need to work, but you can't.
You're only a savage.
Empty summer houses to the major, empty summer houses to the university teacher, empty houses to the guys selling drugs at night and beds at the morning.
Today is Friday, Wildliza is on war.
Next day everybody to the new supermarket -where was the old shops- , and vodka, and whiskey, and wine, San Damian wine, or whatever is good to win the war, boyos, let's shout at night, and get drunk and have ***, and nihilism, and what a hell, and hit the garbage, and shout, and drink, and shout more, and drink, and drink and spend the money that you don't have in the vodka, yap, boyos owners of the pub at the night, at the day selling white fariña, al LAALALLALAL HAYLALEEEEELOOO FARIÑAAAAA SHOUT SHOUT LET'S SHOOOOUTTTTT
Today is Saturday.
Wildliza, is on war.
There are many empty houses, many empty flats at La Villa, but you can't go inside, forbidden action, it will be.
They, young people, and many young people are looking for be working, but who finds a job, and you can't begin from zero, alone, many taxes.
They can't aim for any European help, when helps are only for the ones who have anything.
They can't occupy a house, because then they will be a savage Galician.
You can't work for yourself without papers -even poor people-, because then your a savage -sons of rich-men don't need to do this, daddy pays taxes-.
But young Galicians can go to a construction, and work inside without papers for the local mafia. This is legal and society will say 'what a normal thing'.
You can't teach without a degree, but is legal than a teacher works and maybe this teacher have no idea about how to teach. Difference is that the family of this teacher have the chances that others don't have and sure that will never had, because savage Galician had no rights, and it says that you need to work, but you can't.
You're only a savage.
Empty summer houses to the major, empty summer houses to the university teacher, empty houses to the guys selling drugs at night and beds at the morning.
Today is Friday, Wildliza is on war.
Next day everybody to the new supermarket -where was the old shops- , and vodka, and whiskey, and wine, San Damian wine, or whatever is good to win the war, boyos, let's shout at night, and get drunk and have ***, and nihilism, and what a hell, and hit the garbage, and shout, and drink, and shout more, and drink, and drink and spend the money that you don't have in the vodka, yap, boyos owners of the pub at the night, at the day selling white fariña, al LAALALLALAL HAYLALEEEEELOOO FARIÑAAAAA SHOUT SHOUT LET'S SHOOOOUTTTTT
Today is Saturday.
Wildliza, is on war.
living in an eucaliptian era
Right.
We are not living in an aquarian era, we're living at a eucaliptian era.
Cocacola co. , with many pub about their sports drinking, talking about marketing, this and that.
Not in Galicia, nor at our forest.
Galician forest , are full of eucalyptus.
At the basque country you don't find it, at Ireland not, but...Galicia is living in an eucaliptian era.
what about the reasons?
A typical answer, 'money'.
But Galicia is poor , more poor that when you're thinking about big roads cutting old mountains.
No education, no internet for many galicians, but galician forest are full of eucaliptian.
No factories to process do paper. All is for outside, and at the same time, when from Galicia people need paper, they need to look for it outside, at Italy, at other places where probably are using Galician eucalyptus.
We are not living in an aquarian era, we're living at a eucaliptian era.
Cocacola co. , with many pub about their sports drinking, talking about marketing, this and that.
Not in Galicia, nor at our forest.
Galician forest , are full of eucalyptus.
At the basque country you don't find it, at Ireland not, but...Galicia is living in an eucaliptian era.
what about the reasons?
A typical answer, 'money'.
But Galicia is poor , more poor that when you're thinking about big roads cutting old mountains.
No education, no internet for many galicians, but galician forest are full of eucaliptian.
No factories to process do paper. All is for outside, and at the same time, when from Galicia people need paper, they need to look for it outside, at Italy, at other places where probably are using Galician eucalyptus.
Paco
Paco
Paco is the big chiken
Paco have an Audi, and he have no problems of money.
He have the half of the village.
Paco is the son of his father.
His father the son of Paco's grandpa.
Paco is the big chiken
Paco have an Audi, and he have no problems of money.
He have the half of the village.
Paco is the son of his father.
His father the son of Paco's grandpa.
who remember us? nobody
who remember us? nobody
Who remember us now? Who remember us now?
i understand daddy, but now,
who understand us?
nobody
more than that
fuking nobody
Fontvella with a little touch of lemon juice, like in UK
I remember daddy, who remember us?
Nobody
Fucking nobody
I remember, he was polite , i was polite, everybody was polite
who remember daddy
No one
Who remember us now? Who remember us now?
i understand daddy, but now,
who understand us?
nobody
more than that
fuking nobody
Fontvella with a little touch of lemon juice, like in UK
I remember daddy, who remember us?
Nobody
Fucking nobody
I remember, he was polite , i was polite, everybody was polite
who remember daddy
No one
Do not support Zara!
Do not support Zara!
They are a horrible corporation that does not care about it's employees, communities or the environment.
And they either don't support Galicia.
If you still believe their history , forget my words and work for Zara.
I beg your pardon. I know that this is nothing, but it's my small tribute in the International Women's Day
ps: I know it. You doubt. Then, three links. Remember that I don't share exactly all the opinions showed in the sites :
the first one. A ultra-right website
(in Spanish. You can translate it to English here: http://www.google.com/language_tools?hl=en )
http://www.nuevorden.net/d_15.html
The second one. A left website (Spanish):
http://www.rebelion.org/spain/040422io.htm
Now, I writer who don't stop to see beyond the fashion:
"Let the designers indulge their fantasies":
http://www.hnw.com/a.do?cid=56465
I will prefer, "Let the women indulge their life". I refer as for the fashion, as for the women workers.
http://www.jjcha.net/japan/archives/000408.shtml
They are a horrible corporation that does not care about it's employees, communities or the environment.
And they either don't support Galicia.
If you still believe their history , forget my words and work for Zara.
I beg your pardon. I know that this is nothing, but it's my small tribute in the International Women's Day
ps: I know it. You doubt. Then, three links. Remember that I don't share exactly all the opinions showed in the sites :
the first one. A ultra-right website
(in Spanish. You can translate it to English here: http://www.google.com/language_tools?hl=en )
http://www.nuevorden.net/d_15.html
The second one. A left website (Spanish):
http://www.rebelion.org/spain/040422io.htm
Now, I writer who don't stop to see beyond the fashion:
"Let the designers indulge their fantasies":
http://www.hnw.com/a.do?cid=56465
I will prefer, "Let the women indulge their life". I refer as for the fashion, as for the women workers.
http://www.jjcha.net/japan/archives/000408.shtml
One million dollar, baby. To Alcoa. To Pollute us. From Xove
The council of Xove is paying money to the company of USA, Alcoa, to pollute nature at Galicia.
Right.
The council say, " we pay one million dollar to Alcoa, and then Alcoa will pollute less ".
But I can't understand this. In a place not far from As Catedrais beach , which Turespaña will use to promote the tourism at Galiza, is Xove, which maybe you'll know thanks to Sargadelos too.
The same company, is proud to show in their website, news like " we educate about the environment to the children " or " we give 3.000 dollars to proteccion civil (Civil Protection Association of La Marina Lucense) .
One million dollar , money from the people, to Alcoa , to continue with the pollution to the people.
Maybe you're thinking the same that the guy who asked me:
- "Mariano, thanks to this money, the company will continue to give jobs. Sure that your father don't work in this industry".
I answered:
- Sure that he will not work at Alcoa. My father is death. Maybe death for work in a polluted environment. Perhaps like the polluted environment of that industry.
Right.
The council say, " we pay one million dollar to Alcoa, and then Alcoa will pollute less ".
But I can't understand this. In a place not far from As Catedrais beach , which Turespaña will use to promote the tourism at Galiza, is Xove, which maybe you'll know thanks to Sargadelos too.
The same company, is proud to show in their website, news like " we educate about the environment to the children " or " we give 3.000 dollars to proteccion civil (Civil Protection Association of La Marina Lucense) .
One million dollar , money from the people, to Alcoa , to continue with the pollution to the people.
Maybe you're thinking the same that the guy who asked me:
- "Mariano, thanks to this money, the company will continue to give jobs. Sure that your father don't work in this industry".
I answered:
- Sure that he will not work at Alcoa. My father is death. Maybe death for work in a polluted environment. Perhaps like the polluted environment of that industry.
Galicia Calidade
True Galicia calidade it is not in the trademarks, in the ads from a publicity studio friend of the Galician government, or at least withouth trying to look for a good Galician one from the country.
True Galicia calidade is over the local mafia, and being real to go ahead with the thinking, with the power of the idea, with the cold atlantic life.
True Galicia calidade is in the mothers who give new chances to their children, and with fathers who they resign to their dreams, to give new dreams to the new generation.
And not to let itself threaten by the caciques, the Galician local mafia.
This is the real Galicia calidade.
True Galicia calidade is over the local mafia, and being real to go ahead with the thinking, with the power of the idea, with the cold atlantic life.
True Galicia calidade is in the mothers who give new chances to their children, and with fathers who they resign to their dreams, to give new dreams to the new generation.
And not to let itself threaten by the caciques, the Galician local mafia.
This is the real Galicia calidade.
ryanair compostela
Bagpipers.
The last thing that Sabela expected to see was a band of Gaiteiros in the airport.
Months ago, sabela bought her ticket on the ryanair website, an evening in the cybercafe, at Camden suburb, London. She did it when she knew that for the first time, there will be able fly to Galicia at a reasonable price. What a paradox. Arrive to the Santiago de Compostela airport, and then pay the ticket for a bus to Compostela. Then another to go to Ribadeo. An one kilometer and a half from the bus stop to Rinlo. What a shit. an hour and a half flying, and four hours in the bus.
At London everything was easy. Hard but easy. Four airports around London, with real prices. A good metro. Not in Galicia. "did you ever see a metro at Glasgow Sabela?".
Not, but Glasgow have a ferry to belfast. An Airport. Sabela remembered when only the richest, or the emigrants, have the chance to fly.
It was shocked have a talk with the friends, and tell their that you're twenty-eight years old, and you never flied. The friends of Sabela have the costume to go to Ibiza, or Nerdier, or Lanzarote, for not many, what you can afford in a job in only a month. Everytime was a discussion about it. While Nicole was at a club, in Ibiza, Sabela was helping with the farm, "a herba seca" times, not time nor money to take the interrail, not even think about
What was the fucking eject who putted the fucked bagpipers at the airport?
She really loved the gaiters, but not in that way. At the evening, after the herba seca, Sabela and their friends enjoyed the evening, with a kalimotxo and a galician bagpipe. She missed this times at the eira.. She was ok now, living at Camden. took the plane was remember old times. In the plane, there was more English people than Galician ones.
The camino. Many English people only know Galicia like a reference to the Camino de Santiago. Many teenagers, many yankees , like Jenna Bush, like other ones, come to the unknown celtic country, called Galicia, mystic Galicia, the magic and medieval Galicia, the redemption of Galicia after the parties at Long Beach, L.A.. , and Ibiza - a county of the United Kingdom -.
Sabela, nowadays is system administrator, with different NIXes, -she love Debian- at a bank computer hub in the city. She remember the times of the herba seca when she's fixing the networks. Nmap an the minifundios.
Then, was a flash see the gaiteiros, the politicians, the photographers with their SLRD's, by UMTS - The cottage of Sabela don't have internet or even telephone. Neither support to her mobile. In a few seconds, the Galician papers -not Galizalivre, but the official government papers - will have the photos, and she at the cottage, next few days, will be unplugged.
Then she did it. She undressed her jacket, and showed her tank t-shirt, with a big letters: plangalicia.com
Flashes. A cameraman is framing his camera focusing between her breast. A guardia civil is looking , but he don't want to do anything , at least with all the photographers taking photos of her t-shirt
-Did you want to say anything, lady?
- This is the one and only plan Galicia wich the Galicians are going to see. Three years later of the biggest ecologic crisis in Europe, the only help of the Galician, Spanish and European government is that now it is cheaper emigrate. I want to say hello to my friends of Camden, Mary and NiamhNiamh, and hello to my grandmother... ola avoiña!!!!
- plea se, please lady--quiere usted decir algo al periodico gallego de la Coruña....
Then Sabela was wearing the sunglasses. Black glasses, and blue
Six hours later, she was walking in Rinlo, at the sailors harbour, talking about the Camden market withe her grandmother.
- botei en falta as castañas con leite
- prepareiche unha tortilla, e xa che fixen a bufanda, que como marchaches tan axiña...non vai moito frio por alí
- ali chove pouco máis que aqui, avoa, non fagas caso. O que pasa e que aqui e alo chove mais en Madrid
From Madrid was the car who stooped at the sailor's house, they arrived to taste the rice & fish from the sailor's house, becouse last month, the new york times talked about the Palacete Peñalba from Figueras and the rice & frish rom Rinlo. But nobody will talk to this people about the concentration camp of the fourties in Arnao, at Figueras. Who cares about it. Which is fashionable it's talk about the new galician weblogs
Anyway, now Sabela is with her cute avoiña, and at that moment, things go right
The last thing that Sabela expected to see was a band of Gaiteiros in the airport.
Months ago, sabela bought her ticket on the ryanair website, an evening in the cybercafe, at Camden suburb, London. She did it when she knew that for the first time, there will be able fly to Galicia at a reasonable price. What a paradox. Arrive to the Santiago de Compostela airport, and then pay the ticket for a bus to Compostela. Then another to go to Ribadeo. An one kilometer and a half from the bus stop to Rinlo. What a shit. an hour and a half flying, and four hours in the bus.
At London everything was easy. Hard but easy. Four airports around London, with real prices. A good metro. Not in Galicia. "did you ever see a metro at Glasgow Sabela?".
Not, but Glasgow have a ferry to belfast. An Airport. Sabela remembered when only the richest, or the emigrants, have the chance to fly.
It was shocked have a talk with the friends, and tell their that you're twenty-eight years old, and you never flied. The friends of Sabela have the costume to go to Ibiza, or Nerdier, or Lanzarote, for not many, what you can afford in a job in only a month. Everytime was a discussion about it. While Nicole was at a club, in Ibiza, Sabela was helping with the farm, "a herba seca" times, not time nor money to take the interrail, not even think about
What was the fucking eject who putted the fucked bagpipers at the airport?
She really loved the gaiters, but not in that way. At the evening, after the herba seca, Sabela and their friends enjoyed the evening, with a kalimotxo and a galician bagpipe. She missed this times at the eira.. She was ok now, living at Camden. took the plane was remember old times. In the plane, there was more English people than Galician ones.
The camino. Many English people only know Galicia like a reference to the Camino de Santiago. Many teenagers, many yankees , like Jenna Bush, like other ones, come to the unknown celtic country, called Galicia, mystic Galicia, the magic and medieval Galicia, the redemption of Galicia after the parties at Long Beach, L.A.. , and Ibiza - a county of the United Kingdom -.
Sabela, nowadays is system administrator, with different NIXes, -she love Debian- at a bank computer hub in the city. She remember the times of the herba seca when she's fixing the networks. Nmap an the minifundios.
Then, was a flash see the gaiteiros, the politicians, the photographers with their SLRD's, by UMTS - The cottage of Sabela don't have internet or even telephone. Neither support to her mobile. In a few seconds, the Galician papers -not Galizalivre, but the official government papers - will have the photos, and she at the cottage, next few days, will be unplugged.
Then she did it. She undressed her jacket, and showed her tank t-shirt, with a big letters: plangalicia.com
Flashes. A cameraman is framing his camera focusing between her breast. A guardia civil is looking , but he don't want to do anything , at least with all the photographers taking photos of her t-shirt
-Did you want to say anything, lady?
- This is the one and only plan Galicia wich the Galicians are going to see. Three years later of the biggest ecologic crisis in Europe, the only help of the Galician, Spanish and European government is that now it is cheaper emigrate. I want to say hello to my friends of Camden, Mary and NiamhNiamh, and hello to my grandmother... ola avoiña!!!!
- plea se, please lady--quiere usted decir algo al periodico gallego de la Coruña....
Then Sabela was wearing the sunglasses. Black glasses, and blue
Six hours later, she was walking in Rinlo, at the sailors harbour, talking about the Camden market withe her grandmother.
- botei en falta as castañas con leite
- prepareiche unha tortilla, e xa che fixen a bufanda, que como marchaches tan axiña...non vai moito frio por alí
- ali chove pouco máis que aqui, avoa, non fagas caso. O que pasa e que aqui e alo chove mais en Madrid
From Madrid was the car who stooped at the sailor's house, they arrived to taste the rice & fish from the sailor's house, becouse last month, the new york times talked about the Palacete Peñalba from Figueras and the rice & frish rom Rinlo. But nobody will talk to this people about the concentration camp of the fourties in Arnao, at Figueras. Who cares about it. Which is fashionable it's talk about the new galician weblogs
Anyway, now Sabela is with her cute avoiña, and at that moment, things go right
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
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