#Canal Vie

[leszackardises]

Rentrée télé automne 2023: 10 émissions québécoises à ne pas manquer

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[jupiterovprsten]

Venice, Italy

[persa-tra-i-miei-pensieri]

Nuovo video sul mio canale YouTube 🪩🎶

[brilag]

Plongée sur un doux après-midi d'automne par brigitte lagravaire Via Flickr : (dommage que l'appareil ne soit pas à la mesure du panorama) 2021-11-02-°CanalAgen (1p)301024

[conatic]

Le corps sans vie d’un homme retrouvé ce matin dans le canal à Péruwelz - L'Avenir

Source: lavenir.net

[jetaloen]

fock it im making a new NEW 🆕 info post w the shitty too-small tadayo pixel now too. possibly more to be added. 😳

the setting

eventually i need to become the scenery drawing master bc this cannot stand. honest to god, the evangelion screenshot that's very, abyssmally small is the closest thing i have to what this particular town looks like in my head.

it's a mostly wooden, japanese-style fishing village with many piers that's only recently started to get repairs. it's become pretty populated quite suddenly. the village is fortified naturally by mountains, and there is a large desert surrounding those mountains.

there is a business in hunting for and selling old world artifacts, including art, tools, food, technology, and clothing. it's been long enough that some areas do not have access to education about things from the old world, and such things are attributed new meanings. technology only progressed up to the early 2000's, and is very difficult to get up and running, let alone maintain. the case is more or less the same with cars; travel by boat is highly preferred and many cities have canals. where there is no water, pack animals are used, but some who can afford or find them use bikes and motorcycles.

old weapons? i'll get to those later at some point

the characters

rohan shibata: formerly the samurai bodyguard of tadayo hojo. rohan was happy to die on the battlefield and get away from a stagnant life where hojo obsessed over him and orchestrated an arranged marriage for him that would halt rohan from ever leaving the region. upon rohan's death, his beheaded body was brought back to the capital by hojo, who had him reanimated via a talisman. however, this ritual cursed rohan, forcing him to feed vampirically on the innards of other humans via draining them like an assassin bug. as rohan grapples with the facts that he's alive again, still with hojo, has lost his humanity and can never eat normally again, and will never get to live the simple life he used to dream of, he leaves the region abruptly.

rohan is relaxed, quiet, and keeps to himself. he is well-liked, both in his home region and in the new town, but few people actually know him. he's a kind of this homebody with grandpa hobbies. rohan is widely sought after by men and women alike, but secretly revels in rejecting people. he's quite pessimistic, guilt-ridden (especially bc his transformation forces him to kill to eat), and very, monumentally depressed.

kallinikos katopodis/kato/any number of random ass names: a traveling merchant, tech wiz, and wannabe historian, but in truth, he is an immortal with massive memory gaps who has been trying to amass knowledge for many years. he is a liar who desperately wants attention and acknowledgement for his intellect and accomplishments, but struggles to get close to others due to emotional problems and social anxiety. kato has a massive superiority complex in regard to his skill with machines and historical knowledge. he is sometimes prone to violent breakdowns when he thinks people only notice his appearance, especially because he often has to rely on seduction to get what he wants from people. despite his faults, he is very curious and works hard. though he has a distinct fashion and music taste, his taste in almost everything else is very unrefined.

matei cojoc aka alecto: only recently returned home after the very small tech company he worked for fell apart. he's not too open about what they were doing at the company, but his younger sister nikki suspects he feels very guilty. alecto is fresh meat in this town, as nikki only moved here after he left for his job. as such, alecto is overwhelmed by the attention he receives. augustus and yves vie for his friendship, especially after learning he has befriended the other. alecto takes his nickname from his favorite rpg character, who is a demon woman. he loves games and computers.

nicoleta cojoc aka nikki: a clerk at one of the most popular goods shops in town, she is a likable and feisty, if somewhat lazy, young woman. nikki is probably the only character who could legitimately befriend any of the others. she worries constantly about her brother alecto, but is oblivious to yves and augustus' weird feud over him. she's befriended and dated many people in town and is privy to gossip, but she is also one of the few truly reliable people there. she is well-taken care of by her boss, who is an older woman.

augustus chuluunbold: she comes from a large family and was considered in her youth (...and her adulthood...) to be a bit of a rascally problem child. she's trying to get better, but isn't very welcome, especially in the local breakdance spaces that yves monopolizes. because she thinks she has no other skills and is too depressed to put herself out there or apply herself, her grandfather dotes on her, and is the significant source of her growth as a person. she is difficult, takes nothing seriously, and often jokes. she has a weirdly complicated crush on nikki.

yves gotoda: THE breakdance prodigy of the village. a large reason that the scene has bloomed locally, he is credited with bringing outsiders to town and helping the economy flourish. yves has no family remaining, considering his dance community his family; he welcomes new students all the time, but those who progress through his lessons are often weeded out by his strict methods. he does not look down on those who fail, however, and is seen as a benevolent figure locally. that being said, yves is vengeful to a fault towards those who hurt his family, and resents augustus deeply over beef they had in the past. his influence bars her from rejoining the community. yves has a rather high opinion of himself and is very ambitious.

gwyn loizou: a hermit-like woman who appears in town every once in a while to sell produce. she is quiet and stern, but the village people adore her, and she is well supported by them when she stops by for the season. formerly, she was in a relationship of some kind with kato; now, she has turned her affections onto rohan.

tadayo hojo: the third generation head of the hojo clan, one of many "old clans" in the modern, environmentally destroyed era that looks to reclaim their old culture at the cost of the people and land around them. hojo's gentle bearing belies his sadism and controlling tendencies. he believes might makes right, and sees himself as a savior of the meek. rohan's relationship to him is very complicated; he hates hojo because he's a disgusting, controlling asshole, but hojo also easily succumbs to rohan's whims and manipulation and will do literally whatever he says.

[je-suis-ronflex]

Il y a l'intégralité des films Harry Potter sur la plateforme MAX mais j'avais la flemme de payer un abonnement donc j'étais triste SAUF QUE retournement de situation il se trouve que j'ai accès à cette plateforme grâce aux codes Canal+ que je parasite à une amie du coup ma vie a de nouveau du sens

[megaverserpg]

Les Fléaux - Moldu·e·s contaminé·e·s

CONTAMINATION ‧₊˚ Tant à Elysium qu’à Neferis, l’explosion survenue à la frontière entre les territoires moldu et magique a disséminé une pluie invisible de particules de pouvoirs, déviant la destinée de certain·e·s non mages en leur offrant des capacités hors-normes. La contamination est non héréditaire et touche majoritairement les enfants né·e·s après la catastrophe, bien qu’elle se soit aussi manifestée chez quelques individus de la génération précédente. Si elle peut être vue comme bénéfique, cette mutation apporte son lot de souffrances.

CARACTÉRISTIQUES ‧₊˚ Issues des créatures ayant subi des expériences, les particules portent les caractéristiques de leur ADN et offrent donc deux de leurs spécificités magiques aux personnes qu’elles colonisent. À titre d’exemples, des particules de Dreamsweaper transformeront le système du/de la contaminé·e de telle sorte qu’iel s’immiscera dans les rêves pour les muer en cauchemars, également capable d’invoquer mentalement les peurs les plus paralysantes de sa victime ; un Scurry quant à lui rendra la personne exposée apte à ralentir ou à accélérer le temps. Les expérimentations ont impacté des animaux fantastiques des deux mondes : ayant mis la main sur des Riftwanderers — créatures de légende voyageant entre les dimensions —, les trafiquants ont pu braconner secrètement plus d’une dimension, élargissant leurs recherches au-delà de leur Terre.

La contamination n’est pas sans impacts cruels. Les particules de magie torturées, arrachées à leurs hôtes d’origine, sillonnent le nouveau corps sans trouver le repos. L’incompatibilité les laisse sans arrêt à la limite du rejet, mais les autoriser à s’échapper condamnerait l’humain·e dont elles ont irrémédiablement souillé l’organisme. On détecte les moldu·e·s atteint·e·s grâce à un sortilège lancé contre les veines de leur poignet. Extrêmement douloureux, il diffuse dans le corps une lumière vive et brûlante, qui révèle les ombres dansant sous la peau. Plus ou moins nombreuses suivant l’âge auquel le·a malade a été atteint·e et repéré·e, elles sont immédiatement prises en charge afin de limiter les dégâts. La potion Shadowbane est administrée pour faire refluer les ombres et stabiliser les particules magiques. Le goût est d’une sucrosité écœurante qui laisse au bord de la nausée. Toléré·e par les un·e·s, indigeste pour les autres, elle est un soulagement ou une torture, si bien que certain·e·s repoussent désespérément les prises. Iels sont alors rongé·e·s par les ombres, qui deviennent visibles à l’œil nu, jusqu’à envahir leur regard et le rendre noir. Le suivi scrupuleux du traitement permet cependant de rendre la nouvelle condition supportable et de mener une vie décente.

RELATIONS AVEC LA COMMUNAUTÉ MAGIQUE ‧₊˚ Le métier de Traceur est né des suites de la catastrophe d'Elysium, métier consistant à retrouver les contaminé·e·s impactés par les particules magiques à l'aide d'une rune gravée sur leur peau, leur permettant ainsi d'identifier les auras : si un·e moldu·e sans pouvoirs est englobé·e d'une aura assez pâle, le·a traceur·se verra chez un·e personne touché·e par la mutation une aura bien plus sombre, comme marquée par les ombres courant sous sa peau. Les Tracé·e·s, comme on nomme les contaminé·e·s repéré·e·s, n’ont alors d’autre choix que de se laisser graver également dans la chair une marque symbolisant la rune Elhaz ᛉ. Synonyme de protection, de sécurité et de connexion, elle lie le·a Tracé·e au/à la Traceur·se l’ayant repéré·e et fait office de canal de communication : iel s’engage à dessiner du doigt ses lignes sombres pour appeler le·a Traceur·se à transplaner à ses côtés lorsque ses capacités magiques deviennent subitement incontrôlables. La marque est aussi liée aux protections du monde magique, permettant que les barrières s’écartent pour lui accorder l’accès au monde sorcier. Les contaminé·e·s peuvent donc circuler librement entre les mondes, mais nombre d’entre elleux se sentent épié·e·s — sous surveillance constante, forcé·e·s de subir des check up effectués par les oracles de terre, visant à mieux comprendre et soigner leur condition, et régulièrement sollicité·e·s à devenir des cobayes pour la recherche (médecins, médicomages, langues de plomb). Enfin, leurs propres réactions varient autant que celles des sorcier·e·s qui les voient intégrer leur monde ; c’est une bataille idéologique qui ne risque pas de s’apaiser de si tôt.

[aneurinallday]

Gibson and the Shivering Soldier

Chapter 3: Une Nouvelle Vie

By train, it was about three and a half hours from Weymouth to Woking, a town twice its size, not far outside London. Its approach on the morning of Wednesday, June 5 1940, was met by a small crowd of women, children, and elderly men, all waving and smiling in greeting, holding out bunches of flowers and bottles of beer to the returning heroes.

William stared at them through the window with a sort of numb disinterest, as if he were observing a party that had nothing to do with him.

He glanced across the creaky little table at Gibson, who was curled up in the opposite seat, his head resting against the window-frame. Almost as soon as he’d sat down, the Frenchman had passed out. The long week on the beach, and the gruelling six weeks of war that had preceded it, had left him exhausted both physically and mentally. As the train pulled into Woking Station, the jolt of the brakes and the metallic shriek of the wheels caused his eyelids to twitch, but failed to wake him from his deep sleep.

For a moment, William considered leaving him there. They were total strangers - William had no obligation to stick by him. But the sight of Gibson’s tired, haggard face made him stay. He didn’t like the thought of him waking up alone, confused, and frightened in a strange country.

“Hey.” Reaching out, William shook Gibson’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

Gibson startled awake. In the light of day, his eyes were green.

“We’ve arrived. Come on.”

Joining the slowly-moving multitude of soldiers, they shuffled off the crowded train and onto the platform. From there, they walked by the long queue of buses and taxes, whose drivers were holding out helpful signs declaring their destinations for the ease of the passing soldiers.

Keeping his hands hidden in his pockets, William started rambling to fill the awkward silence.

“Do you know where we are right now? We’re in Woking. That’s in Surrey. I live in Surrey.” He pointed northwards. “London is over that way. You can’t really see it from here, but trust me, it’s there. I have a little flat in a nice area, near a canal. You can come and stay with me for a few days, if you like. Only for a few days, though.”

He wasn’t sure why he offered Gibson his hospitality. Probably because he knew Gibson couldn’t understand a word he was saying, so he felt safe and comfortable making promises that he couldn’t keep, knowing he could change his mind without Gibson really knowing. If their relationship soured and he had to throw Gibson out on the street, Gibson would probably blame himself for his own lack of English-speaking skills, rather than blame William for being unreliable.

“You can talk now, you know. Speak as much French as you like. The cat’s out of the bag - you don’t have to pretend any more.”

Gibson simply looked at him, uncomprehending. William gave up.

They caught a bus to another suburb, and from there, walked to William’s flat. While Gibson hovered anxiously behind him, glancing up and down the street, William found the spare key under a flower-pot and unlocked the door. Upon opening it, he was immediately greeted by a small pile of unread letters. He scooped them up.

“Come on in.”

Gibson followed him inside. It was an ordinary, somewhat poky flat with one bedroom and one bathroom. The living room overlooked the street, while the kitchen (which contained a table and two chairs) overlooked a tiny garden that was all weeds and cracked concrete slabs. It had the comfortable but somewhat sparse furnishings of a man who was sensible but very much single. A man who knew how to cook and clean, but didn’t cook or clean for anyone but himself.

As he tossed the unopened letters on the dresser and hung up his jacket on the wall, William still felt the same sense of detachment, as if his mind and body were working independently of each other, and he was merely an observer to a scene over which he had no control.

“It’s not much, but it’ll have to do,” he said. “I don’t have a guest room, unfortunately, so you’ll have to sleep on the sofa. I used to live on the family estate, out in the countryside, but my parents and I...we’re not on the best of terms. Suffice to say I won’t be inheriting any land.”

He snorted with amusement at himself.

“I’m not sure why I told you that. Maybe it’s easier to confide in someone who doesn’t understand a word you’re saying. Anyway, this is my home, and now it’s yours too. For as long as you need it, I mean.”

Not saying a word, Gibson took off his grimy boots and set them aside, then hung up his jacket next to William’s. His thick khaki shirt was unbuttoned, showing the sleeveless white shirt underneath, grubby with sweat and dirt. Standing in an enclosed room, William noticed for the first time that Gibson smelled. The aura of petrol and the sea and a week’s worth of missed baths hung about him.

“The bathroom’s that way, through my room,” said William, “Run yourself a bath. Understand, ‘bath’? I’ll have mine afterwards.”

He went into the kitchen, checking that the taps and gas stove still worked. But Gibson followed him nervously.

“Can you understand anything I’m saying? Anything at all?” William sighed. “Listen, you’re not sleeping on my furniture until you’ve washed. Go and clean yourself up. This way.”

He ushered Gibson through the bedroom and into the bathroom. Along the way, he grabbed a pair of pyjamas from the wardrobe and thrust them into Gibson’s arms, along with a towel from the cupboard. He started running a bath.

“There. Try not to use too much water. In the meantime, I’ll fix us something to eat.”

But Gibson hung back, hugging the folded pyjamas and towel to his chest. He was trying not to look at the running taps. Realising the problem, William quickly turned off the flow.

“You don’t want to sit in it? That’s alright. Here.” He placed a sponge on the rim of the bathtub. “Use that. Then you can just stand in the tub.”

Leaving him to it, William returned to the kitchen. He rummaged through the cupboards, taking stock of what tinned fish and canned soups he had.

“Two mouths to feed now,” he muttered.

Turning on the stove, he poured a can of baked beans into a saucepan and let it simmer. He opened a block of processed pork, cut it up, and began frying the slices, filling the flat with the tantalising smell of browning meat. He tried not to listen to the gentle splashes of Gibson washing himself.

In a strange way, he felt responsible for Gibson. He wasn’t sure why - perhaps it was their difference in rank that evoked a sense of duty. William was a commissioned officer. Gibson was just some poor conscript who’d never expected to pick up a rifle in his life, let alone fire it. He and William had lived through the same utter hell at Dunkirk, but they’d arrived there very differently.

The pork was starting to turn crispy at the corners. William nudged them with his spatula. Without warning, an image flashed through his mind. The sinking Destroyer. The soldiers jumping off and swimming for their lives. The oil slick darkening the waves. The sea bursting into flames, burning the swimmers with it. He squeezed his eyes shut, and took a deep breath. He tried to still his hands. His appetite had fled.

Gibson ventured into the kitchen, wearing the pyjamas. His dark curls were damp and flat. He looked clean. William set a plate of food on the table.

“There. It’s the best I could do. I’ll go shopping for fresh food tomorrow. Hopefully not everything’s been rationed yet.”

Gibson looked around for a second plate, confused.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not hungry,” said William. “You go ahead and eat. I’ll take a minute to myself.”

“Merci,” said Gibson. His voice was soft and gentle.

“Don’t mention it.”

While Gibson ate, William had a brisk bath and a change of clothes. He put on a button-down shirt and a knitted vest, then a cardigan. He looked at his reflection in the mirror - every inch an ordinary civilian - and didn’t recognise it. Surely this man wasn’t the same one who’d been terrified and shivering on the Moonstone? The same one who’d accidentally pushed a teenage boy to his death down some stairs?

He emerged from the bedroom to see Gibson standing in the living room, peeping through the net curtains at the street outside.

“Everything alright?” he asked.

Startled, Gibson let the curtains fall back into place. He looked guilty, like a child who’d been caught snooping.

“Don’t worry,” said William, “You’ll be safe here.” He sat down on the sofa, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Want one?”

Gibson nodded, and sat beside him. He placed the offered cigarette between his lips, and leaned closer so that William could light it. William’s gaze shifted from the flame to the face behind it - to the green eyes and sculpted features. The Frenchman was handsome.

The two men shifted apart, and sat smoking at opposite ends of the sofa.

“I’ve forgotten my manners,” William sighed, “We’ve known each other for a whole day and I haven’t even introduced myself. Forgive me. My name is William.”

Gibson looked at him blankly. He’d said too many words, too quickly - they’d all blurred together in Gibson’s ears.

“William,” the officer repeated slowly and clearly, tapping his chest with a finger. “William.”

Gibson brightened.

“Guillaume!” he echoed.

“Yes. Yes, that’s right. Guillaume. What’s your real name? Jean? Pierre? Louis? Philippe?”

Gibson’s smile faded, perhaps wondering if William was mocking him somehow.

“Alright, then. I’ll keep calling you ‘Gibson’. Who’s waiting for you back in France? Wife? Kids? Mama and papa? Are they alive? Do you need to get back to them?”

Gibson said nothing. But his large eyes spoke of falling bombs and burning streets. A father found crushed in his armchair beneath the rubble of his living room, and a mother whose embrace he would never feel again.

William cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“What did you do back in France, anyway? Builder? Baker? Ballroom dancer?”

Gibson looked puzzled.

“I’m being selfish, I’m sorry. I know you can’t understand me, and I’m probably just confusing you even more. The thing is, I’d feel rude if I didn’t talk to you. It seems wrong to sit here in silence. You’re my guest, after all. What kind of host would I be…”

He trailed off. For a moment, the situation felt surreal. Barely a day ago, he’d been at Dunkirk. Now he was back in his flat, sharing a smoke and a one-sided conservation with a nameless Frenchman, a complete stranger who was living under his roof. He wondered if it was all a strange dream.

He stood up abruptly.

“I’ll let you rest,” he said.

He returned to the kitchen, seeking some mindless housework to distract himself, but found that Gibson had already cleared the table and washed up. He finished his cigarette while standing at the kitchen sink, staring out of the window at the out-of-control weeds. His hands were still trembling.

By the time he felt steady enough to show his face again, Gibson had already fallen asleep on the sofa. The few hours of sleep on the train hadn’t been enough - he was still exhausted from everything he’d been through. Dark eyelashes rested on his cheeks. William watching him for a moment, then went and fetched a spare blanket, and carefully covered him with it. Gibson twitched but didn’t wake.

Chapter 4: Mémoire

[laviedevivi]

˛ * 🌺 ainda me lembro das vezes que cruzei com vivienne richmond na kappa phi! ela era tão parecida com  kristine  froseth, mas, atualmente, aos 31 anos, me lembra muito mais victoria pedretti. fiquei sabendo que, depois de cursar letras, atualmente é criadora de conteúdo e dona de casa e que ainda é organizada e crítica. uma pena acabar encontrando ela assim… não é possível que esteja envolvida com o acidente de fiona e a morte de victor, certo?

aesthetic

olhos lacrimejantes. cronogramas de leitura. presentes feitos à mão. terço de pérolas brancas. lábios vermelhos por mordidas distraídas. hidratante com aroma de maracujá. véu preto. lírios brancos. livros da edith stein. frutas vermelhas.

headcannons

a filha mais nova de um jovem casal, cheios de paz&amor e irresponsabilidade. a avó materna praticamente tomou vivianne para si, já que os dois eram adeptos de uma linha de criação duvidosa: os irmãos mais velhos praticamente se criaram sozinhos, e pareciam ser mais colegas de quarto dos pais do que propriamente filhos. a avó não conseguia nem pensar em deixar sua única netinha com aqueles doidos. até hoje a mulher ainda guarda rancor dos progenitores por terem sido tão negligentes com ela e os irmãos.

vivienne dormia na casa dos pais, mas passava o dia com a avó e era sua fiel companhia para todos os lados: missa, reunião das vizinhas, reza do terço, sessões de costura e limpeza da casa. a sua fé e a habilidades manuais foram heranças diretas da avó. entrou no curso de letras na université de l'orangerie com uma bolsa de estudos e perdera a sua companheira alguns meses depois, integrar-se na kappa phi foi a melhor forma que encontrou de lidar com o luto. embora revirasse os olhos quando julgava as brincadeiras dos colegas, fora ali que seu espírito carente encontrara abrigo.

apesar de já ser chamada de santinha pelos colegas, a verdadeira conversão de vivienne só aconteceu após o fatídico acidente em 2015. depois de toda a confusão, acabou afastando-se mais dos amigos. vê-los constantemente fazia a mulher se recordar do pecado que cometera e até hoje não conseguia confessar em voz alta.

estudou literatura americana com muito afinco para virar youtuber e dona de casa, depois de casar-se com william, o médico americano do grupo de oração. ela queria mesmo era ter saído de Des Moines, mas seu esposo fora aceito em uma boa vaga no hospital universitário. por sentir-se muito solitária em casa, começou a registrar vídeos da rotina e dos cuidados com o lar em um canal chamado la vie de vivi, alcançando um número considerável de seguidores.

ficou tão boa na edição que os inscritos nem perceberam seus olhos inchados e a frieza do marido. vivienne imaginava que seria uma mãe jovial, com uma casa alegre e cheia de crianças. mas depois de duas perdas gestacionais, a esperança foi diminuindo e o seu companheiro ficava mais distante. a mulher compensava suas frustrações com os vídeos, atividades manuais e suas reuniões no núcleo feminino da igreja (aliás, ela ocupa o importante cargo de aconselhadora e é responsável pelo núcleo de São Miguel, o das jovens solteiras).

o casamento, cada vez mais tíbio, quase chegara ao fim quando a irmã de william deixou o sobrinho na casa dos richmond por algumas semanas. eles precisavam fazer uma viagem de negócios à paris e vivienne era muito boa com crianças. ela cuidou do garotinho com muito, muito amor! mas tanto amor que não queria devolvê-lo aos seus pais. seu marido ficara genuinamente assustado com os gritos e as lágrimas copiosas da mulher, ela implorava para que não deixassem levar o filhinho dela embora.

depois dessa crise, vivienne se comprometera a não faltar mais nas sessões online de terapia e william a diminuir os plantões. seria um ótimo início de um final feliz, se não fosse pela chegada da maldita carta.

la vie de vivi

Não mostra diretamente o seu rosto nos vídeos, nem o do marido. Os vlogs são registros artísticos do seus cuidados com a casa, receitas novas e seus hobbies manuais. Tem um espaço de membros onde compartilha conteúdos pagos sobre gestão do lar. (basicamente a hamimommy de des moines)

conexões

confira aqui

[nando161mando]

🚩 MADRID ANTIFA 📺

🇨🇵 Hier, les rues du centre-ville de Madrid se sont rechauffées une fois de plus. Pour ceux qui ont donné leur vie pour un monde plus juste : nous poursuivons votre héritage. Aqui estan los antifascistas !

🇪🇦 ᴀʏᴇʀ, ʟᴀꜱ ᴄᴀʟʟᴇꜱ ᴅᴇʟ ᴄᴇɴᴛʀᴏ ᴀʀᴅɪᴇʀᴏɴ ᴜɴᴀ ᴠᴇᴢ ᴍáꜱ. 𝔓𝔬𝔯 𝔩𝔬𝔰 𝔮𝔲𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔫 𝔡𝔞𝔡𝔬 𝔰𝔲 𝔳𝔦𝔡𝔞 𝔭𝔬𝔯 𝔲𝔫 𝔪𝔲𝔫𝔡𝔬 𝔪á𝔰 𝔧𝔲𝔰𝔱𝔬: 𝕽𝖊𝖈𝖔𝖌𝖊𝖒𝖔𝖘 𝖛𝖚𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖗𝖔 𝖙𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖎𝖌𝖔.¡¡ᴀǫᴜí ᴇꜱᴛáɴ ʟᴏꜱ ᴀɴᴛɪꜰᴀꜱᴄɪꜱᴛᴀꜱ!!🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

🇮🇹 Ieri le strade del centro di Madrid si sono riscaldate ancora una volta. Per coloro che hanno dato la vita per un mondo più giusto: continuiamo la vostra eredità. Aqui estan los antifascistas!

🇬🇧 Yesterday, the streets of downtown Madrid heated up once again. For those who gave their lives for a more just world: we continue your legacy. Here are the antifascists!

🇬🇷 Χθες, οι δρόμοι του κέντρου της Μαδρίτης θερμάνθηκαν για άλλη μια φορά. Για όσους έδωσαν τη ζωή τους για έναν πιο δίκαιο κόσμο: συνεχίζουμε την κληρονομιά σας. Aqui estan los antifascistas!

🇩🇪 Gestern wurde es in den Straßen der Innenstadt von Madrid erneut heiß. Für diejenigen, die ihr Leben für eine gerechtere Welt gegeben haben: Wir führen Ihr Erbe fort. Hier sind die Antifaschisten!

Via Madrid Antifa

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[leszackardises]

Rentrée automne 2023 de Canal Vie : Voici quand commencent vos émissions

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[jupiterovprsten]

Santa Maria della Salute, Venice

[lalignedujour]

Je me lève avec la ferme intention de faire l'ouverture du jardin botanique. J'y passe toute la matinée sans avoir pris de petit-déjeuner, et avec le visage gras. J'ai accueilli une brève pluie de grosses gouttes, on devait être au bord de l'orage.

Pour y aller depuis l'appartement, je longe le canal et je passe sous un pont métallique avec de gros rivets. Ça doit être très difficile d'enfoncer ces rivets. Je pense aux hommes du XVIIème siècle qui ont dû le faire - sans compter qu'ils ont creusé ce canal avant toute révolution industrielle.

Au point le plus haut du jardin, on peut voir l'Université de Médecine et une partie de la vieille ville. J'y vais rarement, car ce qui m'intéresse, ce sont plutôt les végétaux (je connais maintenant presque par cœur toute l'allée centrale et la principale perpendiculaire). Ce matin, je monte au point de vue. Il y a une centaine de marches pour atteindre le sommet. Mais ce qui m'intéresse, ce sont plutôt ces marches. Elles sont en pierre massive - typiques de la région. Je suis déjà essoufflée en les gravissant, je me demande comment j'aurais été en les soulevant. Encore une fois, je jouis de l'œuvre de personnes qui travaillent plus dur que moi.

Je passe une matinée à errer. C'est ma vie en ce moment. Avant ça, j'ai été secrétaire médicale, puis employée chez un opticien. Je n'ai jamais vidé les poubelles dans lesquelles je jette mes déchets. Je n'ai jamais fait chauffer les panini que je mange. Je n'ai jamais nettoyé les routes et trottoirs sur lesquels je circule. Je n'ai jamais évacué les corps de toutes les violences qui ont eu lieu ici. Je n'ai jamais vissé au sol le banc sur lequel je suis assise. J'ai une dette infinie envers les générations passées, et les travailleureuses actuel·les. Globalement, j'aurai traversé la vie en tant qu'utilisatrice.

Vers 14h, j'ai faim, je repasse sous le pont et rentre à l'appartement pour manger mon panino froid. Je fais un point sur l'argent. Il me reste 2 euros 26, en plus des 50€ de caution de la voiture de location. Sur mon compte, je ne sais pas. Je passe au Crédit Mutuel pour retirer mes derniers sous. Je demande au distributeur 100€, je n'ai pas assez. J'abaisse ma demande par tranche de 10€ et je parviens finalement à retirer 70€.

Je prends la carte d'identité que j'ai trouvée hier. J'apprends à épeler le prénom et le nom avec aisance : Clothilde avec un "H", Hernandez, sans acccent. Je m'entraîne à mentionner automatiquement la date et le lieu de naissance. Je range la carte et j'entre dans l'agence. Je demande à ouvrir un compte, ce qui se fait facilement. Dans un monde concurrentiel, on est arrangeant dans les procédures, du moment qu'on y voit un intérêt particulier.

Ce compte au Crédit Mutuel à mon nouveau nom. Je parviens ainsi à changer le nom de ma facture EDF, et ainsi avoir un puissant justificatif de domicile qui me permettra d'avoir une carte vitale et de trouver du travail si besoin. Une nouvelle vie, en somme.

Je passe le reste de l'après-midi au jardin botanique. Une vieille dame et trois enfants passent près de moi. Les enfants posent des questions auxquelles la dame ne sait pas répondre. Je propose de leur répondre. Les enfants apprécient les informations. La dame aussi. Je me fais offrir une crêpe et une discussion sur la botanique. Le jardin ferme rapidement ensuite, on passe en horaires hors-saison. Les enfants et la dame me remercient chaleureusement.

Cette crêpe constituait leur goûter, mais ce sera mon dîner. Je crois que j'ai trouvé une vocation.

Je repasse sous le pont avec l'idée d'avoir un rôle dans ce monde. Je ramasse quelques cartons dans la rue. Ce soir, je me confectionne un panneau : "Balade botanique guidée - Prix Libre". Je me couche tard. Pour ne pas penser à la faim, je regarde la peinture qui s'écaille au plafond. Je ferme les yeux en y projetant un archipel imaginaire.

[girafeduvexin]

Tu fais ta vie tranquille, et puis t'apprends que le mot de passe du compte canal+ de ta petite sœur, c'est ta date de naissance.

[conatic]

Macabre découverte à Viesville ce vendredi matin : le corps de Joseph Masquelier, 78 ans, disparu depuis ce jeudi à Courcelles, a été retrouvé dans le canal

https://www.sudinfo.be/id766018/article/2023-12-29/macabre-decouverte-viesville-ce-vendredi-matin-le-corps-de-joseph-masquelier-78

Source: sudinfo.be