Arquivo do autor:Aurora

Álbum Evolution


Coming from the inside

Fate always from above
Never lets us know
The taste of the world.

Jake opened heart and mind
Is bordering the line
Between the races.

The deepest we fall is always not enough
Facing the world, back to the wall.

All right I must say no
But it’s coming from the inside
All right it’s stronger than I thought
‘Cause it’s coming from the inside.

Fate playing with our souls
Spreads to everyone
Boards of salvation.

Jake living black and white
He never wants to hide
What comes from his inside.

I only know one color of blood.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

EVOLUTION

The big desert is far from here
Scarlet clouds in the atmosphere
Built by hands of a million men
Darkest silence of a dead land.

Every night I say a pray
Asking god to see you again
I will bring you back home
Dead or alive, I don’t know.

A million dollars cross the sky
Invisible plane a brand new kind
A million people cross the sands
Following the hunger guide.

I hear the siren in sector one
A new rebellion get your guns
Hold your breath if they are close
They take hostages to get drugs

Miles I’m walking seeing the hand of men
Destroying the land.

Is the future on my side?

Evolution
Self destruction

Space battles in the fifth war
Science fiction is for real
Happiness we never feel it
We only see it on the movie’s screen.

Human being have a killer instinct
Though we came from the same womb
How can men celebrate
Everytime we drop a bomb?

Evolution
Self destruction
Disease and fear
I walk every night to see the end
To see the end by our side.

Very soon we’ll be trapped in our own trap
Our private hell.
When there’s nothing left to destroy
Will we destroy ourselves?
Yes!

Miles I’m marching seeing the hand of men
Destroying the land

Evolution
Self destruction
Evolution
No solution
Disease and fear
I walk every night to see the end
Come see the end
By my side

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

REBEL MANIAC

Take the stairs to the second floor
Look the name, it’s on the door
Pull the gun in the right time
Just one shot, took his life
Hate is spreading very fast
Check the list and see who’s next

Where do you go?
Running
What do you feel?
Lonely
What do you know?
Nothing
About me

Everybody, everybody
Everybody gets me wrong
No one, no one, no one
And nobody understands me
Be prepared for my attack
‘Cause I’m the rebel maniac

Every night is day for me
Energy and insanity
If it’s right or if it’s wrong
Don’t ask me I don’t know
Strange ideals fill my head
I walk hand in hand with death

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

DEAD LIGHT

Looking for a smile inside this place
Walking through the rooms
Makes the time go away.

Every time is madness time
You close your door to me
Screaming in the night is the music here.

I’ll go on looking for the dreams
‘Cause I never found you inside of me.

I watch the sunrise behind your eyes
See the future don’t pray tonight
Don’t you ever cry please get me out of here
I’ll never find the answer for you and me.

I’ll go looking for the screams
And I’ll never find you inside of me.

Running for the day, bleeding in the night
Nightmare fills the dreams and I’m hungry for life
Love is insanity, impossible to find
And going on means going far into the dead light.

Waiting for a light in the sky
Colors and reality
Are black and white.

Give me back the things I had
And leave me alone
Some day we’ll meet again after my dawn.

I met you in the dark
I brought you to the light
Now there’s a dead light
Burning deep inside of you and me.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

THE SHELTER

Fate is a fake shall we doubt
A fever flows and seems it’s all around
Desolation it sows our roads
My seeds of power in fields away from home.

I’ve been blinded
By all the mist that we shared.

Lean back your regret
Before the differences of my heart
Now is still the time
Before you throw away
The shelter you should be instead.

Ride the words to get your fame
You hide with shields, the lead outside is rain
Mighty fear down and out
Seeds, the call of truth is all around.

Lean back your regret
Before the differences of my heart
We remain apart
Because you’ve blown away
The shelter you should be instead.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

STILL THE SAME

See the fools as they run away
Crawling the stars again
Blinding season seems OK
To leave is just another game.

Reasons to live my time
Reasons to live
I feel like having to hold inside
All the questions from before.

Keep on knowing
In distant skies
We hide the meaning of our voiceless cries.
So many answers
Who’s to blame
‘Cause my existence is still the same.
That’s right!

All the walls are falling
Looking from my room
Everywhere seems nowhere
Unless I see you soon.

I’m the nearest trophy
Of our consequence
Even moments in my mind
Are no evidence.
But I still live, I still live.

See the dreams as they drown away
In oceans of today
Lightning season seems OK
If all the rest remains.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

WASTED

Ten thousand endless nights
I felt my fingers touch the skies
Last wind carried away my soul
I will never find myself anymore.

Ten plus ten thousand crazy dreams
And you know, I’m keeping’em in my memories
I’m at the limit that I can afford
Every day I see my thoughts coming from my skin.

For you I’m leaving all my hope
Lead the way ‘cause I don’t know.

Many times getting high
I’ve spent a lifetime being wasted
Sad eyes dry tongue
I’ve been there million times, wasted.

Ten plus ten thousand crazy words
I’m writing everything in my life’s book
Snow wings take me out of here
Now I’m hiding in a place where I see no fear.

For you I’m leaving all my hope
But believe I need it so.

Ten plus ten thousand crazy eyes
Have been watching me always and I can’t disguise
And all those years I’m still waiting for
Anyone to blind my heart and open my door.

For you I’m leaving all my hope
You showed the way but I can’t go.

Many time getting high
I’ve spent a lifetime being wasted
Sad eyes dry tongue
I’ve been there million times, wasted.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

PICTURES OF HATE

Cynical describes me
But yesterday was intensity
Who’s to blame, it is a shame?
Sad alone tale of a common man.

I say to you I’ve tried, I’ve got no alibi
Many times I looked up to the sky
And saw your face, I wonder why.

Once again I’m flying high
In the thoughts of my tomorrows
From my past no regrets
Only memories of sorrow, lies.

Innocence nobody sees
All the intentions underneath
Childhood dreams are nightmares to scenes
Now I know what liebe means.

Everyone I met before in this game are only pawns
I find myself in shadows
Searching for the distant echoes.

Pictures taken from nowhere
Seasons taken from me
Faces coming and going
So life, love, death, and dreams
Become my pictures of hate.

Memory is beyond your personality
Everybody thinks
Everybody sees
Boundaries of a hopeless mind
Drawing frontiers just before my eyes.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

DANCE OF MADNESS

God put a heart in the body of a man
Beating in chaos with no defense
Always begging mercy from the blue sky above
Hiding his sins but heaven knows.

I’m running with my
Bad dreams, good scenes
Loneliness and sadness
You left too deep your mark
Now I’ve got you inside my heart.

Dance of madness
Shadows running in the night
Dance of madness
You and me dancing on the fire

God put a heart inside of me
And love is a knife that makes us bleed
So let’s bleed together at the “Suicide Bar”
Let’s spread colors no matter how far.

I’m running with my
Bad dreams, good scenes
Loneliness and sadness
You left too deep your mark
No I’ve got you inside my heart.

Dance of madness
Shadows running in the night
You and me dancing on the fire
Running on the wire

So let’s dance

Burning

God put a heart in the body of a man
Beating in chaos with no defense
You’re the dancer of the “Suicide Bar”
Spreading desire no matter how far.

Dance of madness
Shadows running in the night
You and me dancing on the fire
Dancing on the wire.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

THE SPREADING SOUL

We are safe in this old storm
Close to the land but you know
Nothing is so calm to everyone.

I look at myself for something new
Tell me a little tale about you
Life is just a rhyme of hopes and crimes.

Better years are coming.

Not in my hand just in my heart
Lay the will I have inside
For all I want, what I feel
Sister moon Brother sun
Yesterday I was alone
All I want, what I feel
Is to be free

Warmed by the sun when it shines
Floating in the air in a red sky
I can realize life is moving on.

I took from my blood all my hate
Guided by the light of fate
Wind blew out my soul to everyone.

Better days are coming.

I’m afraid that when you go
The old storm’ll turn around my boat
I don’t know how to be free.

If a shadow in my life
Take me out from my red sky
I don’t know how to be free.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

We will rock you (Queen cover)

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É hoje!


Protestos pelo Brasil todo! Vamos lá!

Povo sem medo nas ruas

9h em Salvador, no Campo da Pólvora

15h em Fortaleza, na Praça da Bandeira

16h em São Paulo, na Avenida Paulista, em frente ao MASP
no Recife, na Praça do Diário
e em Brasília, na Rodoviária Plano

17h em Florianópolis, no Largo da Alfândega
em Belo Horizonte, na Praça da ALMG
no Rio de Janeiro, na Candelária

18h em Curitiba, na Praça Carlos Gomes
em Porto Alegre, na Esquina Democrática

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The Nature of Ambition


CHIC CREEP

This short comic comes from Incidental Comics creator Grant Snider. Here, he perfectly personifies how ambition happens, what it can become, what can ruin it, and how you’ll pull through.

Image

Image

All is fair in love and ambition. If you like these comics and want to view more head to incidentalcomics.com

Hope you guys are having an amazing St. Patty’s day!

Stay Creepy

Ver o post original

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E então, que quereis?…


Fiz ranger as folhas de jornal
abrindo-lhes as pálpebras piscantes.
E logo
de cada fronteira distante
subiu um cheiro de pólvora
perseguindo-me até em casa.
Nestes últimos vinte anos
nada de novo há
no rugir das tempestades.

Não estamos alegres,
é certo,
mas também por que razão
haveríamos de ficar tristes?
O mar da história
é agitado.
As ameaças
e as guerras
havemos de atravessá-las,
rompê-las ao meio,
cortando-as
como uma quilha corta
as ondas.

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Meu outro blog


Levando em consideração essa crise econômica bravíssima, que me trouxe apenas propostas de trabalho indecentes (de verdade!), e a ainda-não-existência-de-um-projeto-de-pós-doc-meu (porque o assunto que quero abordar é complexo demais e não me sinto preparada para lidar com ele), comecei um blog para tentar angariar alunos particulares. Até agora, várias pessoas visitaram – tanto o blog quanto a página no Facebook, mas aluno que é bom…

Visitem e divulguem, se possível!

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When pain is medicine


Sindhu S.
August 09, 2016 00:46 IST

When the time comes, we should take palliative care take charge and learn to let go.

A year ago, when I walked into the Intensive Care Unit and saw my father wailing and roiling in pain, all I wanted to do was run, somewhere far, where his cries wouldn’t reach me.

My 84-year-old father, my best friend, was enduring raw, intrusive medical procedures against his own wish. All skin and bones, he looked defenceless and at the mercy of doctors, his arms tied up, vulnerable, and agonised.
My father, the only person who could love me even when I wasn’t lovable; the one who taught me the rules of living simply, the one who told me my first stories during our evening walks, with whom I felt protected walking in the world.

The sight of him stripped of any sense of comfort or dignity on that hospital bed was unbearable. His frail body slipped out of his hospital dress, bared at the shoulder. He winced as a needle stuck in his neck wedged into the flesh when he rolled his head on the pillow in distress.

A feeding tube ran in through his nose, and went down his throat into his stomach.Catheter tubes were inserted into his bladder to drain out urine; another tube, attached to a suction pump, was passed down his windpipe, and used to remove fluid from the airway. Medics had attached monitoring equipment to measure bodily functions; wires ran out taking readings from his vital organs to display screens; showing his heart and pulse rate, airflow to his lung, oxygen levels and body temperature.

Tubes were inserted intravenously to supply essential fluids and antibiotics to cure a suspected blood infection. But no sedatives or painkillers were administered for fear his weak heart could not take more chemicals. The needle jammed into his central line – a really painful procedure I learnt — made it impossible for him to turn his head to the left. Dialysis took over the job as his kidneys had resigned to the idea of his dying. The machine cleansed his blood every night, during the last five nights, his heart protesting with two mild cardiac arrests.

Hard to convince

It was a harrowing experience, having to watch him suffer the insufferable. I stood by his side trying to convince all those who seemed to have a say on his life that it was a cruel line of treatment they were imposing. I knew he had always wanted to die peacefully and painlessly, but neither the doctors nor other close relatives, who were in charge before I could reach his side, would listen.

‘‘Is there hope of him getting well and out of hospital alive?’’ I asked the duty doctor the next morning, crushing sadness, when my mother was not around.

‘‘He has multiple organ failure,’’ the doctor said. ‘‘Over that, he has blood and urinary infection. His kidneys are not functioning. The situation is bad.’’

‘‘If the situation is that bad, why can’t you get rid of all these wires and needles, and give him some sedative so he can sleep?’’ I asked. ‘‘And why continue with dialysis, something so painful and risky?’’
‘‘We can’t stop treatment. We are supposed to do everything we can to keep the patient alive,’’ he said.
For whose benefit?

I didn’t get it. Why keep the patient alive for a few more days, if it involved excruciating pain? Keep the patient alive for whose benefit? Was he a mere specimen for medical students who came around to learn practical lessons each day? But I didn’t want to infuriate the doctors in whose hands we had surrendered his body, and who had broken down his body into isolated segments only they could put back together again, if at all. He was rolled into the hospital as one semi-conscious whole three days ago!

I was desperate to change something that would provide even the slightest relief. ‘‘How about giving some medication to give him pain relief? Surely you must have some medicine for that?’’

‘‘It is risky. Last night he had a mild cardiac arrest during dialysis. He is already under heavy medication for the blood infection. It could get complicated,’’ the doctor said, looking at me with sympathy.

‘‘Complicated? You mean he could die?’’ I asked, feeling more helpless. No reply, except a kind look.

A few feet away, my father was heaving and groaning with heart- wrenching constancy. Nurses and student-doctors walked around doing their job, deaf and blind to the cries from the ward.

‘‘Please give him some medication for pain relief. Please, please, please,’’ I begged, wanting to cry out loud. The doctor smiled at my concern.

‘‘I will ask my senior doctor tomorrow if we can give him some sedative,’’ he said.

When I went into the ICU the same evening, my father was sleeping. ‘‘We have given him a mild dose of pain relief medication,’’ the same doctor I had made the request that morning said. I felt some relief.

The next morning, and another dialysis later, my father was again writhing in pain and distressed beyond words. I begged the senior doctor in whose charge my father was for more pain relief as she sat flipping through his file.‘‘He can’t be feeling so much pain after all the medication we give him. He would be too drowsy to feel any. He is being fussy. He starts screaming even when the nurses are cleaning him up,’’ she said.

Elusive peace

Exactly my point, I thought. If it is hurting him so much, why can’t you pull out those dreadful needles and let him die in peace? But I wasn’t the doctor, and at that point in time I wasn’t very clear about what was going on as against what better could be done.

That evening I walked to his bedside, holding back my fear and despair. He was whimpering, with half-open eyes, looking around, but not seeing me. The trauma and medication had affected his sight. I was distraught watching him suffer thus, stripped of dignity. I remembered the time my grandmother was bedridden and fed with a tube, years ago. When she cried in pain, when the nurse changed her feeding tube, my father would run out of the house, out of the gate, covering his ears. And here he was suffering the same fate, only much worse.

Another morning, and after another session of dialysis, neither my mother nor me had the courage or the heart to go in. We could only see him twice a day, for five minutes in the mornings and five in the evenings. Only one person was allowed to visit at a time. Mornings after dialysis were living hell for him. I wanted to go in later when he was asleep. Adarsh, a young neighbour who used to take care of my father in his last days much like a grandson, went in. He came back upset, said my father was beseeching God in his restiveness.

The sheer torture

The same evening I walked into the ward after my mother had come out. Even as I was approaching his bed I heard him plead, his voice slurred. ’’Please don’t torture me.’’ His swollen palms were red, bearing evidence of the many failed attempts made to get a vein. His arms were tied to the side of the cot so he wouldn’t pull out the tubes when he was more conscious. Through his half-open eyes I could see his pupils dashed around blindly. My heart bled each time he moaned. I wanted to die in his place.

Somehow, holding back tears, I stood by his side, and slipped my fingers into his folded hand, which lay inert by his side. He gently closed his hand around my trembling fingers. I knew then that even in his grave suffering, he was trying to comfort me as only a father can. His eyelids twitched, as if to tell me he was awake and listening but unable to respond.

‘‘Don’t worry father,’’ I said in his ears. ‘‘I am trying to get you out of this place. Meanwhile, please pray, so you won’t feel much pain.’’ I couldn’t say more. When I walked out, my mother went in to see her husband of fifty- plus years. ‘‘He isn’t looking any better,’’ she said with moist eyes when she came out. We sat on chairs outside the ward, among scores of visitors waiting for their turn to go in and see their loved ones, or were there to hand over food or medicines.

‘‘We can’t even sit with him. If he were in a room, I could speak to him and make him feel better,’’ my mother said, anguish riding over love.

‘‘I think he will come home safely. He is only 84. I am sure he will live for at least a few more years,’’ she said, as if to assure me we were in the right place.

I didn’t think so. But a look at her face, and I decided to hold my tongue. She looked tired and confused. She was diabetic, had high blood pressure and cholesterol. She had been looking after my father for many years, administering his insulin shots, checking his blood sugar with the home kit, rushing him to hospital in the ambulance in the middle of the night when he became delirious with blood sugar dips. I couldn’t distress her more, not then.

Love, disoriented

My father was attached to my mother, and fully dependent on her in his last few years. I remember how, a few weeks ago, in a hospital closer home, before he was referred to this big place, he told nurses, ‘‘She is my mother,’’ pointing to his own wife. He was mixed-up from frequent hospitalisation, disoriented in time and place.

My eyes were tearing up. I didn’t want my mother to see me cry. I walked across the dim waiting room as it started raining and stared into the dark outside the window, where I stood wiping my tears, training my mind for another sleepless night when my father would be put through another torturous round of dialysis.

‘‘Every night I go to bed praying to God to give me a peaceful death in my sleep, a painless quick death,’’ his words from the past made me desperate to get him out of the place.

But I didn’t know what options I had to stop his pain, or whether I had any. Worried to hell, I stood there with no idea of the existence of something called palliative care.

One more night later, another duty doctor called me outside the ward and told me the blood report had arrived that morning and it said my father didn’t have any blood infection, for which they were treating him with strong drugs for a week now! Could they not have waited till the report came before starting such painful medication?

I went in to see my father, heartbroken and angry about the situation. He was faintly pleading to no one in particular, ‘‘Please don’t torture me.’’ I died a thousand deaths in that single moment.

Forms to be filled

I requested the doctor to stop all painful treatment immediately and prescribe painkillers instead. He said he too wanted to do that but first I should fill up the required forms. I did so immediately.
Before I left the ward, I had promised father I would shift him back home at the earliest. I asked my father to pray in the meantime. He started chanting prayers almost immediately. He could hear us all the while! Tears gushed out of my eyes.

An hour later, they called me again to the ICU to inform me that my father had died of a cardiac arrest. When I saw him lie still like an empty shell, shocked and relieved in death, my faith in humanity was crushed to dust. My father passed away a day before we could move him to palliative care, even though I came across the word only the day he died. I will regret it for the rest of my life.

A year on, I still cannot forget his helpless days on that hospital bed. I cannot get over his cries. I get sudden weeping spells in the middle of a workday.

A new direction

But my father did not pass away without pointing me in a new direction – palliative Care – a term I heard the morning he died. It was an old friend of his, a much younger person than him, who I had called for advice. He said: ‘‘Oh no. We need to give him palliative care immediately. Let me call a doctor friend of mine who is into pain relief. We will move him out at the earliest. I had felt hope for the first time, after many days when I heard those words. But a couple of hours later, my father passed away.

A year since I know something as beautiful and gentle as palliative care was available as a treatment option, close by, just a call away.

My father died a painful death due to overtreatment after enduring seven days of cruel life-sustaining clinical interventions in a private medical college hospital, alone.

And all he wanted to do in the end was sleep, not eat or drink, just rest and slide into the other world surrounded by his loved ones, with the ease of falling asleep, dying a natural death.

(The author, based in Mumbai, is working on a book on the quality of elderly deaths in India. She is involved in a campaign led by Pallium India to make the end of life painless for the terminally ill. E-mail: cyndhu@gmail.com )

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12


Hoje faz exatamente 12 anos que comecei este blog. Achando que escreveria todos os posts em Inglês, Francês e Português hahahahhahahah Como eu era tonta! E tinha muito tempo livre, claro 😉

décimo segundo aniversário do blog!

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Debate para hoje


Longo debate, aliás…no início de fevereiro, uma amiga repassou esta publicação, que reproduzo abaixo, caso algum dia o post do Facebook suma:

“Meu nome? F. L.* Então, eu não tô nessa vida porque eu quero, né…eu tenho 27 anos e me prostituo desde os 13. Vim lá de Minas Gerais pra São Paulo, porque meu pai faleceu quando eu era bebê ainda e meu padrasto batia muito na minha mãe. Eu não aguentava ver aquilo, mas mesmo assim eu ficava lá, até o dia em que ele me estuprou. Eu tentei matar ele com um facão, mas mesmo depois disso minha mãe ficou do lado dele. Aí eu peguei cadeia, cumpri a pena e fugi pra cá.

Quando cheguei, eu morei com a minha tia, mas ela não me ajudava, só deixava eu dormir lá. Então, pra tirar um dinheiro eu fui me prostituir, fiz programa até os 17, que foi quando fui trabalhar numa boate lá na Praça da Árvore, fiquei um tempo lá, mas não deu certo, aí viajei o Brasil todo fazendo programa e voltei pra cá faz três anos.

Nessas andanças eu morei com travesti, com viado, sapatão. Só não voltei pra minha tia porque eu sou viciada no pó desde que entrei na boate e ela não gostava, mas nunca roubei, sempre trabalhei pra ter a droga.
A gente não faz programa porque gosta, mas é um vício, é ver sua filha de 3 anos precisando de comida e você ter que ganhar um dinheiro fácil sem roubar. Mas é muito perigoso, já colocaram arma na minha barriga duas vezes pra não pagar, já me sequestraram e soltaram no meio da rodovia lá pra Mairiporã de madrugada, não é fácil.
Eu nunca quero isso pra minha filha, não é vida pra ninguém. Ela pode dar pra quem quiser, mas não quero que ela viva isso aqui. Meu sonho é sair desse lugar e ficar de boa, voltar com meu ex-marido e fazer uma família com ele, minha filha e o nenê que tá vindo. Aqui o capeta engorda todo dia.”

Embaixo da publicação, minha amiga comentou:

“Não há nada de “empoderador” em uma prática que NÃO é a escolha da maioria de suas praticantes e que corrobora na objetificação e subvalorização das mulheres. Quantos bordéis para mulheres irem ter sua primeira relação sexual existem? Só esse fato já mostra que é algo sexista, que não deve ser romantizado ou aceito como um “trabalho qualquer”.

Aí começou o debate no mural dela, que reproduzo aqui:

“Sem romantizar… Mas ser realista é lutar pra melhorar as condições de trabalho desumanas a que essas mulheres são submetidas ou lutar pra acabar de vez com uma profissão que depende diretamente dá manutenção do machismo? Qual a utopia a se perseguir, e qual o discurso a se manter que não corrobora com o machismo (tanto o contra como o a favor podem fazer o mesmo). Acho que o lugar dá prostituta é um dos nós mais complicados do feminismo, porque não dá também pra tomar uma posição do tipo “não devia existir, portanto luto contra”, porque tem gente que depende daquilo pra viver, e sem aquilo não tem pra onde correr. É embaçado…”

“Sim, é uma questão bem complexa, mas por ser um dos alicerces da objetificação e subvalorização das mulheres não creio que adotar medidas para “regulamentar a profissão” seja o caminho. Naturalmente não se trata de marginalizar ainda mais quem está na prostituição, mas oferecer alternativas muito boas para quem quer sair dessa vida de riscos.”

“Mas isso seria o ideal… Que só vai acontecer no apocalipse zumbi junto com as alternativas para ex-presidiários. E enquanto não chega, o que fazer dessas mulheres?”

“O fim da escravidão também aparecia como uma utopia….claro que devemos considerar que ainda há trabalho escravo hoje em dia e que acabar com a escravidão sem dar alternativas para o povo liberto não foi o ideal. Mas prefiro crer que proibir a escravidão é melhor do que “regulamentá-la”.

Enquanto não chega o fim da prostituição, oferecer outras opções para estas mulheres é a saída. Creio que um mísero Bolsa Família, pago diretamente às mulheres, contribuiu para evitar que muitas caíssem na prostituição.
Enquanto houver a mercantilização do corpo feminino não poderemos falar em emancipação feminina.”

“Eu acho que pode ser um caminho, sim… assim como acho que oferecer seringa pra quem usa heroína é um caminho (ok, a comparação parece meio doida, mas vou tentar explicar).

Acho que a regulamentação aproxima as trabalhadoras do sexo dos serviços públicos de assistência e as coloca novamente sob a égide do Estado. Sozinhas, essas medidas não resolvem o problema, mas podem abrir caminho pra outras formas de intervenção que ajudem quem quer sair da prostituição… No pior dos casos, pelo menos terão acesso a assistência médica, jurídica, aposentadoria, etc…”

“E sem falar que a prostituição depende estruturalmente dessa condição desumanizada das mulheres, é isso poderia gerar formas de independência a longo prazo”

“Continuaremos naturalizando as mulheres enquanto objetos, não vejo isso como solução.”

“Ai gente, muito difícil…. mesmo…. Acho que não tem resposta pronta, talvez regulamentar ajude a caminhar o processo, talvez não e atrase a crítica à prostituição, de toda forma é insuficiente… Mas o fundamental acho é criar espaços de diálogo com essas mulheres via estado e fora dele, ONGs sérias, grupos de mulheres enfim, porque a coisa não vai melhorar sem disposição da sociedade civil de dialogar e colaborar, e olhar pra esse submundo sem sete pedras na mão. O mesmo vale pros presidiários, como os Racionais alertam faz tempo. Parece que é como a droga, fácil de entrar, difícil de sair, quanto mais vulnerabilidade social mais difícil.

E também não podemos esquecer que quanto mais “sobe” o “nível” da prostituta, mais você encontra mulheres que não querem sair da “vida” (vida?), que preferem ganhar de 5 a 30 mil no puteiro do que 2 mil em outro serviço. E tb não sei se a proibição mudaria muita coisa no caso dos Bahamas da vida, que vão continuar existindo pros homens ricos que pagam 300 reais a hora de sexo. Conheci puta que gosta do que faz e não larga. Mas acho que a maioria é como o caso acima, vulnerabilidade social extrema, histórico de abuso etc.

E uma vez que nosso hipócrita estado não proíbe a prostituição, ela deveria ser regulamentada mesmo se não for ser proibida. Ridículo, proíbe aborto e não prostituição. Ridículo”

“Sobre a “polêmica” envolvendo a fala política de uma trabalhadora do sexo organizada num programa da Globo e a reação que tá rolando a essa fala.

Essas discussões sempre começam com “você é a favor ou contra a pauta x?”, e a briga segue entre quem é a favor e quem é contra. Um monte de gente, “teóricas e teóricos” do trabalho sexual, discutindo a favor ou contra um espantalho da discussão feita por trabalhadoras organizadas, que tem suas demandas, fruto de organização políticas, tratadas como “só mais uma opinião” dentro do balaio.

Tá errado. Tá errado pra caralho. Isso começa com a organização política das trabalhadoras. E já começou. Faz tempo. Desde 20, em Hamburgo, com o sindicato de prostitutas comunistas citado por Lenin em carta a Zetkin, se precisam desse tipo referência pra ouvir. E estão organizadas hoje, e têm demandas políticas.

Sigo, e sigo acreditando que deveríamos todas seguir, do lado da organização política e de caráter trabalhista das mulheres da nossa classe. Que sigam se organizando e se fortalecendo, enquanto mulheres e enquanto categoria, mais e mais. Sigo, como acredito que deveríamos, acreditando que a luta organizada de trabalhadoras deve ser fortalecida, não silenciada; incentivada, não pixada de “o que faz o feminismo sangrar”, como tivemos o desprazer de ler.

Se há discordâncias políticas, que elas sejam tratadas, como são, dentro do movimento das trabalhadoras em luta. Mas quanto é toda a sociedade e o próprio senso comum versus a organização política de mulheres trabalhadoras, não deveria ser muito difícil escolher o lado.

O feminismo revolucionário sangra, isso sim, quando há luta contra a organização política de caráter trabalhista das mulheres da nossa classe.”

“”Precisamos parar urgentemente de falar de prostituição como se fosse ato sexual. Não é. Prostituição é sobre dominação masculina, trata do exercício de poder masculino sobre os corpos femininos. Toda a ideia de que é possível comercializar corpos de mulheres, estabelecer preços sobre cada parte a ser tocada (“consumida”) ou sobre o que se pode fazer com cada pedaço do corpo , tudo isso parte da objetificação da mulher, da ideia de que nossos corpos podem ser desmembrados e a esses pedaços de carne atribuir valor de acordo com o prazer que podem dar aos homens.

É necessário um enfrentamento de questões simples, como por exemplo: por que a prostituição é historicamente uma atividade destinada às mulheres ou, no máximo, àqueles homens que assumem símbolos de feminilidade como parte de sua identidade? Por que os prostituintes* são em sua maioria pessoas do sexo masculino?

Nada disso é coincidência. A prostituição é uma ferramenta de exploração histórica intimamente ligada à submissão imposta às mulheres desde que o patriarcado as separou entre aquelas que serviriam para a procriação (esposas/mães) e aquelas destinadas apenas a dar prazer sexual aos homens (prostitutas). E quando eu falo patriarcado eu espero que vocês não imaginem um ser sem forma espalhando maldade, mas um sistema que se materializa na vida de todas as mulheres, onde os agentes responsáveis pelo estabelecimento e perpetuação desse sistema são aqueles que se beneficiam dessa exploração: membros da casta favorecida, os do sexo masculino.

Procurar e encontrar respostas para essas perguntas vai nos mostrar que não é possível um movimento de emancipação das mulheres sem que este tome como pauta fundamental e urgente a eliminação dessa exploração sexual, que não é compatível lutar pelas mulheres e ao mesmo tempo apoiar sua submissão. Nenhuma mulher será emancipada enquanto a dominação masculina e a submissão feminina** existirem. São dois lados complementares da estrutura patriarcal e para destruir essa estrutura precisamos atacar na base, eliminando todas as formas de exploração do sexo feminino. Todas, sem exceção.

*O termo prostituinte refere-se àquele que paga, difere do prostituidor, que é aquele que alicia para a prostituição, também chamado de proxeneta ou cafetão.

**Vou deixar aqui um trecho que me parece instigante sobre essas questões:
“A prostituição emerge da submissão do corpo das mulheres. Se não fosse assim, teriam homens na beira das estradas e mulheres comprando/pagando eles. Mas homens não podem ‘escolher’ se prostituir. Mulheres não têm uma sexualidade dominante e não foram criadas para verem homens como seus objetos sexuais. Prostituição é sobre os direitos e privilégios dos homens de dominação e objetificação sexual da mulher. Se existisse igualdade então mulheres não poderiam ‘escolher’ se prostituir porque não existiria prostituição.” (Sheila Jeffreys)”” [Via Tamy Snow]”

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