Imagen y Composición: Camilo Vasquez
Filed under: Art, Comic, Diseño grafico, Fotografía, Photography, Web comic Tagged: Colombia, Comic, relato, Subachoque, Webcomic
"
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Estrechar
Estrechar: "
Imagen y Composición: Camilo Vasquez
Filed under: Art, Comic, Diseño grafico, Fotografía, Photography, Web comic Tagged: Colombia, Comic, relato, Subachoque, Webcomic "
Imagen y Composición: Camilo Vasquez
Filed under: Art, Comic, Diseño grafico, Fotografía, Photography, Web comic Tagged: Colombia, Comic, relato, Subachoque, Webcomic
"
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
After the sun took the earth
I step back, knowing to well the meaning of that crunch beneath my foot. Every time, every single time a chill curls up my spine with razor nails and tears run on my face; I think I´d die if I wouldn’t be able to cry. Once again I move mi foot back to see the shattered face of a girl crushed under my boot, her tissues so dry, hers bones so thin that she´s almost one with the arid soil that extends as far as I can see.
I keep counting, I always do, and I always will, until the sun claims my body too. I have found sixty five thousand two hundred and eighty two dead kids since I left the city; All dry, crumbling, thin and fragile, all taken by the heat. I don’t count the adults, but when I find a child I do, I count, I write and I cry.
Sixty five thousand two hundred and eighty two.
It’s not writing too much, when you are so painfully alone you have to do something to cling to sanity, or at least an illusion of sanity that allows you to move one, to clutch to live and not surrender to the heat and the dust. Not yet, not just yet.
I wish that I knew more languages, but there´s no one to learn from anymore, so this one just have to be enough. Every time I found a child I write in my notebook, and I write in the nearest perdurable thing I can find, I´m just trying to prevent this from being forgotten, that If anyone survives or comes to this land can know for sure that we killed our home.
Well, I´m being overdramatic, it’s hard not to, we didn’t killed the earth , she still moves around the unforgiving sun and live endures stubborn and strong; there are frogs, lizards, rodents, even fish living underground, some can live years in a motionless slumber until they surface and mate. There are beautiful plants, strong, harsh and dry; there are some birds, and countless insects to feed them. No we didn’t ended life, we just killed humanity.
So I write, every single time I find a child drying to oblivion I write, so there’s a chance that if humans survive we don’t repeat the same mistakes, the same crimes.
We cut down the forests, almost all of them, thinking that a few thousand square miles in each continent will be enough; we polluted the air, our vehicles vomited fumes that poisoned the air and keep it to protect the live beneath it as it always had, the air used to protect us from the sun, now that’s hard to believe, now its etheric fire. We corrupted the waters, shat and pissed and throw unspeakable substances to it, until there was no more water to drink.
All for money, power and money, now it’s hard to explain what money was, just a idea, something that we used to change for other things, the more you had the more things you could get, people treated you better, but when the water ended. The huge reservoirs of water that the money of the powerful bought ended one day. In one way or another they let everybody else die, forgetting that their power was just other people doing things for them, and that all the me that has ever been can relieve a parched throat when there’s no water left, and no one to get it for you.
No, they didn’t killed humanity, we all did, always saying yes and not doing anything , remaining silent, remaining still.
Sixty five thousand two hundred and eighty two. I have written in whale bones, deer bones, dog bones, human bones. I have written in rocks, petrified trees, shells, walls, sculptures, cars, ships planes, anything I think can endure some years. I have written Sixty five thousand two hundred and eighty two times, every time I found the body of a dead child.
It´s been eight months since I left the city, and I have found only four people alive, three of them are dead, one sailed from the harbor looking for a settlement in the coast line, she thought that if there were more than ten people together they would be along the coast line. Pietro, the last one I founded, dyed of dehydration in my arms, we walked together for a month, we wrote in bones, in trees and in the sand. He told me that some people is living beneath the mountains at the south, the far south, that there´s some water in those caves. I´m going there, I don’t know if what he told me is true, I´m not even sure if I care, but I got a destination and I´m alive; you can follow the map bellow this words if you want.
If you read this don’t keep this story for you, let them know, let them all know, that a single person founded without looking Sixty five thousand two hundred and eighty two dead children walking only eight months; that humanity almost destroyed this planet, that we let the rivers dry and chopped the trees down, let them all know, and if in a hundred a thousand or a million years humans flourish again, keep this story alive. If we survive this, we can’t let this happen again.
Sixty five thousand two hundred and eighty two.
This post is a part of the Blog action day 2009, a global initiative to create awarness about climate change, for more information and thousands of related posts visit www.blogactionday.org. Lets Blog, post, communicate, help. We can make a difference.
I keep counting, I always do, and I always will, until the sun claims my body too. I have found sixty five thousand two hundred and eighty two dead kids since I left the city; All dry, crumbling, thin and fragile, all taken by the heat. I don’t count the adults, but when I find a child I do, I count, I write and I cry.
Sixty five thousand two hundred and eighty two.
It’s not writing too much, when you are so painfully alone you have to do something to cling to sanity, or at least an illusion of sanity that allows you to move one, to clutch to live and not surrender to the heat and the dust. Not yet, not just yet.
I wish that I knew more languages, but there´s no one to learn from anymore, so this one just have to be enough. Every time I found a child I write in my notebook, and I write in the nearest perdurable thing I can find, I´m just trying to prevent this from being forgotten, that If anyone survives or comes to this land can know for sure that we killed our home.
Well, I´m being overdramatic, it’s hard not to, we didn’t killed the earth , she still moves around the unforgiving sun and live endures stubborn and strong; there are frogs, lizards, rodents, even fish living underground, some can live years in a motionless slumber until they surface and mate. There are beautiful plants, strong, harsh and dry; there are some birds, and countless insects to feed them. No we didn’t ended life, we just killed humanity.
So I write, every single time I find a child drying to oblivion I write, so there’s a chance that if humans survive we don’t repeat the same mistakes, the same crimes.
We cut down the forests, almost all of them, thinking that a few thousand square miles in each continent will be enough; we polluted the air, our vehicles vomited fumes that poisoned the air and keep it to protect the live beneath it as it always had, the air used to protect us from the sun, now that’s hard to believe, now its etheric fire. We corrupted the waters, shat and pissed and throw unspeakable substances to it, until there was no more water to drink.
All for money, power and money, now it’s hard to explain what money was, just a idea, something that we used to change for other things, the more you had the more things you could get, people treated you better, but when the water ended. The huge reservoirs of water that the money of the powerful bought ended one day. In one way or another they let everybody else die, forgetting that their power was just other people doing things for them, and that all the me that has ever been can relieve a parched throat when there’s no water left, and no one to get it for you.
No, they didn’t killed humanity, we all did, always saying yes and not doing anything , remaining silent, remaining still.
Sixty five thousand two hundred and eighty two. I have written in whale bones, deer bones, dog bones, human bones. I have written in rocks, petrified trees, shells, walls, sculptures, cars, ships planes, anything I think can endure some years. I have written Sixty five thousand two hundred and eighty two times, every time I found the body of a dead child.
It´s been eight months since I left the city, and I have found only four people alive, three of them are dead, one sailed from the harbor looking for a settlement in the coast line, she thought that if there were more than ten people together they would be along the coast line. Pietro, the last one I founded, dyed of dehydration in my arms, we walked together for a month, we wrote in bones, in trees and in the sand. He told me that some people is living beneath the mountains at the south, the far south, that there´s some water in those caves. I´m going there, I don’t know if what he told me is true, I´m not even sure if I care, but I got a destination and I´m alive; you can follow the map bellow this words if you want.
If you read this don’t keep this story for you, let them know, let them all know, that a single person founded without looking Sixty five thousand two hundred and eighty two dead children walking only eight months; that humanity almost destroyed this planet, that we let the rivers dry and chopped the trees down, let them all know, and if in a hundred a thousand or a million years humans flourish again, keep this story alive. If we survive this, we can’t let this happen again.
Sixty five thousand two hundred and eighty two.
This post is a part of the Blog action day 2009, a global initiative to create awarness about climate change, for more information and thousands of related posts visit www.blogactionday.org. Lets Blog, post, communicate, help. We can make a difference.
Periodísmo interconectado
Link Journalism o periodismo de Links es un nuevo término acuñado en la red. La idea es utilizar los links como una herramienta para resaltar y profundizar un argumento o la información ofrecida por una fuerte, complementando de esta forma la reportería y ofrecer un mayor contexto e información más completa a la audiencia.
El término es creado por Scott Karp cofundador y CEO de Publish 2 Inc un portal de periodismo colaborativo en el cual una comunidad de periodistas comparten y organizan links de carácter periodístico, y realizan individual y colectivamente una labor de curaduría en la cual se seleccionan los links más útiles y relevantes y se facilita la publicación de este material seleccionado a los medios electrónicos de cada periodista.
Karp utilizó el término por primera vez en el 2008, refiriéndose a como la utilización creativa y eficiente de links habría permitido al NY Times crear una gran pieza periodística sobre las conductas poco éticas del senador y entonces candidato presidencial estadounidense John McCain . De acuerdo a Karp el enfoque en alegatos insubstanciales de un episodio en particular hizo que se desaprovechara la oportunidad de mostrar como este tipo de conductas han sido constantes en la carrera de Mc Kain, lo cual habría podido demostrarse fácilmente creando links a los reportajes que a lo largo del tiempo se han hecho al respecto.
Aunque el Término Link Journalism es reciente, este tipo de periodismo se ha venido realizando por más de una década. Un claro ejemplo es The drudge report un site dedicado a la publicación de links de noticias realizadas por otros reporteros, organizándolos y haciéndolos accesibles, convirtiéndose en un efectivo servicio de noticias que se actualiza constantemente a pesar de no realizar ninguna reportería original.
De acuerdo a Josh Catone un escritor freelance noteamericano, uno de los problemas que enfrenta el periodismo de links es que la mayoría de los artículos periodísticos publicados hace algún tiempo son archivados y convertidos en contenido al que solo se puede acceder pagando, pues se cree que al no tratarse de contenido actual no puede generar ganancias por medio de la publicidad y que solo es de interés para aquellos que estén investigando una historia particular lo que haría que estuvieran dispuestos a pagar por el acceso a esa información.
A pesar del gran potencial que ofrece el periodismo de links para ampliar y profundizar la información y poner las fuentes primarias al alcance de la audiencia, muchos medios se rehúsan a ofrecer links a otro sites distintos al suyo por miedo de perder publico, limitándose únicamente a citarse a sí mismos y con ello a la información que ofrecen.
Afortunadamente esta tendencia esta cambiando y los grandes medios están empezando a publicar links a sites distintos al suyo.
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