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El Consejo de Europa recomienda «precisar el estatus» del portugués en Olivenza

The Council of Europe proposed that the English autonomous communities to develop co-official languages a teaching model of "total immersion", but acknowledges that most of these autonomous teaching these languages \u200b\u200bare based on a bilingual model, which, as explained, does not meet the commitments made by Spain after the ratification of the ' European Charter for Regional or Minority Languages. "

In a report released yesterday, the Committee of Ministers, decision-making body of the Council of Europe, recommended to the English authorities, among other things, to "take steps to adopt a specific legal framework for the protection and promotion of Aragon and Catalan of Aragon "and to clarify the status, and where appropriate measures of protection and promotion of the Berber in Melilla, Ceuta Arabic, Galician in Castilla y Leon and the Portuguese in Olivenza.

In the document, the Committee of Experts of the Charter assesses the status of regional and minority languages \u200b\u200bin Spain, from a report provided by the authorities on the implementation of the Charter and following a site visit conducted between 10 and September 14, 2007

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ANTONIO CONTRERAS FICHA POR EL ATLETICO DE MADRID FEMENINO


Well, here you have it, coach of Atletico de Madrid Women want you to know that from Olivenza proud that we have arrived at a big club, and it Pass-see if you talk to Cherry Thompson invites us to sing the Vicente Calderon, we could be opening act of the Canto del Loco, Hombres G or, finally we are very happy, and see if you come to test male, which still do not know the Lyrics, if you have to leave the Club by Thompson as they leave, period, first things first, wing, goodbye.

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men's eyes







There was a time when everything was governed under the gaze of men. Walking, dressing, thinking, deciding and to see everything under the sun that was the look of men.

And there were nights when he looked at me, naked in front of oval mirror and saw me as they saw me. The curves of my body, the tender forms, corners, defects, everything seemed a reflection of a woman who was receiving only the eyes of man. Out of this force was neither male nor I wanted to record anywhere.

were times of great activity, both mental, sexual, emotional. Were years of immense experience and growth. But always under the power of the gaze of men.

One day, walking my beloved dog near St-Laurent river, I suddenly had a vision: I saw in a garden surrounded by plants, cats and dogs. Colette remembered, he decided to end his life in a certain peace accompanied by these beasts who all his life had been accompanied, beloved dogs, friends, cats, turtles, birds. And I saw as Colette. And this vision, so sudden, so this left me paralyzed in the middle of the street, almost breathless. My dog \u200b\u200bsat beside me, waiting. I kept seeing myself in that garden, and I was alone. I mean, there was no man. I wondered: Can you be happy without a man? Can you live without the look of men perched on it?

I began to mourn in silence. The answer was yes, made me aware of a process that was beginning in my life as a woman. It is always hard free, grow, embark on a new experience. And the life of a woman is always available to new stages, stages ENTAM difficult, stages of great inner strength.

that day with my dog \u200b\u200band near the most important river in Quebec, I remember being asked, the goddesses, to help me in this new path that opened before. Maybe I was tired at that moment, the eyes of men.

My friend Louise has come to spend a weekend at home in the village and sitting comfortably on the couch, taking a hot whiskey and accompanied by our friends cats and dogs and a fire in the fireplace , talk about that pivotal moment in the lives of all women, as a fork, a vital crossroads where we must decide which path to choose. In fact this cross appears at the right time after many experiences. And it is good to appear.

For Louise was the day when a man left her at a hotel room on the outskirts of the city. He says the shock he laughed and the laughter turned into a kind of instrument of liberation. And then his life was transformed, and there were no more dates with strangers, in hotels sad. And his life was transformed because they were not important these meetings. Other priorities appeared, other concerns. Started doing yoga, painting, creating.

for me was when I decided to abort. Luisa is the only one who knows of this dark history in my life, the moment you raise, as a woman, if you will give birth or not. This decision between life and death, is the most difficult that a woman has to make. One day I read in a feminist magazine that many women experience a metaphysical and spiritual experience aborting. Suddenly, after weeks of indecision, of unanswered questions and a lot of loneliness, the woman who aborts is being transformed. Becomes unconscious girl mature woman, integrates this. The price is sacrifice. But then comes a kind of freedom and force that covers everything, even life and death.

Now, I say to my friend Louise, I no longer live under the gaze of men solar. Now, and this for several years, living under the gaze of other women lunar, Erica Jong, Germaine Greer, Marilyn French, Doris Lessing, Mary Daly, Gloria Steinem ... In moments of great concern is to them that I, like, wondering .

But what counts is not the gaze of men or the look of these brave Amazons, but mine. My eyes on me is all that counts.

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COMIDA ANIVERSARIO DEL CENTRO 112

NOVEMBER 5 CELEBRATE THE NINTH ANNIVERSARY OF THE CREATION OF THE EMERGENCY CARE AND EMERGENCY 112 of Extremadura, BECAUSE IT WAS A MEMORABLE MEAL We got together about 80 people, MANY OF THEM TO A LOT OF TIME could not see We're excited, we laugh, we almost get drunk, well almost, we get drunk THAT PUSSY AND ALSO WAS MY DAY Do not release the MIC throughout the afternoon, I took a taste AND ME SINGING EVEN START, THE TRUTH IS THAT was really cool, NOW TURN TO ORGANIZE THE TENTH ANNIVERSARY TO BE TO THE BEAST, GREETINGS TO ALL.

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Jean and a winter afternoon




Suddenly I see him move toward me, is a tall, skinny with long hair and a smile on your face kind. It's a winter evening and behind the windows of the bus stop the sky is dark and the wind blows glass.

- What was your trip?

difficult it is to focus on family gatherings while I accept the presence of my husband's uncle who has come to me with all his gentleness and kindness. But I want to be somewhere else, alone.

- Good, but not so cold waiting for me. I had forgotten about the climate of this country.

- You know, Paul says in his eyes at me with tenderness, this is not a country, as the poet says, but this is winter.

many years ago that I no longer live in this harsh country stations in this country of great loneliness and sad space. When I arrived in Spain, after having lived here for 30 years, I had the strange impression that once again my blood ran in his veins. I tell Paul how hard it is to live in a Nordic country. I say it's all a matter of habit. And acceptance.

- But the cold, cold here is almost inhuman, I say. How to accept what is beyond the human?

The cold here is like a carapaza that builds up inside you. And just a helpless prisoner of her in a dungeon ice.

So, after three decades, I went. And now I'm back for the funeral of my husband's mother. We gather in a large restaurant, I hope sitting in the entrance, I have no hunger and let me pass by relatives, people that basically do not know, that almost never seen. Here, as in all Nordic countries, the distances are immense, almost immeasurable. There is hardly an intimate relationship between members of one family. Only baptisms or funerals together, re-establish contact, return to be part of a tribe. I lit a cigarette and drink in small sips a gin and tonic I've gone to look for before the bar. Why I remember why so hard? One time when he approached me with their good and gentle smile, and his words:

- Miss, do you remember me? How is he?

I looked at him and in his eyes I saw a great excitement, recognition, complicity. Who was he? Something, yes ... absolutely charming shyness that of a teenager who has grown too fast and does not know how to ride, how to approach, how to talk. But he is not shy, almost no longer is he, I perceive, already facing a barrier of uncertainty, and is stronger, more courageous, so he has come and me questioned.

- I'm Jean, said. The Class 220. Remember? We passed the course thanks to you.

My husband has come to see as I am, if I feel okay, if I need anything, if I'm right. My husband is very kind, always has been and always will be. Is a gentle, caring, sensitive. However sometimes kill him. I think that all women, at any given time, we have this terrible desire to kill our husbands, no matter how good they are and especially if they are good. And we want to go, fly away, far, far away from them. Why do not we? Is it so hard to break links? More difficult to leave a country after having lived there 30 years?


remember, yeah, well now I remember as a great surge of satisfaction and more than that, of reconciliation. I felt at that moment, against Jean. And again I feel now as I watch my husband go into the room with his two brothers. The group 220, which had assigned me to learn to use my strong hand, as a teacher, for some students with serious learning difficulties. And it was the opposite: it was my best group, youth friendly and simple did not know quite what to make of their knowledge, their bodies, their ideas. Was the group that gave me encouragement, while others, who were supposedly normal were just killing me. Yes, the group 220 which however failed to make me continue on the faculty. All this I told the director, I remember with some discomfort under his eyes of steel. And she told me that these students did not count. And much as I would have given this group, the door opened for me is to say that I cast out of school for not being able to control the students 'normal'.

The boy, Jean, looks at me with great candor. I would even say with a certain purity. I look in your eyes, without fear. Suddenly I forgot this dark cold of a winter evening then people would call "the winter ice storm." We just him and me in the midst of all of complicity and affection. I said that others in the group are well, including his friends Pierre, and François Benoit. But he did not work, Jean also remembers that I was forced to take the exam. It was agreed that I'd put my hand on my shoulder and asked him to come and be examined.

Soon I'll have to get out of this chair so comfortable, I have to do a good job, smile, nod. I have to pretend. Why did I took many years to realize this simple truth? What counts are the small accomplishments, and nothing else. The return to this country of snow and ice I will then return a certainty. Suddenly

Jean says:

- I have to go, my bus has just arrived. I wish you good evening. Goodbye.

leaves. Long and happy, all of it, undulating, flexible, soft. Like an angel is gone, like an angel who had other appointments on your calendar. And I got up to go meet my husband's family.

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LOS 3W YA ESTAMOS ENSAYANDO


good, good, for October came to work, to test, because if the 3w murga are already preparing for the Carnival 2009 with more enthusiasm than ever, we are the rolling brown jajajajaj apparently there are many Olivenza murgas this year, because that's the best couple more murgas our carnival sing better, so I encourage those who have decided to form a murga to go ahead and enjoy the carnival.
SALUDOS A TOD @ S

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Ousmane


Ousmane has died.

Ousmane, a friend I do not know, I'll never know ... And yet if, as many times in my life I've crossed you in cities that have come my feet, Ousmane other names, other faces, some smiling, Ousmane in long, straight streets of Montreal, shivering in the snow and ice, cold and loneliness in your eyes, your body lean and hungry for a life that you thought to find, Ousmane in the metro Paris, tired your thighs, your face sad, Ousmane in Barcelona, \u200b\u200bavoiding fines for this desire of yours survive in New York Ousmane selling me an umbrella, Ousmane begging in Santa Monica, Ousmane in my heart, my friend who never get to know because a knife standing your smile and your kindness, Ousmane of Senegal, prince ebony skin, Ousmane smiling, hardworking, good, nice, your hard and tireless energy to fight for your family there in the distance, far beyond, wherever you come only your body hard and impenetrable, Ousmane loved one day, one day I also loved a named Ousmane Ibrahim, and others who came to my blue sheets for warmth and compassion of all Ousmane Ousmane, seaweed lost in this gray world hard in this world so dry, so intransigent, so, so unfair, Ousmane seeking a sense, a way, your way my Ousmane wanted ... Ousmane

: the voices of women of your people scream your name non-stop, scream and hit the faces your mothers and your grandmothers, I from here I hear these voices that scream your absence and your absolute presence in space. God help that your beloved, brothers, nieces, sisters, cousins, grandparents, parents, African gods guard you now all the world's evil, and invokes Allah your family that you were sending your salary doubling back Silk. Ousmane, black butterfly. Ousmane was murdered, which dared, bad language, saying that drug trafficking, Ousmane of Senegal, my brother, my lover, my friend. Ousmane're not.

have killed Ousmane.

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17 años de carnaval,y los que me echen.....


Who was going to tell me that in 1992 when I first went up to sing Little Red Riding Hood dress, would arrive in 2009 and was to be still on stage every February, who was going to tell my people happen to laugh at me to laugh with me and our Murga, who was going to tell me that with a street band can be a wonderful time, who was going to tell me that mourn in Carnival was possible, who was going to tell me.
mmurgueros Greetings to all and murgueros and Olivenza carnival in general.

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Extremadura siempre

good, because in these times has become fashionable to pick on the Extremadura and down a field refugees where children die and support a great famine, and this has left a man, well if you can call it sir, Lluís Suñé, which offers children Catalonia Extremadura sponsor for 1000 euros a month (all in the mess Regional financial), I leave a paso doble in his day did because Chenoa called us rednecks and legs, but never far from reality two or three years later came to record a video clip to Jerte with cherry blossoms, NO WANT EXTREMADURA OS BUT are you going to EAT WITH POTATOES. SEE VIDEO

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's life Glare and other opacity






Created and postpartum pain, that's what my mother said when the fatigue and boredom or guilt seized her and began talking very big open eyes, that horror when you were born, was the worst thing that has happened, you above all, the first, nearly kill me, and eyes shone with a radiance painful it was like a flash of fire over the past she did not accept this experience that she accepted, rejected, perhaps all his life well and with great anger, though my mother I never knew to what extent Anger was what she spoke. Rabies. My sister and I, still, listening trying to visualize the pain, then we thought that was pretty much pain, physical pain, pain palpable, understandable. But how see the pain of a mother who takes you to the world? How can I see, feel, experience the suffering of a mother who gives you life, you born? We looked at from time to time my sister and I, uneasy. I always wondered why my mother told us about all this, and always, always wanted to hear what she said, always attentive to the words that are not pronounced. Hearing this was also angry that my anger and my anger has always been. But still, with great care, never knew the substance of the life of my mother. You never know in depth the lives of others.

I'm not very sure about the entity called John, my husband. I think John, I've left at home and I am convinced my absence is not causing any concern whatsoever, that I have gone but as usual, that I am not as if I were, or vice versa. And yet I'm sure all this is true, this idea of \u200b\u200bJohn at home alone, among his books and papers of University, this fixed idea that I've made it over the years, and many of coexistence. I'm not really sure of anything. One thing is certain, real, understandable: this road is opened in front of me a big hug and the landscape that surrounds, trees of all colors, yellow, harvest, dark orange, green, purple, blue, almost blue times. It is autumn here and in Vermont. The air smells wood, damp earth, a fireplace. Sometimes I stop at stores along the edge of the road, small New England-style shops where one can find everything: good quality furniture, clothing, souvenirs of all kinds, food: honey, jams typical of the region , natural cakes, made with oatmeal and raisins, fruit, cheese flavorful ...

I've always liked driving, I feel safe, strong, brave and mature. And above all I feel in control of my life. But just driving. In life, not me. My life is a journey of insecurities, fears, doubts. Or at least that is how I think it is. Nor am I sure.

is to remind my mother that I'm back here in this region so beautiful. Ten years ago my mother died and I wanted to make this trip alone and I wanted to do to decide about my relationship with John. Thinking about my mother, about her life and her anger and my life and my anger. Everything is so attached, the anger of parents with ours.

Mother, I think. How many roads we have taken not seem to you to separate yourself, to convince us that we were different. When you said, for example, that we had to marry virgins, and we had to marry a rich man. Perhaps all mothers project. The fact is that I do not virgin or married a rich man. And before I get married many lovers that one day I stopped counting. But this did not make me different from you, much less.

O alomejor was well to compensate for your dry, your coldness.
do not know.

Here in this region of northern Vermont, near Burlington, I rented a room in a hotel. Many years ago we came together you and me and John also was with us, it was autumn and here I realized for the first time your great loneliness, a mirror of mine. The accusations continued, if so, the daughters do not stop to criticize mothers mistakes. Continued until his death, in a hospital in Barcelona. Are not there any escape? Will I always be a continuation of what you were? The rage, your outlook on life and men, I have done and created, the rage I have in my skin tissue, is inseparable from my cells in my blood. Perhaps because the distance and smell the red roof of the hotel, perhaps not enough to understand the rage. I do not know. Your life was a mystery. But soon go into a room so similar to the rent for many years, I will light a fire in the fireplace and you'll see, your profile, serious and sad look again and again feel that the lives of others is always a illusion ends.

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And if life were different to that box of lights and sounds and almost indifferent to me: the family a Saturday of a sticky summer day, if life, my life was another system that they speak and we all so different and so alike, that is what same after all, laughing but the laughter and not those crystalline and yellow and chime sounded as cheerful, life another picture that we wait impatiently while the notary boringly, Mr. Jiménez, otherwise they laughing, chatting so many things and nothing, drinking and unhealthy eating these potatoes, girls playing somewhere in the long floor of the grandmother, so strange this summer my aunt says Rita, the most lively and always carries in his huge bag two or three cigarettes of Mary, red hair and green eyes, says climate change is very sure of herself and normal is 17, Idela, the daughter of Richard and Richard have already drunk two glasses of vodka because my life has always been one of them, my family, this path impenetrable, this dark wood, thick, repulsive and endearing at the same time, impossible at times differentiation in this nest of vipers and echoes silent, my eyes passed on them, strangers because my life is something else, other than Mariana is taking photos for a future so uncertain, or aunt Quimeta following so like Anna Magnani, my life elsewhere, as always I think it was, the years have passed like a breeze, but rather in a streak that sometimes seem unlikely to me, and everyone back here together and separated at a time because life separates and unites me not screaming mentally concentrate on the last page I wrote this morning, a page without meaning because it is difficult to find a pattern to the solitude of my friend Virginia, a lifelong friend since the day he ended up in my hands anxious his diaries and letters, are more real than that, I think.

Toma.

Richard, his kindness and goodness of Richard candor that gives me a Camel, as always this sweet blue eyes, for many years, but not so many after all, on an ocher sand also sang these words, sweet looking blue sea that month of my thirties, I knew that sweet blue and his skin had shaken not know how but I knew and the notary, making sure my sister dancing fingers of a pianist on her brown hair, me said will be a surprise to everyone, but I just listen to my sister especially after she decided one day not to hear me more, is that Virginia, my thesis on Virginia Woolf and the pleasure or misery of loneliness, also that evening Richard had offered me a delicious while bitterly Camel desgarrábamos the world with his injuries and his wonderful, Mr. Jimenez did not matter to me nor the will of uncle Victor, the Venezuelan princess lover, and then what Richard had asked, they answered nothing, only this beach where the light is slowly deepening and becoming lavender in some features of the sky and the sweet blue and my dogs and my cats and Sarah and my turtle and in those years, Virginia in blessed solitude particles and atoms incommensurable and not always told you, your eyes of a warmth and tenderness navy blue quiet space in your eyes I'm looking for this walk in the woods and field and which becomes, is your eyes, in which sediment about Virginia writing diaries and letters, gathered waiting here again but missing so many parents, aunts and uncles, some cousins, here, waiting for Mr. Jiménez come to read us the will of Uncle Victor.