Estou a ficar com síndrome de abstinência da versão em linha da edição impressa do Público. Não há quem dê umas palmadinhas no servidor?
Adenda: Obrigada!
segunda-feira, fevereiro 07, 2005
Fractura
Um dia, há alguns anos, pensei que tinha acordado num país civilizado. A discussão no parlamento, no dia anterior, tinha-se prolongado até tarde, pelo que só de manhã, quando liguei o rádio, é que soube que tinha sido aprovada a despenalização do aborto. Fiquei radiante! Quando, uns minutos mais tarde, me encontrei com uma amiga, só faltou beliscarmo-nos uma à outra. Depois, vieram a astúcia do Professor Marcelo e o catolicismo do Engenheiro Guterres e voltámos a ser o país do costume.
domingo, fevereiro 06, 2005
Preciosismos
O site Público.pt oferece-nos serviços de inquestionável valor. Por isso, o meu agradecimento. Mas já alguma vez repararam que a edição impressa não é colocada em linha às 5h00, como é indicado? E que as edições dos Domingos parecem sempre ter sido feitas por um demiurgo trapalhão? Um demiurgo que, hoje, adormeceu...
Pequenos mistérios no processo de fabricação de blogs
1. Por que será que os números do Technorati para cada blog variam constantemente, no tempo e também da página de cada blog para as página de outros blogs?
2. Por que será que o Blogger deixou de contar o número de entradas de cada utilizador?
3. Por que é que, no Blogger, o ícone para edição de entradas "expresso" só aparece de tempos a tempos?
4. Por que é que o relógio do Blogger que insere a hora em que uma entrada é enviada anda sempre trocado?
5. E, finalmente, por que é que algumas entradas aparecem com a indicação de que não têm comentários do Haloscan quando, na realidade, os têm?
2. Por que será que o Blogger deixou de contar o número de entradas de cada utilizador?
3. Por que é que, no Blogger, o ícone para edição de entradas "expresso" só aparece de tempos a tempos?
4. Por que é que o relógio do Blogger que insere a hora em que uma entrada é enviada anda sempre trocado?
5. E, finalmente, por que é que algumas entradas aparecem com a indicação de que não têm comentários do Haloscan quando, na realidade, os têm?
Dear Connie
The Grange Farm Old Heanor 29 September
I got on here with a bit of contriving, because I knew Richards, the company engineer, in the army. It is a farm belonging to Butler and Smitham Colliery Company, they use it for raising hay and oats for the pit-ponies; not a private concern. But they've got cows and pigs and all the rest of it, and I get thirty shillings a week as labourer. Rowley, the farmer, puts me on to as many jobs as he can, so that I can learn as much as possible between now and next Easter. I've not heard a thing about Bertha. I've no idea why she didn't show up at the divorce, nor where she is nor what she's up to. But if I keep quiet till March I suppose I shall be free. And don't you bother about Sir Clifford. He'll want to get rid of you one of these days. If he leaves you alone, it's a lot.
I've got lodging in a bit of an old cottage in Engine Row very decent. The man is engine-driver at High Park, tall, with a beard, and very chapel. The woman is a birdy bit of a thing who loves anything superior.
King's English and allow-me! all the time. But they lost their only son in the war, and it's sort of knocked a hole in them. There's a long gawky lass of a daughter training for a school-teacher, and I help her with her lessons sometimes, so we're quite the family. But they're very decent people, and only too kind to me. I expect I'm more coddled than you are.
I like farming all right. It's not inspiring, but then I don't ask to be inspired. I'm used to horses, and cows, though they are very female, have a soothing effect on me. When I sit with my head in her side, milking, I feel very solaced. They have six rather fine Herefords. Oat-harvest is just over and I enjoyed it, in spite of sore hands and a lot of rain. I don't take much notice of people, but get on with them all right. Most things one just ignores.
The pits are working badly; this is a colliery district like Tevershall. only prettier. I sometimes sit in the Wellington and talk to the men. They grumble a lot, but they're not going to alter anything. As everybody says, the Notts-Derby miners have got their hearts in the right place. But the rest of their anatomy must be in the wrong place, in a world that has no use for them. I like them, but they don't cheer me much: not enough of the old fighting-cock in them. They talk a lot about nationalization, nationalization of royalties, nationalization of the whole industry. But you can't nationalize coal and leave all the other industries as they are. They talk about putting coal to new uses, like Sir Clifford is trying to do. It may work here and there, but not as a general thing. I doubt. Whatever you make you've got to sell it. The men are very apathetic. They feel the whole damned thing is doomed, and I believe it is. And they are doomed along with it. Some of the young ones spout about a Soviet, but there's not much conviction in them. There's no sort of conviction about anything, except that it's all a muddle and a hole. Even under a Soviet you've still got to sell coal: and that's the difficulty.
We've got this great industrial population, and they've got to be fed, so the damn show has to be kept going somehow. The women talk a lot more than the men, nowadays, and they are a sight more cock- sure. The men are limp, they feel a doom somewhere, and they go about as if there was nothing to be done. Anyhow, nobody knows what should be done in spite of all the talk, the young ones get mad because they've no money to spend. Their whole life depends on spending money, and now they've got none to spend. That's our civilization and our education: bring up the masses to depend entirely on spending money, and then the money gives out. The pits are working two days, two and a half days a week, and there's no sign of betterment even for the winter. It means a man bringing up a family on twenty-five and thirty shillings. The women are the maddest of all. But then they're the maddest for spending, nowadays.
If you could only tell them that living and spending isn't the same thing! But it's no good. If only they were educated to live instead of earn and spend, they could manage very happily on twenty-five shillings. If the men wore scarlet trousers as I said, they wouldn't think so much of money: if they could dance and hop and skip, and sing and swagger and be handsome, they could do with very little cash. And amuse the women themselves, and be amused by the women. They ought to learn to be naked and handsome, and to sing in a mass and dance the old group dances, and carve the stools they sit on, and embroider their own emblems. Then they wouldn't need money. And that's the only way to solve the industrial problem: train the people to be able to live and live in handsomeness, without needing to spend. But you can't do it. They're all one-track minds nowadays. Whereas the mass of people oughtn't even to try to think, because they can't. They should be alive and frisky, and acknowledge the great god Pan. He's the only god for the masses, forever. The few can go in for higher cults if they like. But let the mass be forever pagan.
But the colliers aren't pagan, far from it. They're a sad lot, a deadened lot of men: dead to their women, dead to life. The young ones scoot about on motor-bikes with girls, and jazz when they get a chance, But they're very dead. And it needs money. Money poisons you when you've got it, and starves you when you haven't.
I'm sure you're sick of all this. But I don't want to harp on myself, and I've nothing happening to me. I don't like to think too much about you, in my head, that only makes a mess of us both. But, of course, what I live for now is for you and me to live together. I'm frightened, really. I feel the devil in the air, and he'll try to get us. Or not the devil, Mammon: which I think, after all, is only the mass-will of people, wanting money and hating life. Anyhow, I feel great grasping white hands in the air, wanting to get hold of the throat of anybody who tries to live, to live beyond money, and squeeze the life out. There's a bad time coming. There's a bad time coming, boys, there's a bad time coming! If things go on as they are, there's nothing lies in the future but death and destruction, for these industrial masses. I feel my inside turn to water sometimes, and there you are, going to have a child by me. But never mind. All the bad times that ever have been, haven't been able to blow the crocus out: not even the love of women. So they won't be able to blow out my wanting you, nor the little glow there is between you and me. We'll be together next year. And though I'm frightened, I believe in your being with me. A man has to fend and fettle for the best, and then trust in something beyond himself. You can't insure against the future, except by really believing in the best bit of you, and in the power beyond it. So I believe in the little flame between us. For me now, it's the only thing in the world. I've got no friends, not inward friends. Only you. And now the little flame is all I care about in my life. There's the baby, but that is a side issue. It's my Pentecost, the forked flame between me and you. The old Pentecost isn't quite right. Me and God is a bit uppish, somehow. But the little forked flame between me and you: there you are! That's what I abide by, and will abide by, Cliffords and Berthas, colliery companies and governments and the money- mass of people all notwithstanding.
That's why I don't like to start thinking about you actually. It only tortures me, and does you no good. I don't want you to be away from me. But if I start fretting it wastes something. Patience, always patience. This is my fortieth winter. And I can't help all the winters that have been. But this winter I'll stick to my little Pentecost flame, and have some peace. And I won't let the breath of people blow it out. I believe in a higher mystery, that doesn't let even the crocus be blown out. And if you're in Scotland and I'm in the Midlands, and I can't put my arms round you, and wrap my legs round you, yet I've got something of you. My soul softly Naps in the little Pentecost flame with you, like the peace of fucking. We fucked a flame into being. Even the flowers are fucked into being between the sun and the earth. But it's a delicate thing, and takes patience and the long pause.
So I love chastity now, because it is the peace that comes of fucking. I love being chaste now. I love it as snowdrops love the snow. I love this chastity, which is the pause of peace of our fucking, between us now like a snowdrop of forked white fire. And when the real spring comes, when the drawing together comes, then we can fuck the little flame brilliant and yellow, brilliant. But not now, not yet! Now is the time to be chaste, it is so good to be chaste, like a river of cool water in my soul. I love the chastity now that it flows between us. It is like fresh water and rain. How can men want wearisomely to philander. What a misery to be like Don Juan, and impotent ever to fuck oneself into peace, and the little flame alight, impotent and unable to be chaste in the cool between-whiles, as by a river.
Well, so many words, because I can't touch you. If I could sleep with my arms round you, the ink could stay in the bottle. We could be chaste together just as we can fuck together. But we have to be separate for a while, and I suppose it is really the wiser way. If only one were sure.
Never mind, never mind, we won't get worked up. We really trust in the little flame, and in the unnamed god that shields it from being blown out. There's so much of you here with me, really, that it's a pity you aren't all here.
Never mind about Sir Clifford. If you don't hear anything from him, never mind. He can't really do anything to you. Wait, he will want to get rid of you at last, to cast you out. And if he doesn't, we'll manage to keep clear of him. But he will. In the end he will want to spew you out as the abominable thing.
Now I can't even leave off writing to you.
But a great deal of us is together, and we can but abide by it, and steer our courses to meet soon. John Thomas says good-night to Lady Jane, a little droopingly, but with a hopeful heart.
(in "Lady Chatterley's Lover", D.H. Lawrence)
I got on here with a bit of contriving, because I knew Richards, the company engineer, in the army. It is a farm belonging to Butler and Smitham Colliery Company, they use it for raising hay and oats for the pit-ponies; not a private concern. But they've got cows and pigs and all the rest of it, and I get thirty shillings a week as labourer. Rowley, the farmer, puts me on to as many jobs as he can, so that I can learn as much as possible between now and next Easter. I've not heard a thing about Bertha. I've no idea why she didn't show up at the divorce, nor where she is nor what she's up to. But if I keep quiet till March I suppose I shall be free. And don't you bother about Sir Clifford. He'll want to get rid of you one of these days. If he leaves you alone, it's a lot.
I've got lodging in a bit of an old cottage in Engine Row very decent. The man is engine-driver at High Park, tall, with a beard, and very chapel. The woman is a birdy bit of a thing who loves anything superior.
King's English and allow-me! all the time. But they lost their only son in the war, and it's sort of knocked a hole in them. There's a long gawky lass of a daughter training for a school-teacher, and I help her with her lessons sometimes, so we're quite the family. But they're very decent people, and only too kind to me. I expect I'm more coddled than you are.
I like farming all right. It's not inspiring, but then I don't ask to be inspired. I'm used to horses, and cows, though they are very female, have a soothing effect on me. When I sit with my head in her side, milking, I feel very solaced. They have six rather fine Herefords. Oat-harvest is just over and I enjoyed it, in spite of sore hands and a lot of rain. I don't take much notice of people, but get on with them all right. Most things one just ignores.
The pits are working badly; this is a colliery district like Tevershall. only prettier. I sometimes sit in the Wellington and talk to the men. They grumble a lot, but they're not going to alter anything. As everybody says, the Notts-Derby miners have got their hearts in the right place. But the rest of their anatomy must be in the wrong place, in a world that has no use for them. I like them, but they don't cheer me much: not enough of the old fighting-cock in them. They talk a lot about nationalization, nationalization of royalties, nationalization of the whole industry. But you can't nationalize coal and leave all the other industries as they are. They talk about putting coal to new uses, like Sir Clifford is trying to do. It may work here and there, but not as a general thing. I doubt. Whatever you make you've got to sell it. The men are very apathetic. They feel the whole damned thing is doomed, and I believe it is. And they are doomed along with it. Some of the young ones spout about a Soviet, but there's not much conviction in them. There's no sort of conviction about anything, except that it's all a muddle and a hole. Even under a Soviet you've still got to sell coal: and that's the difficulty.
We've got this great industrial population, and they've got to be fed, so the damn show has to be kept going somehow. The women talk a lot more than the men, nowadays, and they are a sight more cock- sure. The men are limp, they feel a doom somewhere, and they go about as if there was nothing to be done. Anyhow, nobody knows what should be done in spite of all the talk, the young ones get mad because they've no money to spend. Their whole life depends on spending money, and now they've got none to spend. That's our civilization and our education: bring up the masses to depend entirely on spending money, and then the money gives out. The pits are working two days, two and a half days a week, and there's no sign of betterment even for the winter. It means a man bringing up a family on twenty-five and thirty shillings. The women are the maddest of all. But then they're the maddest for spending, nowadays.
If you could only tell them that living and spending isn't the same thing! But it's no good. If only they were educated to live instead of earn and spend, they could manage very happily on twenty-five shillings. If the men wore scarlet trousers as I said, they wouldn't think so much of money: if they could dance and hop and skip, and sing and swagger and be handsome, they could do with very little cash. And amuse the women themselves, and be amused by the women. They ought to learn to be naked and handsome, and to sing in a mass and dance the old group dances, and carve the stools they sit on, and embroider their own emblems. Then they wouldn't need money. And that's the only way to solve the industrial problem: train the people to be able to live and live in handsomeness, without needing to spend. But you can't do it. They're all one-track minds nowadays. Whereas the mass of people oughtn't even to try to think, because they can't. They should be alive and frisky, and acknowledge the great god Pan. He's the only god for the masses, forever. The few can go in for higher cults if they like. But let the mass be forever pagan.
But the colliers aren't pagan, far from it. They're a sad lot, a deadened lot of men: dead to their women, dead to life. The young ones scoot about on motor-bikes with girls, and jazz when they get a chance, But they're very dead. And it needs money. Money poisons you when you've got it, and starves you when you haven't.
I'm sure you're sick of all this. But I don't want to harp on myself, and I've nothing happening to me. I don't like to think too much about you, in my head, that only makes a mess of us both. But, of course, what I live for now is for you and me to live together. I'm frightened, really. I feel the devil in the air, and he'll try to get us. Or not the devil, Mammon: which I think, after all, is only the mass-will of people, wanting money and hating life. Anyhow, I feel great grasping white hands in the air, wanting to get hold of the throat of anybody who tries to live, to live beyond money, and squeeze the life out. There's a bad time coming. There's a bad time coming, boys, there's a bad time coming! If things go on as they are, there's nothing lies in the future but death and destruction, for these industrial masses. I feel my inside turn to water sometimes, and there you are, going to have a child by me. But never mind. All the bad times that ever have been, haven't been able to blow the crocus out: not even the love of women. So they won't be able to blow out my wanting you, nor the little glow there is between you and me. We'll be together next year. And though I'm frightened, I believe in your being with me. A man has to fend and fettle for the best, and then trust in something beyond himself. You can't insure against the future, except by really believing in the best bit of you, and in the power beyond it. So I believe in the little flame between us. For me now, it's the only thing in the world. I've got no friends, not inward friends. Only you. And now the little flame is all I care about in my life. There's the baby, but that is a side issue. It's my Pentecost, the forked flame between me and you. The old Pentecost isn't quite right. Me and God is a bit uppish, somehow. But the little forked flame between me and you: there you are! That's what I abide by, and will abide by, Cliffords and Berthas, colliery companies and governments and the money- mass of people all notwithstanding.
That's why I don't like to start thinking about you actually. It only tortures me, and does you no good. I don't want you to be away from me. But if I start fretting it wastes something. Patience, always patience. This is my fortieth winter. And I can't help all the winters that have been. But this winter I'll stick to my little Pentecost flame, and have some peace. And I won't let the breath of people blow it out. I believe in a higher mystery, that doesn't let even the crocus be blown out. And if you're in Scotland and I'm in the Midlands, and I can't put my arms round you, and wrap my legs round you, yet I've got something of you. My soul softly Naps in the little Pentecost flame with you, like the peace of fucking. We fucked a flame into being. Even the flowers are fucked into being between the sun and the earth. But it's a delicate thing, and takes patience and the long pause.
So I love chastity now, because it is the peace that comes of fucking. I love being chaste now. I love it as snowdrops love the snow. I love this chastity, which is the pause of peace of our fucking, between us now like a snowdrop of forked white fire. And when the real spring comes, when the drawing together comes, then we can fuck the little flame brilliant and yellow, brilliant. But not now, not yet! Now is the time to be chaste, it is so good to be chaste, like a river of cool water in my soul. I love the chastity now that it flows between us. It is like fresh water and rain. How can men want wearisomely to philander. What a misery to be like Don Juan, and impotent ever to fuck oneself into peace, and the little flame alight, impotent and unable to be chaste in the cool between-whiles, as by a river.
Well, so many words, because I can't touch you. If I could sleep with my arms round you, the ink could stay in the bottle. We could be chaste together just as we can fuck together. But we have to be separate for a while, and I suppose it is really the wiser way. If only one were sure.
Never mind, never mind, we won't get worked up. We really trust in the little flame, and in the unnamed god that shields it from being blown out. There's so much of you here with me, really, that it's a pity you aren't all here.
Never mind about Sir Clifford. If you don't hear anything from him, never mind. He can't really do anything to you. Wait, he will want to get rid of you at last, to cast you out. And if he doesn't, we'll manage to keep clear of him. But he will. In the end he will want to spew you out as the abominable thing.
Now I can't even leave off writing to you.
But a great deal of us is together, and we can but abide by it, and steer our courses to meet soon. John Thomas says good-night to Lady Jane, a little droopingly, but with a hopeful heart.
(in "Lady Chatterley's Lover", D.H. Lawrence)
sábado, fevereiro 05, 2005
D. Sebastião, rei de Portugal
Louco, sim, louco, porque quis grandeza
Qual a sorte a não dá.
Não coube em mim minha certeza;
Por isso onde o areal está
Ficou meu ser que houve, não o que há.
Minha loucura, outros que me a tomem
Com o que nela ia.
Sem a loucura que é o homem
Mais que a besta sadia,
Cadáver adiado que procria?
Fernando Pessoa
Qual a sorte a não dá.
Não coube em mim minha certeza;
Por isso onde o areal está
Ficou meu ser que houve, não o que há.
Minha loucura, outros que me a tomem
Com o que nela ia.
Sem a loucura que é o homem
Mais que a besta sadia,
Cadáver adiado que procria?
Fernando Pessoa
Conversa de gin tónico
Caro JVC,
Obrigada pelo convite para o gin tónico!
O JVC concorda com o direito ao casamento de casais homossexuais, mas tem dúvidas sobre o direito à adopção por parte destes casais.
Sobre este assunto, sobre o qual também tenho dúvidas, chamou-me a atenção um artigo do Diário de Notícias de 3 de Outubro de 2004, a propósito da discussão sobre este tema que então ocorreu em Espanha (a catolicíssima Espanha), onde acabou por ser aprovado o direito à adopção por casais homossexuais. Nesse artigo é referido que
Há ainda outro argumento a favor do direito à adopção, mas é mais polémico: se a homossexualidade não é uma doença e também é dado aos pais o direito de educar os seus filhos na sua religião (e é assim que a religião se torna "hereditária"), porque não admitir que uma criança educada por pais homossexuais possa ter maior abertura para com a homossexualidade?
A mesma notícia refere ainda que
Em conclusão, neste momento sinto-me inclinada a pensar que os espanhóis fizeram uma escolha acertada.
Nota: o artigo do DN já tinha sido referido aqui no dia da sua publicação. Na altura chamou-me a atenção especialmente por entre os opositores da adopção não serem citados nomes ou instituições, ao contrário do que acontecia com as associações de psicólogos que se pronunciaram a favor da adopção.
Obrigada pelo convite para o gin tónico!
O JVC concorda com o direito ao casamento de casais homossexuais, mas tem dúvidas sobre o direito à adopção por parte destes casais.
Sobre este assunto, sobre o qual também tenho dúvidas, chamou-me a atenção um artigo do Diário de Notícias de 3 de Outubro de 2004, a propósito da discussão sobre este tema que então ocorreu em Espanha (a catolicíssima Espanha), onde acabou por ser aprovado o direito à adopção por casais homossexuais. Nesse artigo é referido que
Dois estudos de 2002, um da Academia Americana de Pediatria e outro do Colégio Oficial de Psicólogos de Madrid pronunciaram-se a favor.e ainda
«O importante de um lugar não é a sua forma exterior, se está construído em pedra ou em madeira. O mais importante, realmente, é que sirva para as funções de protecção que deve exercer», conclui o estudo do Colégio de Psicólogos. Neste, os peritos analisaram as dinâmicas familiares de 28 famílias «homoparentais» e encontraram «níveis elevados de afecto e comunicação e níveis geralmente baixos de conflito».
Há ainda outro argumento a favor do direito à adopção, mas é mais polémico: se a homossexualidade não é uma doença e também é dado aos pais o direito de educar os seus filhos na sua religião (e é assim que a religião se torna "hereditária"), porque não admitir que uma criança educada por pais homossexuais possa ter maior abertura para com a homossexualidade?
A mesma notícia refere ainda que
As vozes contra não põem em causa o amor e carinho com que os homossexuais podem educar uma criança. Mas defendem: «Para a identificação e maturação da sua personalidade precisam de um modelo feminino e masculino, diferenciado anatómica e psiquicamente.».Mas é ao Estado que compete encontrar os modelos ideiais de pais (tipo Barbie e Ken?), ou este deve simplesmente dar o apoio necessário a pais solteiros, divorciados ou viúvos, ou aos que dele precisem? Note-se que o Estado já permite a adopção a pessoas "singulares", caso em que não estão presentes os tais modelos masculino e feminino, o que indica que este factor não foi considerado assim tão decisivo.
Em conclusão, neste momento sinto-me inclinada a pensar que os espanhóis fizeram uma escolha acertada.
Nota: o artigo do DN já tinha sido referido aqui no dia da sua publicação. Na altura chamou-me a atenção especialmente por entre os opositores da adopção não serem citados nomes ou instituições, ao contrário do que acontecia com as associações de psicólogos que se pronunciaram a favor da adopção.
sexta-feira, fevereiro 04, 2005
Rêvé pour l'hiver
L'hiver, nous irons dans un petit wagon rose
Avec des coussins bleus.
Nous serons bien. Un nid de baisers fous repose
Dans chaque coin moelleux.
Tu fermeras l'oeil, pour ne point voir, par la glace,
Grimacer les ombres des soirs,
Ces monstruosités hargneuses, populace
De démons noirs et de loups noirs.
Puis tu te sentiras la joue égratignée...
Un petit baiser, comme une folle araignée,
Te courra par le cou...
Et tu me diras : "Cherche!" en inclinant la tête,
- Et nous prendrons du temps à trouver cette bête
- Qui voyage beaucoup...
(Arthur Rimbaud)
Avec des coussins bleus.
Nous serons bien. Un nid de baisers fous repose
Dans chaque coin moelleux.
Tu fermeras l'oeil, pour ne point voir, par la glace,
Grimacer les ombres des soirs,
Ces monstruosités hargneuses, populace
De démons noirs et de loups noirs.
Puis tu te sentiras la joue égratignée...
Un petit baiser, comme une folle araignée,
Te courra par le cou...
Et tu me diras : "Cherche!" en inclinant la tête,
- Et nous prendrons du temps à trouver cette bête
- Qui voyage beaucoup...
(Arthur Rimbaud)
Elderly power
Tinha pensado interrogar-me aqui sobre o que acontecerá quando o envelhecimento da população for tal que a maioria da população tenha mais de sessenta e cinco anos. Mas o processo já começou. É só uma questão de extrapolar as tendências actuais.
Quererão as pessoas com mais de sessenta e cinco anos e menos de setenta reformar-se o mais depressa possível? Deve haver os dois tipos de pessoas, os que sim e os que não, embora a reforma tenha surgido e sido conquistada como corolário de um percurso de trabalho não necessariamente gratificante e como um período de descanso e de disponibilidade para fazer o que antes não era possível: viajar, ler mais, fazer jardinajem, etc. De que forma poderão os partidos, na definição das suas políticas, ir ao encontro destes anseios?
Há ainda que ter em consideração que os mais idosos que se mantiverem activos vão ser menos produtivos, porque as suas capacidades físicas e intelectuais vão diminuindo naturalmente. Além disso, no mercado de trabalho, a experiência é cada vez menos valorizada relativamente à capacidade de adaptação a novas situações, que surgem a uma velocidade cada vez maior. Quer sejam desenvolvimentos tecnológicos ou alterações de paradigmas de gestão, tudo muda, constantemente. Espera-se que os trabalhadores percorram muitos empregos, uma vez que as empresas poderão muito mais facilmente abrir e fechar portas e fazer reestruturações. Agora pergunto: como é que uma pessoa com mais de sessenta e cinco anos pode acompanhar este ritmo? Dos sessenta e cinco aos sessenta e oito, com subsídios de desemprego. E depois? Com formação profissional? Vão aprender Power Point? Ou turismo?
Por outro lado, conta-se com a mão de obra dos imigrantes para suportar as reformas. Com filhos que exigirão aulas suplementares de português. Os de leste mais do que os dos PALOP, mas para estes últimos foram sempre muito insuficientes, ou mesmo inexistentes. Se o ensino se liberalizar da forma que agora alguns defendem, se a escola pública se tornar num pequenino gueto, se em tudo ficarmos iguais, na educação, aos Estados Unidos, isso será bom?
Os idosos quererão centros de dia, cuidados domésticos periódicos, eventualmente diários, locais em que se prestem cuidados paliativos em condições dignas. Nem todos terão a possibilidade de comprar uma velhice dourada, em condomínio de reformados...
Poderá manter-se o paternalismo e a demagogia com que os políticos tratam os mais velhos? Por quanto tempo?
Quererão as pessoas com mais de sessenta e cinco anos e menos de setenta reformar-se o mais depressa possível? Deve haver os dois tipos de pessoas, os que sim e os que não, embora a reforma tenha surgido e sido conquistada como corolário de um percurso de trabalho não necessariamente gratificante e como um período de descanso e de disponibilidade para fazer o que antes não era possível: viajar, ler mais, fazer jardinajem, etc. De que forma poderão os partidos, na definição das suas políticas, ir ao encontro destes anseios?
Há ainda que ter em consideração que os mais idosos que se mantiverem activos vão ser menos produtivos, porque as suas capacidades físicas e intelectuais vão diminuindo naturalmente. Além disso, no mercado de trabalho, a experiência é cada vez menos valorizada relativamente à capacidade de adaptação a novas situações, que surgem a uma velocidade cada vez maior. Quer sejam desenvolvimentos tecnológicos ou alterações de paradigmas de gestão, tudo muda, constantemente. Espera-se que os trabalhadores percorram muitos empregos, uma vez que as empresas poderão muito mais facilmente abrir e fechar portas e fazer reestruturações. Agora pergunto: como é que uma pessoa com mais de sessenta e cinco anos pode acompanhar este ritmo? Dos sessenta e cinco aos sessenta e oito, com subsídios de desemprego. E depois? Com formação profissional? Vão aprender Power Point? Ou turismo?
Por outro lado, conta-se com a mão de obra dos imigrantes para suportar as reformas. Com filhos que exigirão aulas suplementares de português. Os de leste mais do que os dos PALOP, mas para estes últimos foram sempre muito insuficientes, ou mesmo inexistentes. Se o ensino se liberalizar da forma que agora alguns defendem, se a escola pública se tornar num pequenino gueto, se em tudo ficarmos iguais, na educação, aos Estados Unidos, isso será bom?
Os idosos quererão centros de dia, cuidados domésticos periódicos, eventualmente diários, locais em que se prestem cuidados paliativos em condições dignas. Nem todos terão a possibilidade de comprar uma velhice dourada, em condomínio de reformados...
Poderá manter-se o paternalismo e a demagogia com que os políticos tratam os mais velhos? Por quanto tempo?
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