NOVO BLOG, este deixa de ser actualizado

http://mestreandre.tumblr.com/

sugestão: a loja dos pins

Ora bem hoje trago-vos uma sugestão. A Loja dos Pins (http://lojadospins.com) é uma loja online que, embora a maior parte do conteúdo seja para uma faixa etária do ensino secundário e básico, disponibiliza centenas de pins para encomenda (vão desde €1 os mais pequenos até €3,75 personalizados e gigantes) cujo envio é grátis para mais de 15 pins, €2 para correio azul e €5 para correio registado. Trago-vos esta sugestão porque infelizmente este tipo de sites é raro em portugal, pelo menos a preços aceitáveis, e porque conta com algumas pérolas. Aqui em baixo deixo-vos, para mim, alguns dos melhores pins.

ah Manuela, Manuela...

Como já tem vindo a ser normal nos últimos posts, lá começou com um 'noticia o Público'. Assim, noticia o Público, como se precisasse de o fazer, que José Sócrates 'lamenta', por entre linhas, que Manuela Ferreira Leite, em plena campanha, se mantenha afastada desta (ver aqui). Sobre isso podia alongar-me durante horas, quiçá dias, porém, usando-me das palavras do grande Abraham Lincoln, digo apenas 'Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt'.

(qualquer coisa como 'antes manter-se em silêncio e ser julgado um parvo do que falar e dar a certeza (remover toda a dúvida)')

E tenho-o dito.

Jornadas da SPSC e o SexLab

Após ver a notícia do Público, quero deixar aqui apenas umas notas.

Primeiro notar que as Jornadas da Sociedade Portuguesa de Sexologia Clínica, que decorreram hoje na Universidade de Aveiro, foram um óptimo exercício e sem dúvida um olhar preliminar sobre o SexLab, a Unidade Laboratorial de Investigação em Sexualidade Humana (inserida na rede internacional), com resultados que nem os mais optimistas esperariam...está de parabéns o Prof. Dr. Pedro Nobre e a sua equipa - particularmente a Prof. Ana e a Prof. Joana que, para além do Prof. Pedro Nobre também me deram aulas - e os meus votos de que tudo continue a correr como está até agora porque se tal acontecer tornar-se-á num projecto ainda mais grandioso e exemplar, contribuindo também para a explicação de alguns fenómenos nomeadamente a questão da excitação genital/excitação subjectiva.

Tem sido um ano cheio de avanços na área da Sexologia em Portugal e, com isso, estamos a chegar cada vez mais próximo dos níveis de excelência e proficiência de alguns países até agora mais avançados o que, como aluno de Sexologia, me deixa com um profundo sentimento de alegria e de vontade de também eu dar o meu contributo para este avanço científico.

Para os que não conhecem deixo no final do blog os contactos e o website. Para os que conhecem mas não confiam, os dados preliminares avançados pelo professor e responsável do projecto indicam que dos 27 que até agora já fizeram o estudo completo quase 100% (valores raramente alcançados) indicam baixo desconforto durante a avaliação, baixo desconforto causado pelo uso dos aparelhos, excelente relação com a equipa técnica (ao todo 6 pessoas) e excelentes condições de higiene, uma das principais preocupações prévias. De notar ainda que os participantes, para além de contribuírem para o avanço científico, têm uma remuneração de €50.

SexLab - Unidade Laboratorial de Investigação em Sexualidade Humana
Universidade de Aveiro
website: http://sexlab.web.ua.pt/
telefone: 234 370 644
telemóvel: 93 447 90 10
e-mail: sexlab@dce.ua.pt

aos jovens, meus caros, aos jovens...

Notícia hoje o Público Online que Miguel Portas defende voto aos 16 anos. OK, faz sentido: afinal de contas é na faixa etária dos mais jovens que o BE encontra o seus votos.
Mas por alguma razão vejo as próximas manchetes: "BE quer drogas na escola" ou talvez pior.

Atribuir o voto a uma idade superior ou igual a 16 é interessante: provoca a um aumento da cidadania e da participação dos jovens no futuro. Porém num país onde a taxa de abstenção é do nível que é, só estaríamos a contribuir para o ainda aumentar da abstenção. Ou teríamos o BE com valores a 30%. Além disso prefiro 10% do país a votar de forma informada, de forma capaz, consciente dos prós e dos contras, da repercussão de tais na vida e no país e no mundo do que 90% a votar porque a caneta para lá pendeu. Eu não quero, de maneira alguma, insinuar que os jovens aos 16 anos não têm capacidade de pensar por si próprios: têm sim senhor. E se votam todos independentemente de dezenas de variáveis importantes, devem votar também os jovens. Simplesmente considero que, antes disso, muita coisa tem que ser feita e o BE, como qualquer outra partido político português, não colabora nesse sentido.

The mute doorbell and the blind man (parte II)

segunda parte...

II.
(...)
It was his house, it seemed. He was not ready for the change, he was not ready for the death of his long time spouse. But he was thankful she was gone in the Saturday morning, after the breakfast. It was a sunny morning, those typical of summer, and outside the window no leaf fidgeted. When he woke up he knew that that would be the last day. His dreams for the past week were all full of dark corners, burning embers and empty glasses. He dismissed them on the waking, but he knew it best. It was eleven fifty. He didn’t weep nor he quetch, just stood there, not knowing what to do. He was an orphan from birth, got out to pursuit his unknown quest and never knew somebody who he cared for. Except her, of course. He can’t remember the day that they had met each other, just the golden necklace over her pale bust and the scarlet lips around bright and pure teeth. A month had passed when he asked her to marry him. He could see that she didn’t want to marry him, but said ‘sure’ in a soft low voice. She was pregnant. The marriage was a small one in a chapel in the outskirts of town fully dressed in colorful hellebores and bluebells. ‘Awful combination’, he thought. In a dreadful day, six months later, the new car hit a big pothole and went over the cliff. She lost her baby, and her life was from that day haunted by an ever growing tumor. He couldn’t see the face of the woman he loved since he lost his sight in that day. He had just bought a pair of teashades on discount at the shopping mall like it was written he will need them. And there he was, standing in front of the unknown house. The will was clear: the house once belonged to his spouse’s uncle, a physicist (whom he never knew alive) from the province that left town when it became too crowded. His will stated that the house should be given to his niece but he could not use it in life. An ultimate joke, he guessed. But the fact was that he no longer could keep on living in their house, with her bay windows and china figurines. He could no longer read, no longer watch a film, all was left was darkness and the sound of his music. When he died he wanted to be cremated but he demanded his ashes to be buried alongside his violin. Knowing God enough, he was sure he was going to play on heaven’s stage.
(...)

[to be continued...]

The mute doorbell and the blind man (parte I)

Inicio aqui uma pequena história em 3 fascículos. Em inglês. Espero que gostem! (uma parte por dia) [nota: pode haver alguns erros no inglês, não estive a rever o texto]


I.
Once upon a time there was a doorbell. That wouldn’t be a pretty good start for a story, however this was not an ordinary doorbell. You see, she was mute. Anyone who by fate or knowledge went to the number 4, Lucky Street, and touched with their finger the white plastic would be startled for the nothingness of sound. Broken, they would say. But she knew better, she knew that she was born mute and would be mute her entire life. What the passersby didn’t know was that the house was lost in a swirl of in between lives, haunted by the future past and the past, period. That all the tenants of that place died a long time ago. On the outside, the house seemed perfectly fit. The bushes were trimmed, the lawn cut short. The paint on the walls shinny and immaculate. Even those who eventually had a glimpse of the time frozen would look at the attic window and that light, everlasting, almost divine, would change their minds making them go away to their homes or tombs… or the nearby pub. She was lucky, she thought. She had a meaning of life. She was there, by the iron gate, like a sentinel of the time past, guarding the most extraordinary of all treasures and wonders of the universe. She was the queen, the house her mighty kingdom. Deep down, she knew it was a waste of time. The house, and she, were doomed. She remembers that day like if it was yesterday. It was raining and her insides were rumbling. By the corner a car appeared, black, austere, almost if it was a widower of all his destroyed brothers and sisters. In that instant, however, she was not paying attention. She was totally focused on the small ladybird that was struggling and whirling on the floor, wet and desperate. She wanted to help her, to stop the rain from falling down, but she knew she was already dead when she saw her for the first time. The rear door of the car opened and a strong man appeared. Curious figure, she thought. Standing there with his three-piece black suit and bowler hat, he seemed from another time. Not even bothering to shield his head from the pouring rain, he stepped forward and the car sped away. In his face she could grasp a glimpse of fatigue and mourning. It was then when she saw it. On top of a shabby nose stood a pair of dark teashades. Odd, she thought. It was raining but the sun was smiling and the light was plenty. He seemed not to be looking at the house but inhaling it, absorbing its scents: the rain, the fresh lawn, the wood, the rusty iron. He was crying. She didn’t know what to do. She wanted to ring, she wanted to shout out loud, to tell him she was there for him, that he was not alone. But he felt alone, he was alone. And he just stayed there, now soaked to the bone, shivering, inert. It was his house, it seemed. (...)

[to be continued...]