bull fighter seeds

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The Bullfighter is a hybrid of Afghani Bullrider and Starfighter F2.

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Bullfighter is a mostly indica variety from Exotic Genetix and can be cultivated indoors (where the plants will need a flowering time of ±53 days ) and outdoors . Exotic Genetix’ Bullfighter is a THC dominant variety and is/was never available as feminized seeds.

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Bullfighter Lineage / Genealogy.

In 1938, George Orwell wrote his Homage to Catalonia , a poignant account of his experience of the Spanish Civil War and the heroic resistance of the Catalans to the fascist forces. Since then Catalonia (the north eastern region of Spain) has always had something of a romantic aura as one of the last bastions of civilization. It has now reinforced that reputation with a stunning decision to reverse centuries of bull-fighting.

Anyone who has ever seen a bull fight knows that the bull-fighter is dressed in a very fancy costume, the music is pleasing to many, but none of this hides the fact that what one is watching is the bloody torture of an animal being repeatedly stabbed, his neck muscles cut, almost drowning in his own blood before he is finally stabbed—sometimes repeatedly—to death by a small dagger-like instrument.

On Wednesday, 28 th July, the 68 members of the 135 strong Catalan parliament (a clear majority) voted to ban bull-fights, beginning in 2012. The vote was 68 to 55 with 9 abstentions. The significance of this decision cannot be underestimated. Bull-fighting has been called the national past-time, glorified by Hemingway, and even mentioned by Picasso who claimed it would be part of a “perfect day” for him.

Before this momentous vote, several villages or cities in Spain had declared themselves bull-fight free zones. One of the first was Tossa de Mar in 1989. The Canary Islands, which belong to Spain, prohibited bull-fights in 1991. In the last few years, other cities and towns in Spain have also opposed bull-fights, as have a few in Southern France and in Ecuador, Columbia, and Venezuela in South America.

Spain has strong anti-cruelty laws, but up until now the so-called “fighting bulls” were excluded. Having visited a bull farm on one of my many visits to Spain, I can testify that Spanish bulls are perfectly placid, not aggressive, and smaller than the regular American bulls. Most of the photographs of the bull and the matador in the bull ring are shot from very near the ground so that the bull looks taller in comparison with what can only be called his tormentor.

In the1970s, there was no obvious opposition to bull fighting in Spain, but in 1979 Ferrater Mora, after whom the Centre is named, wrote in a dedication to one of his important philosophical works De la materia a la razón [ From Matter to Reason ] that he viewed animals as our “companions in suffering”. He also wrote several essays against bull-fighting as well as the cruel “fiestas” in Spanish villages. Ferrater Mora, himself a Catalan, has the accolade of being one of the first, if not the first, Spanish intellectual to publicly oppose bullfighting.

The seeds have been planted: the struggle against bull-fighting is taking place around the world. Catalonia is the first region in Spain to legally ban bull-fights and, in doing so, has delivered a decisive blow in the war on cruelty.

I could have wept for the suffering creature. And yet, I watched.

“Anything capable of arousing passion in its favor will surely raise as much passion against it,” Hemingway wrote. Bullfighting aficionados oppose the claims of cruelty. They will tell you that the fighting bull lives wild in the forest for five years, eating and breeding, and dies after fighting for 20 minutes in the ring. His meat cow cousins live a scant 18 months in close captivity and meet their death in a slaughterhouse, standing in line, watching and smelling their fellows die helpless before them. There is nothing powerful or graceful about their deaths. They are never feared or revered. Their lives are not sacrificed, bull by bull. They die nameless and en masse. This I know because it has been told to me. I have never witnessed animals dying in a slaughterhouse, and I pray I never will. Yet I am complicit in this, too. I eat meat. I wear leather shoes.

The bull enters the ring running. The first impression the spectator gets is what a gorgeous beast he is. There are six bulls killed in the course of a bullfight, each one chosen for his strength, agility, intelligence and temperament. (Hemingway claims they are bred to be “vicious.” Whether this is true or not is unclear. What is clear is that no matador wants to fight a placid bull.) Each enters the ring young, beautiful, magnificent, at the height of his powers, and at the end of the 20-minute bullfight, each leaves the ring dead, his bloodied body drawn across the dusty ring and out the main gate by a team of horses. This is the tragedy whereof Hemingway speaks. The creature explodes onto the stage, full of passion and purpose, and meets his death in the form of the aptly named matador (“killer”)—gradually, painfully, inexorably. As with any tragedy, it is hard to watch. We feel compassion for the bull—in part because we understand that the bull is us. The bullfight enacts the human drama each of us participates in. We all enter the arena of life unspeakably beautiful, and none of us gets out alive.

Bullfighting is alien to our sensibilities. It is, undoubtedly, cruel to the animal. It is a dreadful thing to behold a team of picadors, banderilleros and matadors conspiring to goad a fellow creature to anger and then kill him for purposes of entertainment. Sitting in the stands, watching the ritual unfold, we become complicit in the killing. We have come of our own free will to witness it. Our euros pay the salaries of the bullfighters and provide the fodder for the bulls. How can a person of conscience participate in such a brutal endeavor? Animal activists across Spain have been trying to ban the practice for years, and sitting in the stands four rows back in sombra , one can see why. I could have wept for the suffering creature. And yet, I watched. Watched with a level of attention I have rarely experienced. It was undeniably terrible. And it was strangely, savagely, beautiful.

I have been to only two bullfights in my life. My first was when I was a 17-year old student visiting Madrid. Like most of the jovenes who lacked funds, I sat up in the nosebleed section, where the party was lively but the action was so distant the bull and matador looked like toy figures. My second one was this past July when I found myself in Pamplona during the San Fermin festival. In a month of traveling through Spain and Basque country, with each new town and city I visited, Hemingway seemed to be there. So it seemed apropos and inevitable that my accidental shadowing of him should culminate here, sitting in the same bullring he once sat in, the year of the 85th anniversary of the publication of Death in the Afternoon .

The bullfight enacts the human drama each of us participates in.

“Bullfighting is not a sport—it is a tragedy,” Ernest Hemingway once wrote. And he ought to know. Having traveled to Pamplona nine times for the annual festival of San Fermin, a nine-day celebration that features the infamous running of the bulls in addition to a bullfight every night of the festa , Hemingway had become an aficionado of the art. He also witnessed bullfights in other cities across Spain, but for him, Pamplona was ground zero. He immortalized his passion for the experience in Death in the Afternoon (1932), his encyclopedic paean to bullfighting that chronicles its history, ceremony and traditions.

Bullfighting is not a sport—it is a tragedy. It is also a form of wish fulfillment. As the bull is enacting his drama, so is the matador. It is chilling, thrilling, terrifying to watch a thousand pounds of muscled animal run full bore at the slim, impeccably dressed man who stands before him defending himself with nothing but a cloth cape. It is an absurdity. The bull is death on four legs. Who among us would not take refuge in running (as hundreds of people did earlier in the day at the running of the bulls)? But the matador stands his ground. He taunts death. He prods death, poking him with banderillas . And he dances with death, arching and turning his body, making the most graceful of arabesques, his cape accentuating the arc of his movements, while the big, dumb beast that is death tries to catch him, to trip him up, to run him through with his terrible horns. This time it is not the bull that is us, it is the matador, doing what we all seek to do—evade our inevitable mortality.

Bullfighting is wish fulfillment because, unless something goes terribly wrong, the matador wins. After keeping death at bay, making it bend to his will, treating it with respect but also making it look like a fool—this tiny man and this great big bull—the matador kills him with a single sword inserted in the hump behind the creature’s head, aimed at the massive heart that beats beneath. It is a graceful, artful, consummately dangerous endeavor—as apt a description of life as of a bullfight. Only in the end, life wins. Death is brought to its knees, dispatched and dragged out of the ring. The matador lives to fight another day.

This second bullfight would prove a very different experience from my first. No longer one of the jovenes (alas), I had an excellent seat, sombra (in the shade), and four rows back from the action. I had traded, along with my youth, too far away for too, too close. I was able to see everything: the matadors in their impossibly tight pants, the pink-and-yellow capes they tossed about with a flourish, the long swords they would brandish and jam into the bull’s neck, and, of course, the central focus for the 20,000 spectators in the ring—the bull.

Bullfighting has been taking place in Pamplona for over 500 years. Its roots are as much pagan as they are Christian, both of which traditions place great value on blood sacrifice. It is noteworthy that at the festival of San Fermin, men and women traditionally dress in white and wear red kerchiefs around their necks and red sashes around their waists. This symbolic clothing commemorates the death of San Fermin, patron saint of Navarre, who was martyred for his faith. The red garments recall his sacrifice, each man and woman at the festa enacting his beheading.