Cortesia del Maestro Alejandro Jodorowsky via su blog Plano Creativo
Cortesia del Maestro Alejandro Jodorowsky via su blog Plano Creativo
-why is mommy not here
-mommy is following an ideal
-daddy said she lost her mind
-he didn’t mean it
-I think he did
-close your eyes
-I don’t want to take a nap
-but I do
-auntie are you asleep
-what is an ideal
-it’s something worth fighting for
-is mommy fighting
-no yes she is fighting it’s hard to explain
-is she going to get hurt
-no maybe no
-my friend’s dad got hurt daddy said he got what he deserved
-daddy is very sad and angry mostly sad
-why doesn’t daddy have ideals
-he does he thinks he does I don’t know
-do you have ideals
-I did but I let them die
-so that they wouldn’t kill me
-are mommy’s ideals going to kill her
-they could ideals are dangerous things they can become monsters
-I don’t like monsters
-no one does
-I don’t want to have ideals
-are you happy
-not always I miss mommy
-do you like the world and everything around you
-that’s how ideals are born you can’t help it
-how do you kill your ideals
-you said you let your ideals die how
-you do nothing
-I don’t understand
-ideals need to be cultivated like our garden you need to water them and weed them
-I don’t like weeding
-no one does that’s how they become monsters
-weeding them doesn’t kill them
-no it makes them more specific that’s why it’s dangerous
-I don’t understand
-I’ll explain it to you later
-after the nap
-how long is that
-I don’t know a while
-I don’t like naps
-you will miss them when you are older
SLAM THE DOOOOOOOOR!
Adrenaline rushing through her body. Enough to keep her heart and lungs working. And her brain. Her thoughts, re-living the most tender moments of a life, shared. Re-imagining a torturing death, but not her own. Blood and tears intermingle.
This pain, her only connection to life. If she were able to see these imagined swollen digits through her bulging purple eyelids, she would marvel at the mangled mess of fragmented bones and shredded tendons delicately held together by a meat paste.
Her body a giant black and blue. Green and yellow. And purple. She giggles, through her toothless bloody mouth a guttural shriek. The pain returns. This time, crushing through her brain, a blinding light flooding her consciousness, quieting the imagery of her inner voice.
You call to see how I’m doing, and ask to meet me at our usual place. I long to see you, to feel your soft stubble on my cheeks, but decline. You coax and persuade. I yield, as expected. But I don’t want to. We have been down this path before.
I think of you during the day, while projects and goals fall by the wayside. And as I raise my glass to welcome yet another drunken evening, my mind wonders where you are, and if you could be thinking of me. Life goes on with a veneer of normalcy that only I see cracked and ruined. I want to blame you, but this one is all on me.
As I park my car, I spot you, awkwardly leaning on your truck, like a delivery-man desperate to be somewhere else. My knees shake, I can’t breathe. I try to regain my composure, but feel foolish. You wave hello, I wave back, strangely happy. We chit-chat for a while and off we go into the not so rosy sunset.
When we finally say good-bye, you seem relieved. I feel empty and lost. You offer one last hug, meant to make things better, but your skin sears mine – I let go quickly, and you ask if I‘m OK. “Yes” – I lie.
You say I feel warm, might have a fever. But I know it’s just the me that you knew, dying.
This week-end of rest and recreation marks the end of our Congress‘ summer recess. Fall approaches, and with it, a new season of heated debate about our ever-increasing deficit and the measures needed to improve our economy.
With this in mind, I propose that our public servants consider raising taxes on the super rich.
Semantics and demagoguery are the reasons we are in this socio-economic mess. The super rich don’t pay the standard income tax rate that us mere mortals pay on earned wages. Instead they pay dividends and capital gains taxes, which have a much lower rate. They get to offset their losses (euphemism for calculated bad investments) and benefit from the many loopholes our skewed tax code affords them. It’s no surprise that many of this élite end up paying zero dollars.
And no, they are not job creators. This is at best fear mongering. Their corporations are holding the middle class hostage by declaring they can’t afford to offer or sustain jobs in an “adverse” economic environment. Meanwhile, these corporations and their super rich minions have never had such an advantageous fiscal situation.
The members of Congress have made this travesty legal. The people elected to defend our interests, are instead assisting in our financial slavery. Congress no longer represents the average American citizen. This is unethical, immoral and a crass affront to one of our countries basic tenets – no taxation without representation.
I am glad that the members of congress get to enjoy flowering roses, blooming pomegranates and fig trees during their well-earned four-week vacation.
Paid for by the people they no longer represent.
Is it because I ramble
On and on about the first idea
That pops into my brain
That unwillingly I stumble
Onto uncharted territories
And forbidden realms
Where things I would rather
Just not know or acknowledge
Live quietly within
The confines of my thoughts
Savage beastly notions
I seem to have acquired
Most of them obsolete praise
Heaven for small blessings
These are easily discarded
More disturbing are however
New concepts and extrapolations
That seem to rise from thin air
Maybe because I seek
Solace from what happens here and there
And what passes for a living
That often I tend to think
I am anything but human
And more an abomination
But in this my re-creation
Of Eden and Hades past
One hope remains eternal
If not by act by sheer omission
That I will redeem myself
While I still have time.
The house I build has many rooms
Only I live in it but people can come visit
For a while
Thimbleweed grows under Moorish arches
that long to be graced by the sun
There are rooms without windows
Rooms filled with sunlight and children’s laughter
Rooms that hold within a flood of tears
Empty dance halls grey with cobwebs surrounded by flowering hope
There are two stairwells
On opposite sides
One leads to the coffer of lies
The other to the soul of innocence
Everything is dusty, but most of the dust is new.
I’ve started construction of a third wing
Connected with bridges to the present occupant of my soul
Nighttime. A bungalow on the beach. Everything inside the house is white. There’s a screened back porch and I step outside to enjoy the breeze. Moonlight illuminates the ocean and I notice a bonfire under the palm trees. Around the fire, two circles. The larger one of men playing drums, the smaller one of women dancing and singing. Their silken black skins shimmer in the firelight.
On the bungalow to my right, a young man wearing a white linen suit leans against the porch door and lights a cigarette. He says matter-of-factly “Dont stare. They don’t like it. They’ve been known to attack onlookers for the affront.” His words confuse me. He turns around to go inside the house and I see that he looks like my husband when younger.
I don’t mean to offend the dancers so I decide to close the screen door. When I kneel to engage the bottom lock I see before me the hem of a multicolored kente skirt. I look up. A female dancer stands above me, her face full of rage. She starts yelling words I can’t understand while repeatedly slamming her fists on my head. I retreat and curl up near the french doors that lead to the living room. I call to my father. “Papá! Papá!” My voice is weak, but I persevere and remember that in my dreams, when I need to scream or yell, I lose my voice. As I uncoil from the fetal position, the woman starts hitting my head once more.
I summon strength from within, and as I rise I say “Mira, hija de la gran puta…”
I woke up saying the words and feeling her fists on my head.
Palm trees sway in the breeze, entranced by the rhythm of drums. Silky black skin summons gods in the moonlight.
Warm sand, bright stars.
Caribbean nights resemble a far removed ancestral home, reminds them of an ocean passage marked with tears and blood.
Anger and Joy, entwined.
Everlasting freedom refuses to be snatched or caged. It thrives in adversity. Transforms hatred into love.
Humble soul, triumphant spirit.
We watch from a distance, bewitched.
An ocean of green beneath him
He soaks up the sun
Joyful he crawls and twists smelling his surroundings
Ducks and geese momentarily catch his attention
But they are no match for freedom
Or little twigs on the ground
I call his name and he runs in the opposite direction
Glancing back every few steps to make sure I’m not gaining ground
Remembering that once
Not so long ago
I too ran away from my name
Thoroughly enjoying the sun