THE BATTLE OF ORLEANS

                   So here we was see, me, Tommy the Irishman, and my pal, Nick the Greek, see. He did his high power, undergraduate work, in Chicago, while I studied under the greats at Al's pool room, in Pittsburgh.

                   So there we was, see, doing some time at the Cape, when the women folk asked: ¨What are we going to do tonight. How about trivial pursuit?¨  So I said I was not interested in answering who Supie Sales was and tried to cajole Nick into finding a pool table on this Mass retreat. ¨Nah,¨ he said, ¨Come on Tommy, what are you talking about? You don't want to shoot pool with me. I mean I'm talking about pool!¨  ¨So am I Nick! So am I!¨ I said, and after a few more vodkas, we decide to see if this tight ass, Harvard accented peninsula had a place for such an ungentlemanly sport like pool.

                    Well, we piled into his Rabbit and braced ourselves for the night traffic in Eastham.

                    ¨Let's try that place,¨he said, spying a miniature golf, video game joint, off to the right.

                     He pulled in, maybe over the curb and that, but heh, we was lookin ta play pool.

                     ¨No sir,¨the nurd behind the counter said, as thought I was coming from anther planet, or at least another generation,¨we don't have a pool table here,¨and then ¨No sir I don't know if there is a place on the Cape that has a table.¨

                     ¨No luck,¨I reported, but we was determined and the next place where I suggested we try, was a small shopping area. There a guy, who was eating soft ice cream, said:

                      ¨Yeah, you're looking for a pool table. There's one in Orleans, near the gas station, in that bar there.¨ and I was off, cause I knew we scored this time, and when I told Nick, he remembered the place too.

                         So there he was see jut a little package about six foot three, and maybe two twenty or so. And there I was, Little Tommy, who although not six feet, could pump iron with the best of em, back in my day. But heh, we was just looking for a friendly game, and when we entered the joint, we was gravitated to the green felt at the other side of the room.

                          ¨Sorry, you can't use the pool table until nine thirty,¨a guy from behind the bar said,and by my watch we was right on time. But heh, it was only a gentleman's game, so we waited.

                           We nursed a couple a bruskies, se until we could put that thirty five cents in and start to play some serious pool. So up comes our turn see, and it didn't last long until we was putting in another thirty five. Now by this time the room starts ta get a little tense, see. they was watching a couple a guys who maybe weren't doctors, in the art, but it started to look like we had some credits toward our master's degrees. It got so thick at one point, that the same guy comes out from behind the bar and says:

                           ¨Heh, I don't want no trouble here...Got it?¨

                           ¨Yeah, we got it. Just a friendly game, see,¨ I says, ¨between a couple a gentlemen, see¨so the bum goes back ta pumpin suds.

                           But then something happened. cause this group a guys start putting their names on this here blackboard, see, wanting to get a piece a the action, see, and little did we know we was about ta make history, or at least carrying on with the illustrious tradition of keepin Harinas Port on the map.

                           Well, there was this thing about being hot. see. Like I couldn't miss, and this was startin ta piss off the other young punk, so I figured he must a been Irish, with a temper like that, but when I asked him, he got more pissed off, see, and says he was American and that was that, ¨Sure,¨ I says, Ï'm American too,¨ and all that, ¨but I'm also Irish, see, and I was just wonderin if you was Irish too?¨ So he finally admits that he was of Irish descent, and all that, right, but then he goes into this big deal about his ole man, who did a lot of traveling and told him that America was the best place in the world, see, and that he should be proud of it,and like that. So, I tells him that I agrees with all that, but not because somebody told me, but because I've been livin most of my life outside of the States, and the last fourteen years in Central America, and you think I was tellin him I was a friggin Commie or something. So, then, when I'd miss a shot or something, I'd start swearing in Spanish, which was my custom. Well, it weren't a bad thing, cause since there was ladies present, and this way they wouldn't know what I was sayin. Heh, they might have even thought that I was receitin some beautiful line from Cervantes or Lope de Vega or even Garcia Lora for Christ's sake! the words are: ¨Hijo de puta!¨ or just ¨Puta!¨ which means, ¨Son of a whore,¨or just plain ¨whore,¨ and that really ain't bad, when you think about the flowery language in that department today. But the whole thing is gettin to him, and finally his turn comes up. Jesus! You'd think it was a grudge match between two Irishmen, or a fight between communism and freedom. Heh, you gotta remember my side of it. I had agreed with the bum, and when  you got my Irish up, I was poetry, songs or close friendship. But, there he was, taking his time on every shot, and making a couple of them too, butt the man just wasn't at peace with himself, so he just had to miss.    

                          ¨So, what do I got?¨ I asked him, staggering around the table, as I took another sip of my beer, ¨The little or the big?¨

                          Now this got him even mor irate, cause he thought that I didn't see all that fancy shooting he was doing, but what got him more is the fact that I beat him. Did it real clean like too. Straight pool it was, and a real tribute back to Al's in Pittsburgh. But my friend there, all he could say was,¨Puta!¨

                         So, things went on like that see. They was all wooden Indians. Nah, sittin ducks they was, and they all went down, one after another. This is what happened until I came to another guy called Nick. He was the nicest guy in the joint and had the best stick too, so I didn't mind too much, when my luck ran out, and I scratched on the eight ball.   

                         But, heh, then it was Nick the Greek's turn, and when he started, I was just happy to say I knew the bum! I'm talkin about pool! Combinations and things, until the other Nick wen down like a trooper. He even shook hands, but now the board was filled up with names, cause they just wanted a chance to get a piece a the action called Nick the Greek!

                         So games they had, and from the beginning, it was all over but the cryin. But you should a seen the array of weirdos they had.

                        There was this little fag from P-town or something and he had put his name down on the board before, but somebody had erased it, and the guy was fit to be tied. He probably would have looked great in a nice, white straight jacket, but I was feeling sympathy, and so i tells him like this see:  

                        ¨Heh, I know you put your name up on that board, cause I saw you do it, but heh! I'll just tell Nick there he's got ta beat you too. How's that?¨

                         ¨Fuck you!¨he says, ¨All I want is a chance to shoot pool with this guy,¨ so I took that as an unfriendly gesture and went back to my bruskie.

                          ¨So, I was feelin good and enjoin the hell out f a game that Nick was shootin, with a kid that looked meaner than hell. He had on a sleeveless, black t-shirt; black, skin tight, sleazy pants, which he held up with a spiked belt. You could see why he didn't want sleeves on the T-shirt, cause both his arms were all decked out in tattoos. He went down hard, cause he had a good stick, and probably if it hadn't been Nick there shootin, I'd a given him half a chance. But things bein as they were, my man was not about to loose that night. No way!

                           Then the P-town fag comes in, and boy this little guy, in the clean white shirt's got blood in  his eyes. This man proceded to shoot a serious game. Now, what would a fag like this be doin shootin pool lie that? But then Nick got his turn, and the fag was turnin greener than the felt they was playin on. Nick proceeded to dazzle him with so many combinations, that his head began to swim.

                           He went down too, and by and by that was all she wrote. Every last one of them bit the dust. Things were startin to change though, cause now everyone wanted to buy us a beer, but we wouldn't have none of it, see. One guy even comes up to me and says: Ï got it. You two are hustlers! You started off taking on the first few, because your buddy lost to you in the beginning. Then you set him up to wipe out the house. Right?¨

                           ¨Heh, what are you talkin about? Do you see any money on the table? It was a gentleman's game; all right?¨ I says, and none too soon, cause Nick finally scratches on the eight ball and calls over:

                            ¨Heh Tommy, let's blow this joint!¨so I take the hint, and the two of us get out fast like, with all these faces of hate and envy following us. But, we're not runnin, see, cause we didn't break no laws, and neither of us says a word to the other, until we get in the car and we are out of there.

                            ¨Well Tommy,¨Nick says ta me, matter a fact like, ¨you know we made history in there tonight.¨

                             Ï couldn't believe it, the way you were on tonight!¨

                             ¨Yeah, I never shot a game like that in my life, and maybe I never will again.¨

                             ¨Damn Nick!¨I says, ¨This is a story all right, but what are we going to call it?¨

                              ¨The Battle of Orleans,¨he says, ¨We didn't shoot until we saw the white's of their eyes!¨

 

                    

                                 ES CÍCLICO LA VIDA?


                    Cuando pregunte a mi amigo porque se caso tres veces, me dijo..."Es cíclico!"

                    Después de la carcajada, me quede pensando que ta vez tenia razón. La vida era en muchos de sus aspectos, cíclico. Solo con el clima atestigüemos que hay tiempo para sembrar y tiempo para cosechar.

                     Todos los días en todos los idiomas, se habla de...Calentamiento Global...Cambio Climático...o una especia parecido. Se hecha la culpa a todo...contaminación con la energía fósil; deforestation, deshechos en los aguas duces...y el raíz de de todo esto es el capitalismo!

                      Obviamente estoy de acuerdo con todo eso, pero sin capitalismo, no podemos tener ropa fabricada; ni papel, ni tinta para escribir esto. Sin embargo no quiere meterme en asuntos económicos aquí. Mi propósito es examinar los ciclos de la vida.

                      Un ejemplo que viene a la mente, es cuando Josef  se fue con el Faraón para interpretar su sueno de: siente anos productivos y siete anos de mal cosecha. Por supuesto Josef dijo que fue Dios que le dio el mensaje al Faraón, y si fuera hoy día, tal vez pudiera agregar que fue debido al Cambio Climático?

                      La misma cosa pudiera haber existido con la civilización Maya. Muchos preguntan: Que paso con la civilización Maya?...Podría una contestar: El Calentamiento Global ?...Quien va a decir que esto no es cíclico?

                       Bien.El clima es cíclico, formando un patron que se puede identificar por periodos de corto y largo plaza, pero: se puede identificar la grandeza y decadencia de una civilización igual?

                        Parece que la historia se inclina hacia esa conclusion y seria interesante hacer unas comparaciones aquí.

                        En el principio la civilization Griega, con su centro en Atenas, las mujeres cubrieron sus cuerpos cuando se fueron a la playa. En dejar visto su tobillo, fue considerado indecente. Muchos anos después cuando los Persas llegaron para conquistarlo, las mujeres se acostumbraron andar desnudos en las playas. La misma civilización, con ciclos diferentes.

                        Vi algunos fotos de la gente en la playa de los Estados Unidos en el principio del siglo veinte. Todos estaban vestidos bien modestas con respecto a sus trajes de bano. Hoy día, si uno va a la playa en California, se cree que la prenda no fue inventado todavía....Un lapso de mas de un siglo...Un ciclo de tiempo?

                       Con respecto a la economía, podemos ver un cambio incalculable con el Imperio Romano. Según la leyenda, Roma fue fundado por dos huérfanos, quienes ni tenia la oportunidad de chupar leche de una mujer, sino de una bestia! Pobreza extrema, pero después de este principio miserable, el imperio fue tan poderosa que todos los países en el mundo mandaron tributos al Imperio Romano.  Su población fue creado por bandidos y gente infelices, pero a través de los siglos se convirtieron en los mas destacados poetas; oradores, politicos y artistas de todos los tiempos. Todo esto tardo siglos o ciclos marcado con subidas y bajadas.

                      Una idea paralelo se puede notar con los Estados Unidos. Su población original fue compuesto con prisioneros de Inglaterra, o gente con otra religion. Incluso a los que fueron condenados a la muerte, pudieron escoger ser mandado a la colonia inglesa en el nuevo mundo. La economía de la colonia fue un fracaso, porque Inglaterra solo quería ganar, sin invertir y sus paisanos despreciados, los sacaron, para hacer su propio país. De un principio polémico, el país salio para calificar como la economía mas poderoso del mundo hoy. Los anos forman pruebas por ciclos marcados.

                       Siempre había guerra. Parece que el hombre no puede existir sin esto, y va por ciclos. En Europa tenia una guerra que tardo cien anos. Pasaron siglos hasta que toco la Primera Guerra Mundial. Veinte anos después estallo la segunda Guerra Mundial. Ahora estamos setecientos anos mas tarde, haciendo un ciclo largo. A la vez el negocio de los armamentos es lo mas rentable en el mundo. Tiene esto una apariencia peligroso? Yo creo que si, pero vamos a ver que destino tiene este ciclo.

                           THE LOST BOOK


                    It was never really lost, nor could be completely forgotten, by those of the "House of Cavek." who were the keepers of the book. It had been orally transmitted from father to son, for millenniums, preceding the Spanish conquest.

                   At that time a Catholic Bishop asked to see all the written material their ancestors had produced. The Maya priests, who were in charge of the sacred books, willingly brought them, for they were convinced that the new conquerors were interested in knowing about their wisdom. It was a mistake, for the Bishop made a bonfire of them; throwing in some priests on top of it.

                  That was when the "House of Cavek" decided to put it down on paper, in the hieroglyphic language that they used.

                  Now, after more than five hundred years since then, an old man, descended from the "House of Cavek," was wont to bring it to light to modern man. The only problem was he did not believe the people would appreciate it, nor heed the advice that it contained. Nevertheless, he translated the ancient book into the modern language, for he was the last man to know it. This is the essence of same:

                 In the beginning there was nothing; only the sea extended. There were no people. It was made in silence. The silence was made in heaven...the old man wrote and then how the gods tried to make man. It took four trials, before it was done. This was the end of the first part.

                The second part concerned the trials of the twins sent by the gods in heaven, to the lords of the underworld. The twins lost their lives, by trickery, to the lords of death. They were the lords of the underworld. One of the boy's head was cut off and turned into a squash. He brought himself and his brother back to life, by impregnating Blood Woman, who was the daughter of Blood Gatherer. She was impregnated by merely spitting into her hand...the old man remembered, with some humor. Then the twins were revenged and defeated the lords of death. They were the rulers of the underworld. They did it by magic, given to them by the gods in heaven. This would show how the good wins out over evil, the old man considered, and evil is death.

              The next part relates to the four progenitors of his race. They were created by the gods in heaven. They were perfect in every way. They spoke and they wrote. they saw everything in the heaven and on the earth. They knew everything, and therein lay their defection...the old man reflected, for they should not know more than the gods that created them. Therefore the gods diminished their powers, least they should become too proud. That was sound advice, the old man knew.

              Next he traced their migration from where they came from, to where they would go to found their new kingdom. The journey was wrought with great suffering and then wars. The gods were testing their human development, because they feared their pride would destroy them. After all, they were created by the gods.

              So it was before the men came from the other side of the sea to make slaves of us; bringing with them their military power and vice. The Maya people could not withstand them, so they did their bidding. Thus, the old man finished the book.

              At the same time, his people maintained their ancient language and costumes. This had kept them alive for all these centuries, the old man knew.He also reasoned that the lessons on  how his people had survived, might be worthy intelligence for the foundering generation in which he now lived. They seemed to be lost in  darkness and this book could bring them light, if he would give it to them. At length, he realized that this would not work, for like the four progenitors, their power had to be diminished. No, this generation had to pass, until the lost book would once more be found.

                      A CANDALARIA LIFE


              She was born with a blessing and a curse; but she could do nothing to avoid the one, nor give thanks for the other. It was so ironic, that the paradox caused the people to marvel and refer to the factual events as simply:" A Candalaria Life."

              The blessing was her God-given beauty and the curse, what came after.

               When she was merely a child, the town of San Felipe crowned her as their queen of the local fair. She rode in the back of the mayor's Toyota pick-up, which had been decorated as a float, with ferns and flowers. She sat on an elevated chair, covered with colorful, hand-woven material, where the queen with her crown reigned.

               The people watched her beauty open up like the pedals of a sacred flower, while her parents observed with caution.

               They owned the neighborhood store, where Candalaria worked after school. She was a favorite of all the customers, due to her vibrancy and lust for life. She was quite enchanting. At fourteen she was as developed as a mature woman. That was when she met the tall, fair skinned youth, who came from an enc live of Spanish descendants. He literally swept her off her feet and promised her the moon, if she would only run away with him. She did so and he took her to the capital city, where he abused and left her stranded.

              At length she managed to return to her village, completely humiliated, but fortunately without child. Reluctantly, her parents were disposed to accept her again. So, she went back to work in the store. She was now contrite and humble, the people observed, with pity. They shook their heads while declaring surreptitiously: "It's a Candalaria Life."

              Several years elapsed before she met her second disaster, He was a law student at the national university, but had left because the government accused him of being a revolutionary. Unlike her former suitor, this one was dark skinned. with fiery eyes and the constitution of an active volcano. He spoke to her in words she could not understand, about how the people should rise up against the dictatorship; while they drank liquor together in a hidden corn field. His name was Francisco and he asked her to escape with him  to Cuba. She agreed, but he made the mistake of returning to the university one more time, where he was shot outside the gates.

               Candalaria was beside herself with grief and insisted on wearing black. It was known that the university student had been her lover and now she was brought to another kind of grief. It was "A Candalaria Life."

               Her beauty remained but the years sped by without her getting married. It was understood that if a female was not married, at least at twenty, she would remain an old maid.

               Candalaria no longer attended the fiestas, because she considered herself too old for that. Neither did she socialize with her childhood friends, who now had families of their own. She simply attended the store, giving no thought of the future.

                Fate, however, visited her at the age of thirty. It was in the form of a traveling salesman. He wore a suit and had his own car. He came from the capital city monthly to sell medical products to the local pharmacy. He stayed at the only guest house and shopped at Candalaria's store. He invited her to dine at the village's restaurant, where he informed her of his future plans. He was going to build a two story house, outside the capital. Moreover, he was going to go in business for himself, selling medical supplies all over Central America. In other words, he was going to become very rich, but at thirty-five he needed a wife to share his good fortune. He wanted to start a family and asked Candalaria to marry him. This time she faltered and when he asked her why, she told him about her past. She was surprised when he laughed and explained that those were merely youthful experiences. They were now both adults, who could enjoy a mature relationship. It sounded reasonable, so she agreed to go to the beach for the weekend, to consolidate their plans.

              They made love and she was happy again with her Romeo, which happened to be his name. He dropped her off at her home, promising to return in a few days. A few months went by before discrete inquiries were made by the owner of the pharmacy. He informed Candalaria that the salesman was married, with three children.

              The news traveled fast and soon everyone knew what had happened to their childhood queen. It was all so queer for such a fate to befall this rare beauty, that they had no other recourse but to call it..."A Candalaria Life."

     A FEW STEPS FORWARD


     SOMETIMES
     A FEW STEPS FORWARD
     BELAY THE PAST
     IN SYMMETRY

     DEFINED IN REPETITION
     OF UNDISCERNABLE
     FACTS
     WHICH ARE NOT SO

     FOR IF THEY WERE
     THEN WHY DOES CIVILIZATION
     KEEP ON FAILING
     OVER AND OVER AGAIN?
     CREATING
     DECIMATED CITIES
     HUMBLED MEN

TO BOMB OR NOT TO BOMB...THAT IS THE QUESTION


                          Outside of Arlington and not a great distance from the White House, is found a colossal architectural structure, which probably could be seen in outer space. It has the shape of a mathematical pentagon and thus was baptized as same.

                          It was thrown up during the Second World war, with haphazard ingenuity, and remains an unfathomable labyrinth of undecipherable bureaucracy. It was paid for by the people of the United States, in the form of taxes. That was the theory, and yet the whole world knew there were other sources of revenue. It was the lair of destruction.

                         Now the date may be misjudged; mismanaged or misapplied, since the West cannot meet the East, without the sun outdistancing it. But you could create a weapon that could meet with that inequality on equal terms. In a sense, you could create a different date, according to a different time.

                       You must apply all the knowledge accumulated to date and create a hexagon duplication of a square. This coincides with the environment where the weapon will be created, with enough darkness, to penetrate the light.

                      There are no faces here, yet there are people, who are neither round, nor rectangular. They are not even square. They are humanoids in the shape of humans, although it would be difficult to define them.

                       They exist because they are well cushioned and comfortable in their role of creating the perfect weapon. Oxygen must be pumped in and there are no windows.

                       It was here that the destructive devise was created and presented to the select few, responsible for its use. The meeting was recorded as such:
                       

                          "Gentlemen, the situation is detailed concerning the new weapon and its displacement and the means of its deployment. The world is no longer ours and it should be. It must be and to that we are committed; not morally, but otherwise. Therefore we must release the military might which we have developed over the years, in order to make certain the rest of the world respects our wishes..."
                 
                     The speaker paused here and nothing stired. The silence was continuous. If it were day or night, no one knew. It was all the same thing.

                      "Yet, this is still a Democracy, thus I inquire to you all...To bomb or not to bomb...that is the question?"
                   
                      Everyone recognized the paraphase from Hamlet and thught it erudite. Several even suggested that they name the new weapon Shakespeare, but it was not decided. In fact nothing was decided, so the meeting broke up and each one reteated to his mysterious, innocuous habitation; with the knowledge that, in reality, everything had already been decided.                       

             ANOTHER DAY IN THE CANTINA


              "Good! The gang's all here!" the man they called maestro, exclaimed, inside the one room adobe establishment. It was the only place in the neighborhood, that served liquor. It was a small drab, fetid environment, with cracked walls, from previous earthquakes and a wooden bar, that had been painted, who knows what color, a long time ago. There were two, small, worm eaten, wooden tables, that contrasted with the new, plastic chairs, which served the patrons. It was not a pleasant place, but it was a second home for these men. They referred to it as "The Office."

             "Please come in maestro and take a chair," a man declared with sincere respect, standing up to vacate his seat.

             "Than you," the other replied, with accustomed gravity, as small bottles of ninety percent alcohol, were passed around the two tables.

         There were six of  them, including the maestro. One was a bus driver, another an electrician. Another young man cut firewood in the mountain, for a living. Then there was the thief and the guy who sold marijuana. They were all between twenty and thirty years old, and were remotely interested in what was happening around them, in the so called, global village. Lemons were squeezed and the first swallows from the Styrofoam cups, preceded the first question. It was posed in general, by the electrician;

              "Do you think the gringos will invade Venezuela?"

              "The Russians won't let them!" the woodcutter pronounced, with fierce conviction.

              "They did it here in the revolution of 1944; didn't they?" the bus driver affirmed, with a stab of wisdom.

               "But it's not the same thing today," the electrician insisted, "The Russians are better armed and they both are determined to take the oil."

               "The big fish eats the little ones," the maestro tried to explain, as the discussion began to become heated by alcohol fumes.

             He was not really a teacher, rather a metal worker. He had lived in  Mexico, and there they called each other maestro. That's how he got his nickname. His metaphorical reference to the workings of nature and man, made everyone pause as another round of bottles were passed around.

                 "Yes," the electrician finally agreed, breaking the silence,"and the big fishes today are the Gringos, the Russians and the Chinese.They all want to control the world energy."

                   "This is my energy!" the thief exclaimed, as he gulped down what was in his cup, with a pleasant smile of contentment.

                    "What a beautiful asshole you are!" the marijuana salesman proclaimed, hugging him on the shoulder, while all the rest broke out with laughter.

                This called for another round of drinks, with each one contributing their share for he common good. The cups were measured so that everyone would get a fair share. The political insights seemed to stimulate their consumption, making them feel like they were part of this big wheel of global fortune, and not the little clog they really were. They were all feeling quite comfortable when the thief explained:

                    "I guess you all know that sometimes a thief gets caught and has to spend time in the can. That happened to me one time in Texas."

                    "What did you steal" the woodcutter asked.

                    "Nothing. In fact I was working but since I didn't have papers, they deported me."
                    "That's easy enough," the bus driver shrugged.

                    "Yes, but first they put you to work in jail for a month."

                    "And how was it?" the electrition asked.

                    "No bad. The food was good and I had a nice bed. I worked in the laundry. so it was only a few hours a day. They even paid me a dollar an hour."

                     "That's more than I make!" the woodcutter lamented.

                     "So what you're saying is that if you have to live under another government, the Gringos are better than the Russians or the Chinese," the maestro stated.

                     "I was never in their jails, but I don't think I would like to try them out," the thief replied, with lamentable sincerity.

                      "Now that marijuana is legal there, maybe I can get a job. That's my field of business!" the salesman volunteered with pleasure.

                      "Forget it! They have better stuff than you and deliver itt to your door, like a pizza!" the thief exclaimed.

                       "Are you serious?"

                       "Definitely!" the other proclaimed, downing his drink to seal the pronouncement.

                  He was the one who ordered the drinks this time, since he had recently sold some religious relics he had stolen from the nearby Catholic church. Things became a little more blurred, as the drinking continued, while the distant reality faded into a tangible indifference. After all, this was still Latin America and just another day in the cantina

                             THE MILLIONAIRE


                   He was a century old and never lived anywhere else than the adobe hut where he resided. It was the inheritance from his parents; his grandparents and all those who had gone before them. It was incalculable and not worth the calculation,

                   He was taken care of by his offspring who numbered great grandchildren, from legitimate wives, plus countless concubines. He was still an able bodied man, who maintained all his senses and walked well, with a cane. In a real sense, he was a millionaire

                   At the same time he inherited extensive plots of land, which his ancestors had bought for a few cents and was now worth millions of pesos. He knew this but he never let it enter his thoughts. His name was Pedro Yax, but in his native language he was called Lu'. Most of his life he was called Pedro, however, since he lived in a Spanish speaking environment. They were the conquerors and remained the government. It was usually ruled by a dictator, who raped the land and women, while making slaves of the native peasants. The peasants worked the land while the dictators distributed the wealth to their cronies. Therefore they stole the land of Pedro's ancestors. That was before the revolution.

                 The new, popularly elected leader, instituted a land reform that gave the land back to the peasants,who were the original owners. Unfortunately this idea clashed with  foreign interests, so the president was exiled and another form of dictatorship ensued. Thus the land was once more taken away from Pedro Yax.

                 Pedro survived several revolutions and in retrospect, they seemed almost the same. Each side wanted the land and what it could produce. In that way, it had changed hands over the years.

                 Pedro worked the land that was taken away from him. It was given to a ladino crony, who turned it into a cattle ranch. During this time he sired children. He saw wives die and be replaced by others and the gaps filled in with numerous concubines. He became a regular Patriarch. At the same time he knew, that if he waited long enough, either the patron would die or maybe the dictator and then  he would get his land back. It took twenty years, but finally it did happen.

                The capitalist overseer in the north insisted on a democratic government and subsequent investment of capital. Thus, his village turned into  a town and the nearest town turned into a city. There they had modern malls; supermarkets, high tech shops, boutiques and even gay bars! In a word, they were up to date! It happened that Pedro's land was in the center of a place where real estate speculators wanted to build an expensive, housing project. They therefore entreated his offspring to make him sell his land. Everyone went to work on Pedro, but it was not an easy task.

                Pedro knew what they wanted, so he accepted their acute attentions, with certain demands. He wanted them to call him Lu' and not Pedro. He also demanded they speak to him only in his native tongue. He wanted to be fed in the same healthy diet his mother had given him. He also wanted his adobe dwelling whitewashed, inside and out. All of this was carried out with alacrity, as his in satiate offspring waited for him to die. They knew he could not live forever and then they would all share his fortune. At least that was what they thought.
               
              Their patience was awarded one day, when he died. It was determined he had suffered from old age.

               That was the beginning of a legal war, for the deeds of the land were said to be no longer valid. This caused a flood of lawyers to carry out the case for years. Everyone knew the land belonged to old man Yax, but you had to prove it with lengthy, court room battles and bribes extended in the right places. When it was settled, most of the money went to the lawyers and real estate people. His siblings ended up with the least percentage of the millions of pesos the land was sold for.

              Pedro Yax...Lu'...was buried next to his whitewashed dwelling, where he was born...a millionaire.

                                            FLIES AND CONTRA-FLIES


                                 "Flies are the reincarnation of human beings, who have come back to haunt us..." Leonardo da Vinci

                             One does not know exactly how many millions of years these insects have existed; but they remain to torture the office worker and peasant farmer alike. It is said they have a short life span, but it is enough to cause considerable mischief, during that time. Is that because they are relentless and all pervading? Perhaps and their aggressiveness has allowed them to survive, while multitudes of other insects have disappeared from the face of the earth.

                            Of course they assemble well on anything decayed; be it plant or animal. Therefore they are present at all wars, from Egyptian to Persian and rounded off in the Roman theater before the New World got into it.

                            There was always the butcher and the butchered, but eventually each met their own fate, while the flies remained the victors.

                             That much history tells us, until arriving at this point in time, where wars and weapons don't leave bodies on the battlefield. There are rockets; planes, submarines and space stations...all encased in metal and  thus...fly proof?...Not so! This was when the contra-fly evolved. Nature simply provided them with a harder shell. This, in turn, allowed them to continue to buzz in planes; submarines and even an astronaut had the mischance of finding one in his helmet, following take off.

                            Scientists were left to figure out how these insects survived wars that did not create masses of mutilated human beings; rather devastating craters, which allowed nothing to remain...not even an ash.

                            At length they came to the agreement that it was all cyclical. That is to say nature gave the new species this hard shell, so that they could continue to molest the living in their new arsenals. Their former species didn't need this in order to attend to their purpose. It was therefore determined that nature had created an insect to cope with the technological funk, while reserving the right to return to its former condition, when the times required it.

                           Everyone agreed that the world was in motion and changing, as well as the society within it. Nature was the only fixed truth and this was the proof of why there were flies and contra-flies.

                                                HOPELESS ETERNITY


                                  Ansuelo Lopez was born in a remote area, in the highlands of Guatemala, some 103 years ago. That was not certain, for there were no records at that time. The ruling Spanish minority did not consider the Maya native inhabitants human. Thus it was not necessary to record their births or deaths. They were eternal serfs, without souls, who were born to serve, rather than anything else.

                                  Ansuelo's real name was Aj Pop, but the Missionaries changed that and his Christian name became Ansuelo Lopez. That was 100 years ago according to their judgement. The former three years remained in his conscious only. Perhaps they represented the nutriment of his true being, before it was defaced by what it had to be.

                                 Ansuelo was chosen from out of his village to go to a Catholic school and he did so well, that he was allowed to live in the other world, outside the indigenous pale.

                                 For the first 50 years of his life, he worked as a field laborer, despite his education.Then things began to change. The country was informed that it must form a Democratic Republic, by its patron, the Yankee Empire to the north. That meant there had to be liberty for all...almost. Because the indigenous population was the majority, it had to be represented in a Democratic government, as stipulated in the new constitution. The country was still in the hands of the Spanish landlords, but it became necessary to seek out a tractable individual to act as a liaison between the two factions: the rulers and the governed. This individual proved to be Ansuelo Lopez.

                                At first he was appointed governor of the Provence where he came from. He obeyed the wishes of the military rulers and spoke Spanish so well, that he was given, through popular vote, the rank of a national Congressman, representing the Provence where he was born. In a sense, he was the indigenous representative to Democracy.

                             Ansuelo was now 70 years old. His hands were calloused and so were his feet, so that he could only wear sandals. That amused his Congressional colleagues, who encouraged him to do so. The result was he appeared in his traditional dress in  the Congress.

                             Ansuelo tried to issue legislation that would help his people, but very little of it was approved. Most of it was filed in the trash can. This went on unchanged until he was 90. That was when  the Civil War broke out. A portion of the people protested against the despotic Democracy that the military rulers maintained. Thus, they precipitated a guerrilla war. They sought and received international money for armaments. The other side did the same thing and the peasants began to suffer. Ansuelo was threatened because he was a Maya Indian, so he fled to the mountains where he was born. There he directed the guerrilla forces through the hidden secrets of the terrain  he knew so well. He was so successful that the other, better equipped, government forces, were paralyzed. This went  on until he was physically incapable of leading that kind of suffering life.

                          There was nothing else that he could do, save return to the adobe dwelling where he was born. His family and friends were all dead. He was alone and treated as a ward of the village. No one knew he was 103 years old. He could not walk; see or hear and his existence was counted in days.

                          He was born a Maya native, then baptized a Catholic spirit, before serving his country's landlords and then sub subsequently becoming their enemy. The people did not know that he had survived all that and he remained a living symbol of Hopeless Eternity.

                                        THE CONVERSATION


                       It was during the rainy season that we were seated in the Spanish style patio, of my adobe dwelling. I had made the  furniture, so we sat around a rustic table, on comfortable, sturdy benches, with a bottle of rum in front of us. There were three of us: a young man getting his MBA, a Menenol Catholic Priest and myself, who had taught them both Spanish at my school. It was a kind of celebration. 
                      A fine rain began to fall, making its own music on the corrugated, tin roof. The college student and myself imbibed, while the priest refrained from the liquor. He was a thin, wiry sort of a fellow, with a scraggly beard. He seemed to like to curl up, rather than sit, and remained eternally restless. The college student was a wholesome American type. He poured the rum, adding Pepsi, while I squeezed the lemons. The priest only drank Pepsi.
                            "We were kicked out of Venezuela for trying to help the poor people, in the rural areas."
                            "What kind of help were you giving?" I inquired, taking a sip of my drink and lighting a cigarette.

                             "Well, we gave them loans so that they could bring in portable water and then electricity."

                             "They must have lived very far out."

                             "They did, and the government almost forgot them."

                             "They didn't forget them, but obviously didn't like your Socialistic methods." the NBA candidate concluded, scoffing the charitable efforts of the Catholic Church.

                               "There was no question about the political or ideological issue here. The people were in need and we were able to help them, but the government didn't like it, so they began by killing the peasants and then finally they killed a priest. That was when the rest of us left."

                              "And Socialism went the way of the ex U.S.S.R."

                              "Paid for by capitalistic bullets."

                              "And sanctioned by the billion dollar racket in Rome, where the Vatican bank is run by the Mafia," the student ranted, as the rain picked up a little and he refreshed our drinks, with a humph and a physical shrug.

                         I felt the edge of their differences as blatant as the opposite axes-es and expected a verbal poniard, to pierce each other's hearts, as a final decision. There was a brittle silence, which was broken only by the rain, before the priest could find the words his mind was seeking:

                              "I don't know the economic status of the Vatican, but I do know that good deeds require money and that the salaries of the priests are minimal."

                               "And therefore your project failed. Now if a private company would have gone into the same countryside, with the measure and means of profit involved; the employees would have been well paid for their efforts and the plan would have been carried out efficiently," the student proclaimed, gulping his drink triumphantly.

                          The rum was definitely making its effect, I noted, as he poured us another drink and the priest took more Pepsi. I felt that they were equally right in  their separate ideologies. It might have been due to the liquor, which always made my thinking more tractable, but I desired to find a measure of acceptance in their lingering confrontation. As such, I ventured to suggest:

                               "But what would happen if the lamb and lion lied down together in peace? I mean here Socialism and Capitalism, metaphorically."

                               "Well, if the lamb doesn't eat the lion then the lion has to eat the lamb. That's nature and capitalism too!" the NBA man exclaimed, with final conviction.

                               "Perhaps that's true, but I still prefer to remain a priest," the other concluded, as the rain stopped and he took his leave for the evening.

                           The student stayed, for one more serious drink. He drained it quickly, as though he had acted too rashly, in his logic. This became apparent, when he stood up to go, and in an unsteady manner remarked:

                                "Maybe I was a little too hard on him," he admitted, while I walked him to the front door, "but I still say capitalism is the best system!" he concluded, walking off into the night.

                                        HIGH NOON


                           He was not a student at the University, where the English-Dramatics class was studying the movie High Noon, for possible permanent psychological damage, concerning the violence therein. It was already determined that Gary Cooper was an arch-axis model of determined evil; but he knew nothing of that, since he was only in high school. Nevertheless, he was equipped with the latest technological advancements and an automatic pistol. He lived in Renalds, about sixty miles east of Portland, Oregon.

                           It was not all planed but it was well thought out. He had started to play violent, internet games before he was able to walk, so that when he reached puberty, he was violent inside and an angel without. No one could have ever imagined this thing that he was planning at High Noon.

                          That was the time for the lunch break at Renalds High School. He could get a clear shot of those he wanted to kill and those who must die. It was that simple and he didn't even know who Gary Cooper was.

                           He had to make sure he got there when the guards at the metal detectors were off to lunch. He was a student with high marks and slated to go on to college. No one could possibly expect what he was planning to do...or could they? He pondered this in his computer, trying to extract the possibilities of failure. The data came back as fast as he put it in. He was assured that mathematically, his plan would succeed. So, he put the automatic pistol under his coat and Macintosh on top of that. There was an Oregon rain going on, but that was natural and might even help him to escape, although he knew he never would. There was something that could not be defined. He must kill, but he didn't know why. Was it because he was trapped in an internet thralldom of unexplained proportions? The concave world of modern technology had made a mess of his existence. It was all filled with pornography, or worse. He  was only fifteen, but he knew it was all useless. He was not old enough to say he had tried, although he cried, even though he didn't know why.

                         If he could kill his classmates and the teacher he disliked, then they would know too. It was a decisive matter, which was soon to be resolved.

                        The rain was now incessant and the students were all inside. There were no plain-cloths men at the door.

                        He walked in and took off his Macintosh. No one noticed that there was a bulge beneath his overcoat. He noticed that the teacher was eating a ham sandwich and that the students were fed on cheese sandwiches.

                        That was the last thing he remembered, beside the fact that the hateful teacher offered him a part of his ham sandwich.

                         He quietly pulled out the automatic pistol from under his coat and began to shoot. The first one he killed was the teacher and then he killed all his classmates, allowing for one bullet, in  order to blow out his own brains.

                         It made international news and there was one psychologist in  Hollywood, who suggested it was like the movie High Noon.

                         There were scrambles for his last confessions on the internet, which did not appear. A  movie was later made called "Middle Noon" but it flopped at the box office. Nothing was resolved and the world went on as usual.

                                            UNA COPA MAL...


                             "That song reminds me of the time I lived in Mexico..." said the man, who was the only one to break the silence in the moldy cantina. It was about a guy who had one more drink and they were all about at that point, at this place which could be anywhere in Latin America...."I was in Renosa on the gringo border near MacAllan, Texas. In those days you could cross from one side to the other, without much problem, so I eventually became a coyote. That was a long time ago but there was still money to be made.
                              Then on one trip, there was this Mexican girl in the group. Her name was Renosa and that gave me the poetic feeling that she was made for me. Really it didn't matter, what her name was or where she came from. It could have been from another planet, for all I cared, with such beauty. What huge, black eyes with full, red lips and radiant, black hair. There was no comparing her body, but her eyes had both a mischievous look and that of a virgin. I think it was the paradox that I liked and I never did find out if she was a virgin, even though we made love one night in the Arizona desert. She said she was but I never saw any blood on the sand.
                               Anyway she said she was going to Los Angeles, where she had some relatives. She was supposed to contact them in Phoenix and they would get her out there. She was about seventeen, although I never asked her age.
                               I personally helped her to make her connections and didn't charge her anything more. She thanked me by making marvelous love one more time. It was in a real bed.
                              We parted but promised to keep in touch and we did for a while, through the internet.
                               Apparently she became obsessed with that thing and plugged into every program from Facebook on down.
                               As I said we were in touch for a while and then she didn't answer my emails for a long time. I didn't understand it really, because if we weren't lovers any more, we could still be friends I figured and then I found out the truth of the matter. She had been abducted by one of those obscure contacts and turned into a prostitute. I know it was against her will, even though she did have a mischievous look when I first met her, because I still believe she was a virgin....So she stabbed a customer when she was blazing drunk and he slit her throat. It was all over the internet..."the man murmured, despondently, as he finished his cup of tequila and the Mexican song ended, with the lamentable morn of......una copa mal....

                           IT'S HIS WORD AGAINST MINE

                         "Well now Lester...which way are we gonna have it? This court is open to your plea...Are you guilty or are you not guilty?"

                    The man was in his sixties; dressed in working overalls, with the smell of manure still in them. He leaned his head to one side, with the mop of white hair under a straw hat and closed one eye, as though he were  thinking to himself. Then he replied:

                          "Ya see judge, it's like this...When my grand-pappy settled in these parts of Alabama, he done finish one war with this here Mr. Lincoln, before he had to fight another one with the Yankees that came after him. I guess it was right about then that the Klan got started..."

                          "Lester, I don't need a lesson on how the Klan got started and everybody knows that you're a Coulpepper and that your family's been around these parts for a right spell. But what I wanna know, straight out is did you kill Axel Geese deliberately or was it in  self defense?"

                    Lester shifted from one boot to another. They both had manure on them, but the man was used to that, while this other kind of interrogation, he was not. Thus it took him a few minutes of deliberation before he replied:

                           "Well now judge, it all depends on what you mean by self-defense. That's kinda why I spoke about my great grand-pappy and the Klan. Ifin I'm right, they might be called terrorists today and ifin I'm wrong, then what they did was in self-defense." Lester explained, to which the exasperated judge demanded:

                          "Did Axel pull a knife on you Lester before you shot him?"

                          "Sure! All niggers pull knives judge. You know about that. It's part a their culture and that's why we got the Klan..."

                     The judge, who was a distant kin to Lester, going back to the Civil War, which wasn't so civil, scratched his head and tried to ignore the stench of manure. Of course it was necessary to correct him, so he composed himself in a sober manner and said:

                            " You can't say that word Lester and ifin you do, I have to fine you."

                            "What word was that judge?"
                         
                            "The one you used to indicate the assailent with the knife."

                   Lester thought for a moment and then replied with almost lamentable sincerity:

                             "But ifin I'm thinken that word..Why can't I say it?"

                             "Because Congress decided to pass a law against sayin it. You have to call them Afro-Americans today or else you get  fined."

                             "The Carpet Baggers again?"
                           
                             "I guess you could say that," the judge agreed, reluctantly, "But that's not the point here. Now since Axel Greese is dead  and there were no witnesses," he paused, taking a deep breath, "Did the Afro-American pull the knife on you, before you shot em?"

                   Despite his appearance, Lester was not an idiot. He knew that if he answered one way, the judge would put him in jail; but if he answered in another way, he would remain a free man. It didn't matter if it were the truth or not. It was just a matter of the law. It was as simple as that, so he replied:

                           "Yep, that's the way it was judge. He pulled the knife first and then I shot em!...After all...it's his word against mine!"

                 

                                       THE RIDDLE


                       "What is formed but not created?"
                     
                       "Man?"

                       "No, man is created through the function of nature between the positive and negative elements. One called man, the other called woman."

                       "Then it must be the mind..."

                       "That is closer to the truth.  Who said: "I think, therefore I am?"

                       "Descartes."

                       "Correct, but do you agree?"

                  There was nothing to describe the environment, for it had no description. Two figures were seated in wooden chairs, with a wooden table between them. One was the teacher and the other the student. The age of the teacher was twice that of the student and the student was seventy years old. They had no faces and were resolved to the world of thought.

                        "In a sense it could be a juxtaposition because one must be before he can think."

                         "Exactly!  So the riddle is not solved"

                         "Well, the millennial speak of civilization as mostly that which was represented by art, literature or the basic need of literacy, which was lacking even as recently as the Middle Ages in Europe. Still, things were carved in stone. They were formed."

                           "But were they created?" the teacher inquired.

                           "Yes, in the mind. The architect sees the buildings in the city before they are made. He sees it in his mind. The poet and writer witness the words in their inner existence before the letters are formed. As such they are both created and formed."

                       Distance, shaped by the undecipherable perception of time, did not end there. Nothing changed and the year was the same while being different for the Jew, Christian, Moslem, Buddhist and Hindu.  Neither the teacher nor the student acknowledged an answer to the riddle, which seemed to rest on a single thread. In fact, it was not created or formed.

                                   THE ATOMIC QUESTION

                       "Ah professor! You're just the man I wanted tom see." the young man managed to declare in slightly slurred words. He was seated on a plastic Pepsi crate, with his eyes out of focus and half closed with rum.
                     Nevertheless he made an effort to appear perfectly sober. At least that was what he thought, while the professor doubted its validity. The man had been a former English student before he went to the States as a wetback; almost died in the Arizona desert, was saved by a cousin who took him to D.C., where he made his misfortune. That is to say he managed to pay back the coyote who had brought him there, after mortgaging everything he had and was almost solvent again...but...It took him five years where he began to work construction during the day and wash dishes at a pizza parlor at night. That was only the b beginning, for later he took on two more jobs and never slept and somehow he survived. Then he returned to find his wife with another man, his children grown and dispersed. In short, nothing was the same as before and there was nothing he could do about it. He said he thought the States had chewed him up and spit him out again. He had nothing left, so he took to drink.
                    Now he was seated on a broken, plastic Pepsi case, which was red in color, matching his eyes and puffy cheeks. If there was life there it was stagnant and yet he persisted to inquire:
                      "Professor I have the most respect for you because you were my teacher. Could you please answer me one question?"
                    These words were clearly enunciated which surprised everyone there, for he seemed determined to regain his composure, in order to formulate this all important inquiry. There were two other people, seated in plastic chairs, who were not quite as drunk as he was, but remained intent at listening to him with with almost mystic awe. After all he had gone to the States and survived, where that was just a dream for them. One was an older man and the other a young Maya, who had a face carved out of stone.
                    The professor remained quiet as he stood in front of the wooden counter and ordered his portion of rum for the day. He was familiar with drunks and their reasons for being so, but was interested in finding out what this question might be.
                     "My question professor, after all I have gone through in the States, is simply...what would happen if they dropped an atomic bomb there?" he blurted out, in defiance of insipid stupidity, with spittle emanating from his mouth.
                      "That would be the end of the world." the young Maya volunteered, without hesitation.
                      "That's obvious," the old man agreed.
                      "I don't want to hear your talk! Did I ask you that question? I asked the professor who was my English teacher, before I went to los United! So; what do you say professor?" he demanded, divorced from his former life and swaying on the Pepsi case, first forward and then backward, as though retracing the misfortune that had brought him there. That was the last conscious moment before he went crashing to the floor, achieving oblivion.
                   The professor left, after he finished his drink, without uttering a word. Apparently it was not necessary, for even speculation was banal, considering such an atomic question.

                                  DEATH BY DEATH

                      It is obvious there are many ways to die, just as there are many ways to be born. The former exceeds the latter, if only by minutes or perhaps a century.
                      There was the Pharaoh who did not outlive his infancy and still was buried with all the honors as though he had transcended time.
                       In the modern theater, they did not embalm Hitler, although Lenin still lives, somehow, in the Kremlin square.  It's almost Egyptian!
                       Monuments of death have been enshrined in statues, memorials and high towers. The bronze and marble proclaim their existence and their deaths were, at best, superficial.
                      That was all recorded on the planet earth, a mere blip in the universe; but there remained the definition of life and death.
                      It was disregarded in atrocious wars, which killed countless numbers, over wide planes, from Persia to Greece. Therein lied the death; but what was life all about?
                      Life? Well, that was progress and change. It was all scientific and this allowed the human element to live in relative leisure. Nonetheless, there was a price to pay.
                     It allowed for new weapons of mass destruction to be made as science progressed, without the need of the human element. In other words it was all computerized.
                    So far so good. What seemed to slip through the minds of the existing souls, who unknowingly remained captive to a robot, was a haunting reply: What if death is caused by death?
                     That was the refrain and of course the Raven by Poe came into play. Some actually explained that Poe was actually predicting the Third World War, while others had said that Whitman had done it before him.
                     They were all in tweeds while they remained on their knees, for there was something else out there, which their knowledge could not explain.
                     All the scientists agreed that there could b nothing done against an attack from outer space. We were only meek peddlers of primitive armaments; without garments of protection. Still, the armament business was excellent. Life seemed to disintegrate before it began.
                    There was an intervening light, which was like no other. The other planets did not come to the assistance of the blip in the universe.
                     It was later explained by the conquering planets, that the planet earth died: Death by Death.

                                THE ADVENTAGEOUS ASPECTS OF WAR

                   Well, in the first place, it makes everyone occupied about something. War requires a united effort and thus some are busy making weapons, while others test them out. As such, war makes ants of us all; but busy ants, with a purpose.
                   Now if a war is far away, it evolves as more of a distraction, rather than an active participation. If, however, it is close at hand, it brings the people closer together; both  the citizen and the foe. This sudden comradeship might even fuse together former neighborhood feuds with amazing alacrity and deliberation. It would seem that war makes strange bedfellows 
                   War creates capital that was not there before. Giant mountains of gold spring from the likes of even more sophisticated arsenals. It is true that most of the riches remain in a few hands, but like crumbs from the king's plate, a lot falls down to the plebeians.
                   War shapes character or changes it to fit its image. As Thomas Hardy wrote..."you shoot a fellow down/ where in any pub would/ help to half a crown." That is to say, if you have to stand sword to sword or bayonet to bayonet. Nevertheless, modern war pretends to keep its distance; as with satellites and missals. Therefore it might be considered more humane.
                  In short, there are certain advantageous to war, even though the cost of destruction could outweigh the consequences. Still, history tells us that war is inevitable. There are those who try to explain it. On the other hand, there are those who accept it, almost willingly; for after all, it does have its advantages.
                 

                                   THE FUNCTIONAL ENVIRONMENT


                       "I think the computer was a worthy invention" a student remarked. in the Abraham Lincoln type school house. which i had built in wood on top of the first floor adobe dwelling. The place is Latin America. The highland city of Guatemala and the class is English.
                       "I suppose just like the telephone.the automobile and the airplane."I conceded. My object was to provoke a conversation so i allowed them to chose their subject.
                       "Of course there are bad things about it too. like when adolescents abuse it, in watching pornography.
                        "There's that of course,"I agreed
                        "But in don't think i could function without a computer." another student, who worked in real estate, volunteered.
                        "It's the same thing with me," a lawyer, who was a public defender, said. I can do in seconds what i once had to write down in a huge ledger, dating back to the nineteenth century..."
                         'So we make progress, the real estate student agreed, as a jazz beat told him to answer his cell phone. "Excuse me teacher," he said and retreated to the back porch.
                     There the view was an ancient backdrop of timeless mountains which circumscribed the town, where everyone lived. There was always war here. The k'iche nation displaced the Mam nation by means of spears. The Spanish the displaced the K'iche by means of gunpowder. Then many years later, there was a civil war that displaced each other with the help of modern weapons. Could it have been because they lacked a functional environment, I considered that the present day armaments were the most sophisticated in recorded history. We were now able to devastate the planet in a twenty minute war. Was this functional?
                     Now, of course, all was quiet here and those who did not know history felt safe. All was very quiet until the next cell phone, with a Latin beat, went off and the lawyer excused himself to join the real estate man on the back porch. I was left with a couple of NGO professionals, based in the States, so they had to learn English or perish. One of them had a Blackberry and another an I pod. These things were indispensable for their existence in their functional environment.
                        "All my colleagues in Boston act like they're all movie stars. They don't just

 talk but say...wow..look at me!"
                        "Yes, that's all part of the internet, where everyone is famous," I agreed before she replied to a technological summons.
                     When they finally returned, one by one, each one said they had to cut the class short, for different reasons. I was left in my one room school house while they went off to meet the maelstrom of the modern age. I left the lesson on the white board and waited for the next class in this functional environment.

                                   
                                 THE LUCK OF THE IRISH

                    His luck almost ran out when he was born. the seventh son of the O'Higgins clan, he was all but ignored. and what was worse named Bernard.which was a dog's name! He was baptized of course,  and grew up in the bogue of county cork. until he was able to stow away on a merchant vessel. whereupon he jumped ship in South America.
                   They called the county Venezuela after Venice, he found out later when he was on intimate terms with Simon Bolivar. This man was an aristocrat who was born in the new world. He spoke Spanish, which was the language of his ancestors and treated the common man as a master would a slave.. Because of his wealth, he traveled extensively in Europe with his tutor and romanticized  about securing liberty of all Latin America from Spain. This was when O'Higgins entered the picture Bolivar told him he was looking for someone to command an army. He was destined, he explained to Bernard, to free South America from despotic Spanish rule and to form separate, independent countries. Bernard O'Higgins immediately offered his services. He proclaimed he was an Irish general, who had made the rank and file of Cromwell quiver. Of course it was a lie, but Simon Bolivar didn't know much about Irish balarny and Bernard O'Higgins has kissed the Blarney Stone. Therefore he was commissioned Commander and Chief of the Bolivar forces and went n to win the war.
                      It was more like a series of skirmishes, with the likes of an Irish brawl withe opposition being not Spanish soldiers rather peasants who were paid to fight for Spain.
                      Thus Bernard O'Higgins , the seventh son of an innocuous clan, presented Simon Bolivar with the cup of victory.
                      The Liberator was so impressed that he gave the triumphant Irishman his own county, bordering the whole Pacific coast.
                      The general wanted to call it O'Higgins but Bolivar thought it was too difficult to pronounce in Spanish, so they called it Chile, since that was what the country was famous for.
                      After that he invited family and friends to join him. A city was built and then another. Most of them missed the emerald isle but after a time became adjusted to their new lush environment.
                      It was all due to the luck of the Irish.
 

                                      ON THEE NATURE OF ANARCY




   
       Aristotle. in his treatise on politics..trests four ways of government in their development. First is monarchy which is followed by oligarchy then Democracy and finally Anarchy.
       It is relatively easy  to observe the logical progressions monarchy indicates the ruler of one..while an oligrgy admits a shared government..by  few. These rulers..who must become corrupt..like the monarch before..should likewise be disposed of..by the rabble..who make up the majority of the people and are then given to form a Democracy.
       When Plato first spoke of a Democracy..he made note that if the community exceded 100 people. The said Democracy would not work. This leads to a breakdown of organization and laws..which introduces an absence of government..which is the definition of Anarchy.
       But what exactly is the nature of Anarchy? Well..at best. Confusion. Since the previous governments did not function, there was hope in a collective vision,,,but
 how can you satisfy all the people? Essentially you can't and this creates a weakness in the central powers. Perhaps there is justice only foe the few. But at least there is justice. The rest may be held in check by a police state. But that an be infiltrated or subdued. Until neither knows which one is  fighting for the just cause. Thus the whole2 fabric which had held them together..unrolls until it is left by only threads  of its former composure. This is the beginngof Anarchy and if the police state doesn't work,..then perhaps a dictator is in order. This brings us back to the quasi state of Monarchy once again. But while no government is available..chaos must rule and this is  most detrimental to mankind.
       Then. What makes mankind? Is it not the kernel of the very Anarchy. Which is the seed of its own destruction?
       What then is the definition of destruction? Is if all mental or physical?
       Of necessity. It's physical. It must be for the five senses are trained for survival. The sixth sense..scientifically not available. Might still exist
       Anarchy then..breeds destruction. For it is amorphous and without law or justice. The laws and justice which formally existed in the other forms of government are refuted for they represent what is now despised..but if you have nothing you entreat destruction.
       Alas that is he nature of Anarchy. But what is the solution to the problem?. I believe justice. In the Pentatarch it is written..."And you shall have judges over you.." In another section it states.."you will have judges over the ten thousand..the thousand and the hundred.." But what are judges..if not people who carry out the laws? And what good are the laws ..if they are not inclusive? The Decalogue remains the basis for all inclusive law..which pretend to represent a jus form of government for mankind. They are divided into two groups. One is for the Creator and the other five pertain to the behavior for any society.
       of course there are those who will say they don't believe in a Creator..so they will scrap the first five laws. Yet it does connect the abstract with the concrete and this latter is man. It seems to me that thus is necessary..for man is a composite. It may be true the greater part of him is material. Although this could be argued. Still..somewhere inside the individual rest a spiritual being. This is necessary to complete the balance. It could also represent a thread which directly or indirectly..creates a timeless tapestry called humanity.
       Perhaps we are condemned to commit ourselves to the cyclical changes of government on this planet..but Aristotle warned that Anarchy was the worst form of government. It follows that the answer must be justice. And if we would only consider those laws previously established in the Decalogue...we would know that it is not far away..rather close at hand

                                                       
                                                    THE PIFLEBOB


                           YOU MUST ACCEPT IT
                            THE WORLD PROCLAIMS
                            THE PIFLEBOB
                            AND WHAT REMAINS
                             OF THAT WHICH CAME BEFORE
                             THAT`S TRUE
                             THE AFTERMATH
                             OF
                            WHAT WAS NEW
                         
                             YET PIFLEBOS
                             SEEM STRANGE
                             AND FRIGHTENING
                             AS THOUGH THE THUNDER
                             PRECEDED THE LIGHTENING

                            AND UPSIDE DOWN
                            WAS BUT A BOAST
                            OF SOMETHING DISTANT
                            SEEN UP CLOSE

                            A PIFLEBOB?
                            YOU ASK WITH WONDER
                             A PIFLEBOB
                             NO OTHER

                             BUT WHAT`S A PIFLEBOB
                             MY COUSIN?
                             IT HAS NO MEANING
                             JUST SO!
                             I`LL TAKE A DOZEN