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.
Tuesday, April 30, 2019
Tuesday, April 23, 2019
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 17, 2019
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 10, 2019
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.
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.
Monday, April 8, 2019
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....
"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....
Thursday, April 4, 2019
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!"
"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!"
Monday, April 1, 2019
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.
"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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
