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.
Monday, May 27, 2019
Thursday, May 16, 2019
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
"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
Wednesday, May 8, 2019
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.
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.
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