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.
Wednesday, September 18, 2019
Thursday, July 11, 2019
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 26, 2019
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."
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."
Monday, June 17, 2019
Monday, May 27, 2019
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.
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.
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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