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.
Tuesday, April 30, 2019
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.
"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 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.
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