What would have cost God for them all to be yogurts? So everyone would have his and never Troy would have been burned. But if they were all pretty and we smart who would look after the store of history?
The woman, in the distant past. As for me and Lola, after a thousand stratagems groped, outline, devised, planned and put into practice or not, as the construction of a tunnel through the street to get to her, which failed because my little tools, a spoon and a comb, were insufficient to break the drainage works between us, or sending carrier hens from one roof to another, chickens that either through inexperience or because the low density of air, ended always entangled in the electricity wires, love emerged. Suppose it was a vespertine wedding and then there was a reception. The couple is portrayed toasting. I would today say that “In triumph, with a smile on his lips, looking to the future with confidence fully unjustified, the groom puts his arm around the waist of the bride, not realizing that she, looking sour and whishing the party was over, removes her lips from the smuggled champagne glass and prepares to tell, for the first time, the newly married: ‘Don’t drink so much.’
In a recent past, in any next morning, when I woke up stretching a bit, I felt something disturbing and seeming like hard in between us, and usually was a tome of some novel, or even Cervantes.
In a very present recent past, perhaps because literature, my wife had lovers, she deceived me with anyone right there. She.- “Please Carlos, please, be prudent! (rolls up her dress and shows him the legs.) No, no, the legs no! Don’t look at my legs! Carlos … do you think I’m still looking pretty?” Him.- “At your age? Well, sweetie, you are forty! You shine the same as always, dear, just like always”. She.- “And now our children would turn twenty!” Him.- “Good thing we haven’t had”. She.- “Thankfully”. But in the woods, my bastards were witnesses. And when we parted she urinated and sprinkled salt all around the house and what did justice? My children trusted to their mother. To their fucked mother!
Yesterday. So the son.- “The boy already confessed -the lieutenant blew smoke through his nostrils-. He said he killed the milkman because he raped him”. I, the curds-killer child’s father read the absurd version of the agent. The story was written in a noir style note mixed with sadomasochistic pornography. Everything was put on the lips of the declarant, even as natural expressions as ‘unlawful sexual intrusion’ and ‘anal penetration’ and ‘erect penis’ … I point the oink a number of obvious errors, and in response, the beast hit me with a punch in the stomach that left me breathless. Here the truth is what this animal says, I reasoned, when he invents a story it becomes real with blows. In this he beats writers. They let me see him. The boy came as stoned and cursing all living mothers. He brought the mug, bro, broken in two, completely disfigured, very swollen, and there were stains purple with white, all colors. The poor was as a rainbow, as if a clown had fallen over him. He sighed, throwing little inaudible sobs, making pasty gargling with a nice female name: ‘Guadalupe’. I remembered some fable, a revolutionary sheep was shot. A century later, the repentant flock raised an equestrian statue that did great in the park. And in the future, each time a Black Sheep would appear it’ll be quickly shot to dead so future generations of ordinary and common sheep exercise also in sculpture.
The future already past tense. She played tango at the phone. She told me: “Notice I’m nothing but dying, I got pain in the gallbladder. Ah, no, in the pit of the stomach. It seems it just pops one of my ulcers and I’m desperate, I’m dying … find me a nurse, very cheap, because I can’t be alone, and the whore, here, the Abbess’ mother, classically, said: no, hear me, no, go home, to your son’s” … I think the bitch had just called me from the corner of my house, the parlor, because she is here already. You know how she got in? With her ashtrays, with her paintings, with her ointments and with all her attachments, flat, to come and settle. Really, my mom is a joke. A joke. Soon she died from tripping over a trailer … was reading a book. Rest in peace!
Today. To dream, dream the night, the street, the stairs and the cry of the statue unfolding beyond the corner. To run towards the statue and find only the cry, wanting to touch the cry to only find the echo, wanting to grab the echo and finding only the wall and run to the wall and touch a mirror and wish that there was a god more democratic in the distribution of female beauty. No matter what anyone tells you, a writer is born, not made. It may be that eventually some will never die, but since antiquity is rare to find anyone who was not born. (Parenthetically, I will tell you that once a lady from a newspaper asked me, if in what I write there is a message. I said yes, that everything I write is calling to rebellion and revolution, but unfortunately in a way so subtle that my readers usually become reactionaries).
Timeline – Dugutigui. Free essay on several ideas of great Mexican authors.