Imagine this one thing: the only thing you can do is to write.
And you do. No matter what next.
Nice, right?
Wrong!
Life is shit, man.
I say, man, but really I shouldn’t, when I am speaking with a woman. A rather extraordinary woman. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, just quite the contrary as I almost ever dare to tell a beautiful muse as yourself the very graces that every chunk macho, either handsome or loaded, spat at your face without that very thing you can’t get away from: grace.
Men wihout grace. Not all of them are machos. Nor all machos are… wait, they are ALLS disgraceful.
This is the one crisis we need to solve on our common collective affairs.
You are broke. You are rich.
It ain’t the same. I can go around the law. You, on the other hand, are only human scum.
You will never reach to where I am.
To be at the top of game. The crushers of the skulls.
The order. The will. The mind. The excecution. The victim. The consequences. The mental illness. The clash. The feedbackloop.
You give the nine a special place in the narrative. Just because. You pile up. Like a little kid. Or an architect.
I am a fake anything.
An actor. Like fucking Brad Pitt. I swear. Put him on the role. Give him the script. Let’s get into the author’s game. And so I jump into the pool.
Turning your own kids against me, says Brad to her loving wife. In the kitchen things go wild. Brad gets like an animal. They are close to each other again. The bodies that have been apart for so long. The distance from ourselves. That idea of love we once shared. Now turned into violence. Yours against me. And I fear you’ll kill me. You go out of yur mind. Like a sinking clown in the obscure side of the mind of broken kid. From what he sees/lives.
Dual words is a language innovation from the ticatalán language experiment. Like, that’s the name of the band.
Like, that’s the name of the band.
The actual name of this other band. Just like that. Long band names is going to be the thing as soon as joke gets picked up, reenacted by strangers across the globe, into a same shared beat we turn on like a beat. The higher limit, as if you could replicate Spring Break 1997. Fly México. Americans set free. In their own minds. It’s a great thing to see. Come see/live it for yourself.
The double meaning campaing. Duality
Send a rocket to the moon. A frog in it. Kids stuff. All boys. What boys learn together. What they learn from futbolart and breaking rules. The essential task of a kid learning in our conservative system society. The keepers. The stayers. They are fine, of course. We are just creeps. Poor.
Poor as an insult. Disgust. They feel. What! Bitch.
Social clash. Oh, sorry queen, this macho shit wasn’t what when Margaret Tatcher was here… is that what I just heard you wisper in my ear? You silly, you know I wouldn’t.
After two martinis the queen went wild.
Dangerously wild.
Oh, why isn’t he going after the king? Isn’t that macho double standard and just trying to pick on a woman, for being one, and old, to push me off the balcony. Awww. The whole commonwealth stroked a holly cry for a sacred queen. She talks to God, you know.
I have respect for the king and the queen. Who am I but a peasant coffee farmer from San Juan de Naranjo. I am just here on a mission to bring nine black horses from the sacred island of Menorca to ship them in the best possible conditions for the whole crew to perform for the first time in lifetime history that Sant Joan is celebrated in this holiest of places: my dad’s birthplace. The place where the Elizondos from my branch found the mountains and the nature that we have in our holy and sacred land: Bautzan valley. I come from the mixture of a proud nation that is made up from smugglers and noble families. And the mix of the two, as social classes, and palaces, and where the rest of town made their home, my peasant family had to let go of our little utopian land: Elizondo. It’s something about mountains, rain, sun, heards, farming, family, futbolart. My roots are in Elizondo. I am Bautzan, a valle with a capital so grand, us by the church, where all good, some time we still kick a little frontón, or high allay, whatever the fuck you did with our culture in Miami. Respect the local games. We are a bit sensitive here in New Spain. Mind your words but speak your mind, brother: ain’t no moral law here working: step into the game. And the sinner turns into a free man.
A good catholic.
I’ve there and back 99 times.
I had to stop already. My phase comes to an end.
Here I stay. I want out of my own game. To be finalized.
I’m not going to kill myself. It’s always too late. So not worth it. Right.
That right, man. Why did you add it? It fucking ended so nice right before. And then you everything possible to screw it up. To let us fall into the crap trap. Oh, crys your high school once he tries it with the 3D lensses from his local joint club, where 3D and humanism shook arms with the rest of the cinical siners club.
I’m a sinner. I just stopped caring. I am not confesing anymore with no priest. I have priest friends that I can share with me higher deamons and they would have to start a mexican revolution to be able to handle my fucking list of sins, according to the spanish white great families administrating the hacienda like best kind of lords in both the western world new capital: New Barcino. And back out into the colonies.
The need to go.
I have to go. Back to New América.
My land needs me more than I need to put up with this scrubbing the floors of my holiest of capitals: New Barcino.
The new concept in western politics in upward trend towards the tico commons.
And home they come. Imagine if we all needed to walk the earth like those arriving from wherever to our holy urban capital of this new society: Ticataluña.
More than a estate.
Above that bullshit show.
Oh… the hurts. Indignado line.
Hand shake.
Shake it, shake it, silent hands up in the air, salute the vote, ai!
Ese ai es un gesto de amistad con nuestra parte inglesa, extraida de la cultura que hemos sabido apreciar a lo largo de los años de los bien parecidos y educados que son estos muchachitos en funky suites, britmen, and musses. The affirmative artist at the edge of higher education from a society where some are suppossed to express their thoughs in words to share a vision in your mind. From literature. Or objects, art, that expelled an intention. To cope. Together. ALLS.
ALLS proves the existence of a place where we can already go and beat the odds. Ain’t that what we want?
I’ve been tough on you. I am nost proud of that. A bad dad spell. My dad had it. He nailed it back out when he coped with it and perfeormed a whole new sets of values that he got entirely from the women around him. He’s never completely told the story of his father and how evil he could have been, at times, were he was out of line with my grandmother. And with the rest of the brothers and sisters. The way he schooled all of them. And how he changed with time. And how he treated mother. And how he brough home the bacon. And so did mother. Ain’t she the house warrior. The management of a kitchen. A no man place at some houses, the way things worked to get the meal ready for the entire family.
La olla de carne de aquél día. Los tomates del huerto. Las papas guardadas en los edificios en los que se guardan las cosechas, los animales, los alimentos, las procesadoras posteriores, hasta el producto final, envasado por nosotros, con la marca de calidad de la historia famiiar de un café que nace de nuestra situación de alta montaña, el fríto y la manera en la que el sol nos da por los costados. Este microclima de mi país multiversalmente dotado de todos los climas que nos interesan. Renunciamos a la nieve. Nimporta. Aquí nosotros amos de los tropical, los parques naturales, y el tico commons. El polo de la paz.
Mae, el polo de paz era un maesillo basurilla. No valía nada. Un acto de buena voluntad te hacía permanecer unos minutillos con él hablando de las mandangas que le pasaban por la cabeza ese día, pero siempre con el mismo tema. Sin dejar de desarrollar la misma historia que cuenta siempre con ligeros matices subliminales con los que no te quedabas, pero que rondaban como duedes por tu cabeza durante los siguientes momentos del día. La noche. El día. La noche. El día. La noche. El día. La noche. El día. La noche. El día. La noche. El día. La noche. El día. La noche. El día. La noche.
Y cierro con noche. Una ópera que se divide en nueve partes. Y se canta toda, desde luego. Con representación de todas las voces de mujer y todas las voces de varón. Incluimos una multitud de personas del colectivo trans, o qué cojones, de todo el colectivo LGTIBV, y con ello los agrupamos, y minimizamos, y controlamos. Otorgándoles aparente libertad. Y ellos creyendo que la tienen. Como todos. Siguen esclavos. Excepto aquí ya no queremos vivir así. Esclavos no somos. No tenemos la solución. Pero hacemos esta apuesta a lo loco, como ticatalán: allin; ALLS.
Terrence Malik just did it again!
–Golman Elizondo Pacheco (T
The TREE of LIFE.
Imagine we can capture life like Terrance Malik and make a movie that mixes two moments in time of a family and put it into stiches to mix with music, and sound effects, and cutting images, and slicing the script so well defined there is nothing to fear. Everything is like the director says: he is also the scripwriter. The complete pack. Only he didn’t want to act this time. Or ever. Directos who will stay where they are best at. But play along, like Truffaut in Encounters of the third kind.
I want to be like Truffaut. Therefor I write. But I want to act. And play. And go.
So I stay.
I just write.
And the rest, I can’t.
Limits, man. Limits. They fucking kill you.
Death.
ALLS