I have not entered the local village in a few years. Followers of my blog understand why. We are in the middle of a serious geo-political drama and there just happens to be a lot of paramilitary bases and carnage between the scant mile walk to the village. Many people around the globe are following out little story. My horse escaped the other day. His name is R.J., It is a name that came with him from Texas but I say the name really means Rocinante Junior. I went to the lake to look for him. It was once a beautiful oasis where the goat herders would take their herds and we would go meditate in the shade. We inspired the community to start picking up the litter and it became a beautiful place. Now, however, I do not know anybody in the village who has not come across cadavers there. And then there were the 30 little martyrs from last summer who were found there. However, my horse does not worry about such things.
I walked through the forest around the lake looking for him. I was hoping to find him eating near the lake before going into the village to look for a girlfriend. I walked through a narrow path ready to find something horrid but at the same time I tried to remember the essential beauty of the place. I told the dead in my mind that they could come by el misterio during meditation time if they wanted a little spiritual recharge. When I got to the other side I could see the village. I was mentally exhausted and did not like the idea of walking by some narco compounds in such a mental state. I returned back home and tried to see if somebody could come with a vehicle to help me look for him. I sent a really wild idea to RJ saying that he is free and should enjoy himself, but only to please make it brief and come home soon. He has been under the same protection as us for years and so I only wished that protection extend to him from beyond el misterio.
The next day I decided that I must look for my friend, even if I have to walk into the village. I have not heard bazooka fire in weeks and so I figured it should be safe. R.J. has been here with me so calmly since the very beginning and has always been a friend to everybody that comes here. I walked into the village in a peaceful state of mind. When I got to the center of the village all was how it used to be. The narco compounds surround them but the same people are still in the center. The drunks were still drunk and passed out on the same corners, just a little greyer had they become. At least they had not moved on to methamphetamines like so many other beer guzzlers have done.
Some friendly and half sober people had tried to grab my horse to bring him to me but my horse would let nobody near him. He bit everybody and even these cattle rustlers could not trap him. He was like a really wild animal, and even had a nice little girlfriend. I put a rope around him and led him out. The further we got away from the village the calmer he became. “Back to monk life at el misterio for you, you wild animal, “ I told him. On the way back home I felt the same confidence and bravado as RJ as we passed the compounds. I recalled an old story, the one with the old horse, and the romantic madman with the helmet of the barber wash basin, and said to myself “Why not? Let us begin another adventure. We really could do this now. They cannot keep us chained here forever.”
The Masque Of The Red Wine
Last year I met a very rich young man from one of the wealthiest families in the state. He had blond hair and blue eyes and was from one of those elite families that had been in Mexico for centuries but had probably not a single drop of Mexican blood in them. He was a perfect aryan. Minutes after meeting him he began to tell me how Hitler was a good Christian and that the Holocaust never really happened. I was startled because he was from a family had several huge businesses, and so these people must have some intelligence. How could he possibly believe such ideas? He did not seem like a mean or hateful person and I was dumbfounded. I asked him about all of the film documentation, survivor testimonies, serial number tattoos and train deportation records that exist. He said that it was all a conspiracy of the U.S., the Jews, and the Jesuits and that he would pass me the youtube links so that I could see the documentaries for myself. After that, all I could say was “you guys probably smoke some really strong weed.”
I reflect on this and recall that this person did not have explicit racist hatred, he was just very confused. He knows the state are the true narcos and has family members who are dirty politicians. He seemed to have some insight into how the narco war was really all a smoke screen for a greater political agenda. Whenever I hear these confessions it is always their uncles, never their own fathers, who are involved in dark political conspiracies. They long to confess their guilt. He detests it, but only superficially, and not publicly, of course. Perhaps by saying Hitler was not really evil he was trying work out his cognitive dissonance with the belief system of his class. Maybe he has a more humane and guilty conscience within an elite, white society without conscience, pretty much like Nazis. He identifies with Christianity and his white heritage under the spell of a destructive and racist myth, and unconsciously sees how the genocide is happening again, yet he does not want to accept it and take responsibility for it. If the Holocaust of the twentieth century never happened, then maybe this present one being committed by his own class is not happening either? By denying the past he denies the similitude of the present. By making Hitler a good Christian, he can also go about being a good Christian with a very comfortable nazi life. Absolute denial is the most extreme and desperate repression mechanism for a deluded ego. It is incredible how the more obvious and real something is that the dissonant ego will have to deny it in the most absurd and desperate ways. He suffers guilt and must believe crazy propaganda because he has not “dominated his conscience” like a true Nazi. I have met a few rich ladies who are married to very wealthy CEOs who are true Nazis and not squeamish about what is going on. These ladies confessed their disgust with the ideas of their husbands who say now is the time for a new order and that they must be ruthless to secure their interests. I even know this rich guy connected with Coca Cola who said that all of this violence and genocide was necessary to keep the economy in balance. This fool has his own yoga school and considers himself the “Bodhisattva of Saltillo.”
Last year there was a lot of violence in the valley. There were dead bodies everywhere. The Santa Muerte got lazy and stopped making mass graves. At the same time I find out some of the local politicians are visiting my neighbor who has a vineyard. He is protected by them because he makes wine for them. Guys with machine guns protected the road until the caravan of guests appeared. When they got closer to the vineyard they put their guns away. These people stay in bases nearby and occasionally come out with an AK47 or some bazooka fire to keep everybody in a constant fright while their co-workers extract organs or take immigrants from the trains.
So while there is this horrific genocide in our valley my neighbor enjoys inviting the politicians and the bourgeoisie to wine tasting events. I became infuriated and shouted at them “Murderers, you are like a bunch of Nazis having a party in a concentration camp. Wash away all the red blood with your red wine.”
This year I decided to be more civil and to mingle with the visitors when they arrived with the neighbors. Nobody likes angry shouters. They were having their wine fest and so I got out my transversal flute and started playing some classical music to accompany the fine wine. Some people were listening and came close to the border of our properties. When they saw me I stopped playing music and started talking to them. I tried to be as gentlemanly as possible because these were very fine people and I had been so rude the year before. They were not all politicians but superficial socialites and did not really know what was going on around here. I said I admired their bravery for visiting our valley during this genocide and that most city people would be terrified to visit such a place if they knew what was going on. I told them it was a good thing that the good Catholic, my neighbor, made a deal with the Zetas and has us all protected so that we can enjoy this fine cultural event. Blessed be the Zetas and their Santa Muerte. Have a fine afternoon, you asses.
The Eye Of The Tiger
The Catholic neighbor with the guilty conscience accepts the “get out of hell free” pass that we offered him after I wrote the first story. This gift will be in exchange for inviting us to play chamber music in his next festival so as to get close to his friends.
Prepare yourself band members, we finally got a gig! He really wants to work things out with his conscience and needs our love. The poor nazi boot licker must have thought I was serious when I said our chamber music ensemble would play “Eye of The Tiger” and then I would then proceed to give cranial trepanation therapies to the audience and thereby release Red Death. Silly fellow, scared of a metaphor, like his own shadow. My good sir, I simply refer to the deep, sonorous, and penetrating quality of my Chromatic Quenacho. It very may well strike 12 tones of terror into those elite, monotone monkey brains, but I would never actually ram the hakaranda quenacho into one of those empty skulls!
The compassionate sublimity of our Desert Donkey Chamber Music Ensemble will repel the Red Death who ravages our valley and send him right back into the dark skulls of who have littered our valley with so much death.
The Dance Of The Blessed Spirits