Writing is not cathartic, even though its feeling of release is present; it is not enlightening, however, it provokes critical thinking; it is not, above all, entertaining, nonetheless it transports you. I write in order to rationalize interiority, to catch emic experiences with a net. Everything, however, revolves and remains inside.

Tuesday, June 03, 2008

An Evangelical Pastor

An evangelical pastor preaches to more than half a million people at the city’s central park, for free. Under thousands upon thousands of frantic and skeptical stares, he promises -he knows- that this country will soon be blessed with peace and prosperity. The following day, Sunday, three soccer fans are murdered at different matches. Violence between gangs of opposite teams.

Policemen go after evidence, lagging behind. The State claims it is a tragedy, quickly dismissing it as three isolated incidents. More: Punitive measures for the team clubs, promises to double law-enforcement officials for the following weekend. Soccer players lament. Relatives demand justice. Reporters add and neglect.

The pastor keeps up with his agenda and by now he has already flown to another country. He does not devote a sentence to those deaths, or any death, here or anywhere else.

But the common people, the kidneys of the country, they ponder. Some question why this should happen after the pastor made such a contrasting promise. Some diagram conclusions based on a couple of connections and interpret them as a sign of: Something.

Others, the ones we are being punished for, infer not without sarcasm that the three murdered attendees must have not been Believers. Out of this last group, the one we are being punished for, a few join the evangelical movement a couple of months later. And others disappear.

Worries and Weaves

Promise this is just another slip
Lay all your cards in front of me
Deal with the quake when it actually shakes you
Catch a breath to think

Perpetual the aiming of the shot
Shooting down every other dream
Of peacefully sinking into normalcy
Quake after quake…

You say I’m the one making things difficult
I’d rather crash than be all worries and weaves
You say I’m the one making this difficult
Won’t be pulled into your worries and weaves
How can you twill the circles in which we live?
Only fate can knit such intricate things

* * * * *

So dry is my skin in the peak of the summer
Great Plains run adrift to surrender my knuckles
So deft is the force that swallows our passions
If the point never gets anywhere

Life like a lover
Leaves no corpse
Life like a lover:
Remorse, fenced
Off, like a lover

You'll be counting fish by the time I decide to
Let go of the twirl

If it speaks to you...