Winter, fire, old music, old from the 1930s, from the first modern economic crisis year, humid wood ready to become ashes, violins and a clarinet, a Latin voice, male, singing songs of love, in tones of lust, of regret.
Outside the rain, smooth, tiny dashy drops very close to one another land in peace over the watery grass, pulling the green out of the yellow.
The music from the cassette starts to sound again, side B, and I can feel the presence of the resting souls around me, dancing to their music, which they lend to me to find inspiration while I write this column in this, their borrowed house. Houses with history, houses of the holy.
Second cigarette during this report, first glass of wine, Patagonian wine, from Río Negro, the land of Bariloche, of the red apples, the black river, that comes from the white mountains on a one way path to the blue ocean while the green grows around me.
I believe in a better way.
The country is trespassing an unexplainable turbulence, created by a minister who has been fired, and developed by the blind and drastic rage of the husband of the president who swims against of the will of her people in order to not have arguments in her matrimonial bed. It is sad, and dangerous. And I, having the responsibility of talking (writing) of the wonders of this country, at this point I can’t act as if nothing was happening.
It’s sad how a president tends to divide a country that is united, selling lies, just to achieve what she is not certain that its better, but just to show that ‘she’ has a bigger dick than the others.
I am now in the land of the ‘rebels’, of the real people, the farmers, the ones of the solid hands and the simple heart, and you know what, I trust these people, and I don’t trust botox and two outfits a day covering a body with a colagenated mouth which speaks of taking money from the rich to give it to the poor. Robin Hood, Jesus Christ did that, but they lived not only like the poor, but with the poor. I cry for you Argentina, and I am scared.
All this talk of getting old, its driving me down, and all this talk of the dark side of the Congress, whose only concern is power and gold, just makes me feel worse.
I recommend you to read the Martin Fierro, or Don Segundo Sombra, to understand the roots of my country and farming people and their idiosyncrasies, one is the story of an erratic gaucho, whose words of wisdom are contaminated by the surrounding disgrace of his fate, the other, an old gaucho, followed by a child, a child awakening to the gaucho lifestyle, taking cattle from one side to another, surrounded by the threads of the climate, the only thing that may be friend or the most inclement enemy. The horse was obviously their only way to move, the ‘criollo’ horse, small, compact, and not brave, naturally rustic, able to cover long distances through the desert. They made this country what it is, surviving with or against the indigenous, living a sometimes miserable life when the climate didn’t help.
These are the roots of the 80% of the people who are now complaining about a miserable law created by a fired minister, complaining against the absolutist ways of a husband of a president, a husband that pays money to the people so they can go to Plaza de Mayo to make up the numbers, and add some inches to his fake erected dick.
I still believe in a better way.
So many people to love in my life, why am I so worried about one without love? Maybe cause this guy will cost the death of some people I would love to love.
In the last two big political acts one person from the audience died in each. Is it worth it? The first died in the Plaza de Mayo when a huge crystal ball from a light felt on his head, he was a humble young guy, beloved by his relatives, who went to Buenos Aires for something like 60 pesos to ‘support’ the erection of an ex-president, husband of a plastic wife who became president after a legal vote.
I wish a leader, a new leader would appear from this popular opposition, I wish this country could grow in peace, I hope we vote better, I hope we won’t forget, I hope marmalade make friends with honey, and guitars with cymbals, and writers with me.