Global and Bigger: Miss Ronde

The Jade Carver

We all know the sound of rain, but it's different in the rainforest. For as many lives as men can count back, rain and thunder sound very much alike. Rain is heavy and thick, hitting furiously the countless green leaves that shelter more creatures than we could count generations. No one can talk under it. Animals get to communicate through smell and ooze or simple movement, sounds are not part of the creatures at this time, but for us. Drops run through the tallest trees making lines and creating streams that make land soft, this should make the work of moving and re-moving dirt easy, but it's also a reminder to a young man digging graves, that his family might be easily taken from their new resting places to be part of some big feline's meal. More dirt an land over them, he will keep guard overnight, just this night. He has nothing else to do anyway, only hope to get his life taken by the Heart of Heaven. The spirits that hide in the underground would do just as well. It would be nice to sleep, go into darkness and to the arms of his wife and child, to hear his father's voice and his little sisters scream and fight. Mother would be cooking, or maybe the other world, doesn't need of food, so sicknes and pain are not part of it either. A tree and some old big leaves wil provide him enough high shelter for the night. Tears and a strong pain on his chest just come and go. Alone, on the crooked trunk of a tree, he wonders about life without anyone to love. His family died of the same illness, a fever that couldn't be removed by the medicine man, and was condemned by the priests. No one wanted them near the city, the were cast out and when he got better tried to be strong for the rest. His wife was the last one to get it. She could have survived it, but having her little one die in her arms took most of her own will to live. The fever took her just a few days after the baby and now she was the last one he buried.

Paws of the spawn.

It's a regular bachelor's room, considering a more than average income. Clothes are all around the bed. Simple colors, combinations of darks and lights. The bedroom window is almost wall size. Sunlight has failed to wake him up, but the mid-morning heat seems to be acting as a reminder to his blood stream to go and take possession of his senses once more. Touch is thankful to feel the bed, hearing has a buzz, the light is no friend of seeing right now. Taste wishes it wouldn't exist, and smell wishes the cavern of taste hadn't been so welcoming of large amounts of alcohol the night before. The obvious regular feelings come along, so now the question. How did he get to bed last night? Not that it really matters, but it would be nice to know that his body wasn't wandering without his brain controling it. It's nice to wake up alone to this. All senses checked, it's time for coffee and his clumsy steps are close to make him trip. For some reason he didn't trip thanks to a growl, as when a dog softly warns you not to get any closer to it. His heart started pounding, creating a beat that was beyond the reality of his known sensations. A million things and trips hadn't ever given him such feelings. The thing is, he doesn't own a dog.

From Heaven and Away from Hell

It's dark and there is no sound around her. Some hours before the traffic, before the millions of steps and voices that corner every thought or feeling, making her feel like a perfect clock but not a person. Right now is just how her skin strokes against the bedsheets, his breathing, the simple explosion of sensations that the brush of one body with another cause. A long, narrow mirror shows everything she loves to hate. She opens her arms to let her towel fall, some bruises and the shape a lot of men and women have flattered to the point of producing the question if such looks are a blessing or a curse. It's amazing how a simple caress to the cheek gives this feeling. How is it possible? There's nothing like it. The worst part is that the job, her dad, everything fades so easily just at the simple hearing of the right voice and words. It's as the addiction is the fact of scaping everything for merely some seconds of pure bliss that take her away from whatever serves as a reminder of all the things she doesn't have; the promises she forgot and everything else wired into her brain deep inside but away, buried somewhere within her, avoiding direct contact in order to make her dig in herself, as if looking for a treasure without a map but with infinite clues. Where does this need come from? Why does such intensity and pleasure come with all this guilt? Walks to the window, which produces a vertigo that seems somewhat appealing, specially now. She can't help crying feeling used, unable to enjoy without feeling nasty. Darkness fades around, the dawn with it's noise begin, a shower will help hide the streams on her face.

En vista de la Realidad

Vivimos en un país pequeño que trata de encontrar la manera de ser el más cercano al primer mundo, con una ciudad atestada de vehículos, remedos de super-edificios y la absurda esperanza de ser un país con un equipo de futbol mundialista.

Hace unas horas nuestra ciudad principal, mi área de residencia, acepto someterse en pánico luego de varios ataques fácilmente calificables de terroristas. Muchos esperaban ver al ejercito en las calles, el anuncio de alguna forma de acción por parte del Presidente que les mostrara a todos que se tenia que vivir en un sentimiento de emergencia. Que el terror que se sentía era lo único que se podía aceptar y definitivamente, la única opción.

Universidades y negocios decidieron cerrar y permitir que reinara la zozobra. La hora pico se adelanto a media tarde y sin contar con todos los medios de transporte normal, la gente se traslado a sus hogares. Solo para que en la siguiente mañana, todo regresara a una relativa normalidad. Relativa pues todo el mundo espera un motín en la ciudad. Alguna forma de caos que recuerde los de hace unos 20 años, cuando niñas con vestido color rosa y un pañuelo que les cubriera el rostro tiraban piedras a letreros y vitrinas de cualquier comercio a su paso. También la época de historias de horror tan comunes en las que todos sabían de alguien a quien, alguna forma de autoridad, lo había asaltado, atacado o secuestrado y la palabra política o expresión personal eran prácticamente blasfemias o parte del peor o más estúpido vocabulario posible.

A mi juicio la actitud de la mayoría de lideres, especialmente de varios centros educativos privados, era de aceptar el miedo y nada más, de recordar esos momentos de horror de hace 20 años y decirle a la gente que se fuera a esconder a sus casas, a rezar porque no les cayera el cielo encima.


En horas de la tarde, la gente encontró más de una forma de transporte de igual manera como lo hubiera hecho en su momento habitual de regreso al hogar. El transporte público sigue siendo limitado pero no imposible. Y como fuera posible la emergencia se cubrió. Eso fácilmente muestra que es posible ser más organizados, estar mucho mejor preparados y ser capaces de prevenir más que reaccionar. Me refiero a que antes de vivir en pánico, es posible vivir con más orden. Con la misma fuerza que se organizan vehículos para servir como transporte público de emergencia, un grupo de resistencia para protestar por una injusticia, también es posible que nos organicemos para poder combatir mejor la delincuencia.

No se trata de que todos tengamos armas, no todos podemos pagarlas, pero si de saber quienes las tienen, para saber como organizarnos y poder reaccionar, ser capaces de vivir y saber como auxiliar y pedir auxilio. Conocer a nuestras autoridades y hacerlas parte de nuestras vidas. No creo que sea un mundo perfecto ni una utopía, solo que no veo otra solución real. Muchos esperan un conflicto, algún tipo de levantamiento armado y un derramamiento de sangre que pare en la muerte de prácticamente cualquier delincuente. Llaman a acciones por parte de un Estado represivo que inevitablemente llevaría a otra forma de terror colectivo y probablemente peor que lo que vivimos ahora. Probablemente un conflicto no sea evadible, pero no es lo único que se tiene que hacer, y no solo es el Gobierno el responsable. Definitivamente, todo pueblo tiene a los gobernantes que se merece. Si todo el mundo quiere mandar, y buscamos a un mejor tata (patriarca) cada vez que podemos, pues este atenderá mejor nuestros deseos y pasiones no se puede esperar mucho; nadie tiene derecho a exigir por lo que no quiere ni se molesta en producir.

They came to talk.

I should start by describing the room; white, perfectly padded so I don't run against the wall and crush my skull; nor that the rocking movement that I make sometimes and that can become violent, ends up being bloody. They've restrained my arms, and since the last time I tried to use my teeth to open my veins, I don't think they're going to let me feed myself for a while. Schizophrenia, they said. Which has provided me with enough drugs to start the 60's all over again, it makes mom cry every time she comes to visit, and makes dad spend some thousands. He hasn't come much. It's really difficult to create a routine in here. The meals are my only help right now, the meals and the footsteps outside. I know it must be late since I haven't heard any footsteps for a while now. What kind of drugs have they given me? With what purpose?


-It's supposed to cure you.


Now he's talking. Staring at me, standing. He moves very elegantly, all dressed in black and sits in front of me with his legs crossed and his back perfectly straight. Those dark eyes hurt just by looking at them, but the smell rips my nose apart. Sulfur, today is not so intense. Some days it's made me puke or run just to try to get away. The smell fades, his eyes are now just threatening, but I don't feel like they could look from the inside of me.


-You are sick, you need medications to make you normal again. They don't know that you've never been normal.


Coming from him that was sweet. My mother used to say that I had imaginary friends. But we talked, hugged and fought. I could feel their arms, the fists on my face, remember them smiling and the million laughs and stories they told me. But mom kept telling me they were not real, so I started to ignore them. First they stopped talking to me. Then after a year or so, they would only show from a certain distance and look at me like expecting a reaction. Some years passed, and then, all of the sudden I could see, talk and feel again, but it couldn't be real.

Tatuana

The salty smell of the sea and the breeze comforts her bleeding forehead and nose. The effort of holding her tears hurts from the inside of her skull, but crying would only blur the small image she can get from the ocean. The gallows await, but it doesn't really matter right now. Only those blue waters in so many different shades at this time of the fading light. She swings her weight from one foot to the other, softly, getting a rhythm, trying to mimic the movement of a ship at sea. The sound of the waves is the only thing important now; ignoring the noise coming from the other cells.

The dungeon has three cells divided by bars. Two are occupied by men, hers is in the middle, alone, and with the only bench. One of the men cries and curses, lying on the floor all curled and holding his manhood. He had offered it to her through the bars , to "have something sweet for supper before her death." When he screamed because of the 29 teeth that almost amputated him, his crying was heard in all the small fortress of this small forgotten island, even the people from the town heard it, and thought of what kind of new torture had the soldiers devised to avoid people from going the wrong way in life. This made two guards storm in and found the man crawling, and her already on top of her bench, trying to get the rhythm of a rocking boat. They didn't warn her, just went in her cell and plunged her head to the wall. She fainted, because of the hit, for the lack of proper -if any- food at all for months now, for trying to dream of a death at sea.

The last ray of sunlight leaves her with a bittersweet feeling just like when a loved one dies and blood turns cold while holding them. The next time she feels the sun, will be her last. The moon avoids her sight, she knows it, but it would be nice to have her company this last night. All the small points in the dark give her no warmth nor anger. How pointless they seem right now, when she doesn't have a ship in need of direction. The salty smell is now mixed with some sand, just as the first time she felt curious about the stars.