The frequent traveler, back home, sent his little son to bed, because he wanted to enjoy intimacy with his wife. He told the boy: “Go to sleep, because Juan Pestaña will be here soon.” “Hey him! the boy sneered. That one only comes when you’re not there!” I wonder if the spoken word is on the verge of extinction, and if one day people will be mute, silent, and will communicate only by means of brain vibrations or ether.
I say it because many demonstrations oral – abstraction made from those that concern eroticism – no longer exist, being that in another time they were very fashionable and enjoyed prestige and consideration. Orators, for example, disappeared for the good of suffering humanity. When I was young, I had the misfortune of winning some oratory contests, and it is date that I am not cured of that evil.
I can say the same about declamation, which is so declamatory. It saddens me, yes, that the conversation has almost been lost, gallant art in which distinguished mexicans like Mr. Victoriano Salado Álvarez, Mr. Alfonso Reyes or Salvador Novo, and who is still practiced with grace and elegance by my admired friend Mr. Genaro Leal. I have seen the four diners at a coffee table with their respective chins on their chests and their eyes sunken into one of those electronic devices that, it has been said, bring those who are far away and distance those who are close.
Poets use words to reveal the truth to us; bad politicians use them to hide or distort it. There are, of course, poets who infect their poetry with politics, in the manner of neruda, who many times perpetrated pamphlets instead of writing poems. He does have one, however, where he beautifully calls for social revolution. It is called “Ode to the air”. I met him said with the force of a proclamation by an extraordinary Argentine reciter, Mauricio Sol, a friend of mine who was, whose voice now sounds on You Tube.
in those verses neruda he talks to the air and tells him not to let himself be chained; that he does not allow himself to be sold as light and water. He forgot to ask him for something: not to admit that men’s ambition or unconsciousness dirty him to the point of making him dangerous, and even unbreathable. I am well aware that the Cadereyta refinery is a source of work for many, but I am not unaware that its harmful emissions put the health of millions of inhabitants of the neighboring communities at risk, especially those of the City of Monterey and suburban municipalities.
The truth is that refineries like that, they are already obsolete and harmful entities, just as brick factories that used tires as fuel for their kilns were in another time. The air is common. Breathing it should not be a risk. The fact that there are other sources of pollution – motor vehicles; some factories; las pedreras – is in no way a justification for those refineries to continue making people sick.
According to tradition the devil smells of sulfur. A yellowish cloud recently threw into the air that refinery, the one in Cadereyta, whose operation is apparently above all authority in charge of caring for the environment. Let the air be for poets, and for people to breathe it safely, and not a vehicle for contamination for companies whose anachronism must be added to its high cost and obvious inefficiency.
When dancing the tango, the man lowered his hand until he placed it on one of the lady’s turgid bottoms. He asked her angrily: “Take your hand away from there.” The guy passed his hand to the other pump while he asked, solicitous and courteous: “What is this you have injected?” END.
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