“I guess your intentions,” the beautiful Susiflor told Libidiano, a wicked concupiscent gallant. I read in you as in an open book. Inquired the salacious subject: “And you don’t like to read in bed?”. At the party he declared to a vain woman, “I come from Buffalo.” Asked a guest who had apparently raised the elbow more than was convenient: “From the father or mother?” Don Sufricio, Doña Gorgona’s husband, commented to his friends at the bar: “I am happy that my wife has become a feminist. She now speaks ill of all men, not just me. The young Leovigildo married Pirulina. Upon returning from the honeymoon, the bride told her new husband: “To prevent our marriage from falling into boredom, we will go out at night three times a week.” “I think it’s very good” -Leovigildo accepted the suggestion. “Yes,” Pirulina continued. You will go out Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, and I will go out Thursday, Friday and Saturday”. Words are like the leaves of trees: some fall and new ones are born. The term “movida” is no longer used, which was previously used to designate a clandestine love affair. “So-and-so is married, but he has a move.” A certain gentleman departed from this world, and a widow’s comadre went to pay her condolences at the funeral home. “Comadrita,” she told him, “I am moved.” “Let her wait outside,” the widow asked. There is no need to give rise to gossip.” “Trees die standing up”. That title was given by Alejandro Casona, Spanish playwright, to one of his best-known works. Thus, standing up, the palm tree that gave its name to a roundabout in Reforma died. He died of his death, as it was said before of the one whose life ended because of his age. Not so the other monument that disappeared from there: that of Columbus. That one was killed by an aberrant historical dogmatism and a vulgar and crude nationalist indigenism. The day will come when those who removed the statue of the visionary navigator from the Paseo de la Reforma will be the object of reproach. The death of a tree makes me sad. I almost cried when a sudden plague caused the star poplar to dry up, a beautiful and tall cathedral of green and silver that for decades was a distinctive sign of the work called Los Sirrales, in the Potrero de Ábrego. I cursed -I don’t deny it- when the famished hares gnawed the bark of the baby pines that we planted and with that they made them die when they were barely born. They will say that I am exaggerating, but I believe that each tree is a sacred being, and if we have to cut it down for a plausible reason, we must apologize beforehand, as our aboriginal brothers do -or did they?-. I go to the walnut orchard, or to the place where the trees grow -they look like disheveled girls- that give us female-shaped pears, or to the path on whose edges we put cedars that are already twice my height, and when no one sees me I talk to the walnut trees, and the pear trees, and the cedars, and I thank them for giving us their grace made of fruit and shade, of beauty. I am grateful to the palm of Reforma, which for years and years we saw without looking at it and which we will now miss. If I were regent -if I were re-people- I would put another in its place so that it would grow up with the grandchildren of those who live in the big city, and with the grandchildren of their grandchildren. But mine is just one opinion among the many that will be heard about it. I just hope they don’t put there some monstrosity born of the obsolete dogmas that in our time have been empowered by the work of a falsified official History very similar to the one imposed on us in the times of PRI domination. But my subject was trees, and I have strayed from it. I better end here. THE END.
MANGANITES
“. AMLO speaks well of Trump.”
Out of place
such obvious affection.
To Biden, surely,
you won’t like that.
By AFA.
LOOKOUT
By Armando Fuentes Aguirre.
OPUS 33 VARIATIONS ON THE THEME OF DON JUAN
The Sevillian gentleman met the Duke of Alba in his time.
He met the Marquis of Tormes.
He even met the Prince of Naples and the Doge of Venice.
He met all the greats of Spain, France, Flanders, England and Italy.
He never remembers them.
On the other hand, he never forgets Doña Elvira, Doña Laura, Doña Inés, Doña Mencía and Doña Sol, as well as all the women, noble and common, who loved him and whom he loved.
For Don Juan they never counted power, glory or money.
The only thing that counted was love.
That is why now that he is in the twilight of his life, his memories are beautiful.
Because they are all memories of women.
Until tomorrow!…
#politics #worse