The road to Lethe

In the dream I was reaching the river of unmindfulness, and it came from Hell.

Hell above.

Then I remembered one voice telling me, long time ago: 

"Everything we envision, fearing, it comes true for our own pain".

At that moment, all the warm, angelic faces and their soft voices vanished. The blue turned red, then black, transparent.

The eyes of the one who hadn't always been on our side appeared, filling me with panic and consternation—the eyes of that invisible star.

With tears streaming down my face, I begged him to let me drink from the river; I still beg him, and it was the river of forgetfulness.

In the dream I was reaching the river of unmindfulness, and it came from Hell.

The Afternoon

"I am Mexican and a photographer, and I was behind the English goal and witnessed, from just a few meters away, Maradona's two legendary goals at the Azteca Stadium: 

1. The match was about to begin, and in the stands behind the north goal, the hooligans were screaming like rabid dogs. 

2. The shadow of the Falklands War hung in the air. 

3. At halftime, the score was 0-0. Maradona walked past me, short, strong, and thoughtful, and I said, “Come on, Maradona, go for it!” With my Mexico City accent, he turned around and just looked at me. That look was an affirmation that he understood my comment. 

4. And then came the first Argentine goal. I was with an Argentine journalist behind the English goal, barely three meters away and to the right. At the same time, we turned to each other and almost in unison asked, “Was it with his hand?!” 

5. I remember Maradona’s second goal like this: I saw him coming from about midfield, dribbling past the English players. As he approached the goal, his footsteps echoed through the grass. Closer still, I’m almost certain I heard his breath, snorting like a bull, accompanying each step. And then the legendary goooal, 2-0. 

That’s what’s etched in my memory."

-Paco Macías Velasco

Marianela Buenos Aires: the last bad novella

Marianela runs through the afternoons of cookies and one sunshine, and she runs away, running away, yellow, wrinkled, one little girl.

In both Colegiales and Remedios de Escalada, on the cold days of July, June, and August, she runs and doesn't know why. What happened to my little country at the end of the world? Why did they kill it?

They hated it.

I couldn't tell you if such afternoons still exist.

I couldn't tell you why all my people were murdered. And for whom does the sunshine on those corners now? In both Colegiales and Remedios de Escalada.

Marianela stopped running now, I think. She went to the heaven of the yellow daughters of Buenos Aires.

What happened to my little country at the end of the world? Why did they kill it?

They hated it.

The streets of Videla 1976

 

Beyond the Realms of Death

"That is not dead which can eternal lie, / And with strange aeons even death may die."

(Abdul Alhazred)

So, withered and haggard traveler, where did I see you that afternoon? In the subterranean depths of existence lie both time and space, this terrestrial sequence being the cubicle of the bodily cubicle of all flesh itself always never after.

Beyond the camps of death will we find each other?