Cuento 4: “Breathlessly-Deranged Heresy!” (841 words)
12:10pm [Typing] Cesar heads for su cama, with a yawn and a “Buenas noches.” I bolt la puerta, smiling, with a crowd of thoughts and mi pichinga. There’s much to do. My fingers peck and hunt, seeking jewels from the dust of Teote.
Cicadas chant, low in the trees.
I’ve lit a candela. Though it brings insectas to my writing table, it appeals to my sense of the romantica, and I need it. I can't get Noam Chomsky's 9/11 writings out of my head. I just reread them, earlier this week. What a truthteller when America needs to hear it most!
1:22am [Typing] The plight of peasantry keeps coming back, a gusano worming into invective against this outhouse hole of peasant decimation and politico chicanery, brought home to where I live with the Sandinista peasants.
It’s hard to write fiction when my intellect is so piqued, and too didactic for a story; yet, unfortunately, I’m a part of this overflowing pichinga! I’m also an active global citizen from the ground up, since I first saw a photo of the Earth from the Moon in the 60’s and fell mystically in love; I resent what modern terrorist states have done, completely beyond my understanding, to my planet and its people. I clearly need to find a way to shake this outrage out!
Ah, mi amigos, forgive me, urina jokes have been cosmically huge here today, with all the locos trying to cheer me up. I must have a big “Triste” sign on my forehead. I’m un viejito with a heart condition and life’s a tragi-cosmic joke, I remember, to keep from charging Arriba on Triunfo, demanding the candidates stifle this breathlessly-deranged heresy of hypocrisy, this “War on Terror,” when the enemy, to the rest of the world, unfortunately, is us.
We’re not supposed to know that in America, though millions do, so keep it fairly hush-hush, por favor.
As an American of conscience, I’m finding it difficult to face my reflection in the mirror in the morning: Todo el mundo thinks we’ve lost our hearts, minds and, even worse, our moral credibility as a nation.
What a wild goose chase we’ve been led on since the atrocity gigantica of 9-ll, when the peasantry here were first to their knees, praying for the victims, in solidarity with the American pobrecitos during their days of peasant terror. Here, there were special prayer services in all the pequenos--small Catholic prayer groups--in town. The padre from Jalapa couldn’t get here for un misa, because, he said, all Jalapa was en la Iglesia, crying and praying in solidarity with the American people. The world became us, for a day, and many days thereafter.
However, it was soon business-as-usual in the Bubble, with a couple hundred thousand Afghani peasants decimated, the rest left neglectfully to starve; then Iraq, mass decimation, while we re-focused our terrified people on chasing down a hateful dingbat like Osama or a filth of a Saddam Hussein, both our former creatures, nonetheless. All that scapegoat behavior, to keep us from looking primero in our own haunted mirror. We demand this of other countries, by international law we ignore when the judgement’s not in our favor.
If a student came into my office exhibiting OHG’s past behavior, I’d be counseling him to curb his sociopathic tendencies, to balance his checkbook with respect for human dignity. I’d ask him what he really fears and I’d suggest he handle his terrors very lightly. If he felt violent, I’d tell him to hightail it back to my office pronto, for further training in mutual compassion, which needs to be learned and practiced.
I’d tell him to act like a campesino, praying for all victims of terror, despite his own bitter wounds.
Ah, that’s it! Gracias a Diós! My writing’s led me to a peasant’s way out of my heart’s dilemma: on 9-11, the campesinos prayed for America. Can I do less? It will, es cierto, enlighten my vigil. Ah, sí, I'm warming to this task already. Ay, Chihuahua, though, do I have to raise up OHG?
3:30am [Typing whatever comes to mind]: I’m tired, muy consado. I’ve almost decided to throw most of my night’s writing away. Too didactic for a story. Mostly, I can’t find a way to take it farther, lift it higher. The subject’s too heavy, the tone, pubescent-choir-camp-sniggering: the “pee” stuff seems shameful, the “terrorista” plea for prayer, perhaps, even dangerously forthright, though both are completely nicaragüense and “me,” totalmente.
The fact of the matter is—Dammit!—I’m afraid, like the rest of the cringing world, of “Spin and Terror,” the rampaging two-headed dragon, so fine-pointedly expert at silencing Truth, worldwide. Dammit-all-to-hell! Dínamo del Diablo!
So, nothing’s worked for quite a while. I’m stalking an ending, to ground and send us flying, not only in the blasted work, but, also, in me. In the past, I’d have walked the block a couple times, una meditación caminando, but not now. Urina total!
Ayúdeme, Diós, por favor! Help the American people!
Ah, there we go. some release, there, gracias.
Gratefully, I hear a whisper, at 3:35am, in mi candlelit cuarto, in darkened Nicaragua.