I'm feeling: weird
I slowly realise the curse and freedom of being born of Mexican father and Guatemalan mother. I discover why the ground has been shaking for so long, born like maize out of the soil and transplanted from clay and esoteric burning ground to the Midtgard horizons of Norwegian rationality. Displaced from the lap of God to a chilling cloud where human bodies are invited to become like temples of the Gods themselves. Movement that mixed passion with scepticism, juxtaposed passion with materialism, removed passion and replaced it with a sort of lethargy, a non existence that is impossible for the metal lions in front of the Parliament to understand.
Or was it just a movement from childhood to adulthood, a sort of initiation into pain, sadness, mistrust, a more efficient way than Zen Buddhism to get rid of a disproportionate ego? This Latin passion was so strong it almost killed me, an unarticulated state of the heart that suffers from not being able to see itself in the mirroring waters. Suppressed passion transformed into Power of the Dragon, I can see the pain, I know everything there is to know about pain, if I only manage to lift that sorrow from your heart, will you help me out of mine? I can see you, can you see me? Youth of French suburbs, child soldiers, beggars for life, I can see you! Curbed women collecting seeds, mothers by the temple imploring justice, maidens of the raped forests, mothers of the universe, I can hear your ply! Honourable men, seniors, lovers, I can feel your insufficiency, the knocking that is forever smashing compassion in search for more life, generating only death. I went out to the world looking for myself, wanting to win back my passion.
I found myself in the heart of the struggle. Almost a woman in San Cristobal de las Casas, wondering if the Zapatistas knew God and if Marcos could teach me how to write it all down.
I also found myself on top of the Jaguar temple in Tikal. And by the lake Atitlàn, where some young women were washing their hair, laughing at nothing, seeing all that was invisible to my eyes regarding the language of the wind and the movement of the weaving thread.
I found myself in the eyes of my son, in the power of Soweto, in the confidence of friendship and solidarity. I won my battles, gained riches, conquered territories, but I lost my passion little by little, in the middle of giving birth to a son, Art, and his twin sister, Music. Something happened, I don't know exactly what. Maybe a sun lover that drowned in the river. Maybe it was Osiris, dismateled, maybe I was just another heroine burnt in the fire for despotism, consumed by passionate devotion.
Anyway, it all comes back, stays for a while and passes by. Until we manage to undo the riddle of existence, and get rid of circumstances that no longer make us happy. My curse and freedom is to be born of a Mexican father and Guatemalan mother, and to have been moulded in colonialism while I still was clay. My curse and freedom is to have been schooled in western rationalism, and try to fill my container with plastic passion that never satisfied my emptiness. My curse and freedom is to be able to see conclusions from an eagle's point of view, and try to remodel blindness so it can make room for visions that no one seem to believe in anymore.
My search for passion as a life lived, where the curse and freedom melt into one, is my understandable now.
Soon I will be able to truthfully say that I LOVE.
« return.