The Archetype City and the river

Benjamin gave me the good news, told me that you would arrive on Saturday.

The wait has been tortuous, because for a long time I have wanted to write to you, to know about you, and mainly to see you, hear you, describe you, think you and merge with your story.

Now you believe what I told you when we met, that I would never give up your grace, that I would merge with you, and that my love for you would be immortal, that my desire would have its object of love in your desire and sooner or later we would go back for The same path.

I know perfectly well that you never believed that our presence in this world would be a story that would be repeated infinitely, that our lives would not have a linear time that was lost in the finite and made us martyrs of history. And that we would be able to nullify in our souls the sorrows of temporality, and steal which promises the fire of silence and the knowledge of the oracle to share them with men of good will.

Do not think that I have forgotten that you were bored by these talks, and that you preferred to look for happiness even below the sheets, where you really did not look, because you thought it was something sublime that transcended the mundane, that could be taken with the heart instead of with hands.

I prepared a new speech to continue falling in love, in which I have put the verb in line with the tongue, the nerves with the soul.

Welcome!

As I am glad you come back from where you should never have left. The letters said it, the crystal ball announced it, our uniting hearts sighed their destiny, and left traces everywhere. Exempt from all guilt, freed from the curse of the raspy tongues that have made us live imprisoned by the cold reasoning of modernity, we can finally exercise our right to life.

Things have gone well, I have stopped lounging like a wintering bear, I only do it from time to time, when I chok on that delicious dish called “German knuckle”, which after the feast, causes me a drowsiness and heaviness that does not allow me to sustain myself standing; I am forced to take a nap; but most of the time, I spend it awake, because I do not want my life to escape when I am gone, I want to be present in my death, and if it is possible to participate in a dignified and boisterous, ironic and public death, I want to be present when my body is carried in that box that merges with Mother Earth, in this regard, I think we should be buried without clothes, without boxes, "as God brought us into the world."

This would save us the work of undressing to merge with our common essence, nothing.

I will tell you the story of a little ghost. It all started in the place where we met, where we are, Rinconada. After midnight, crossing the town, a little brat made me stop, and asked me to give him a ride.

I asked him where he was going at that time of night, and told him it was very dangerous for him to walk alone; He told me it was urgent to get out of there. Seeing that his face reflected great concern, I stopped my harangue, and automatically opened the car door. The kid was not more than eight years old.

The truth is that it hurt me, and without questioning whether I had done well, I resumed the journey. Invisible entered and sat solemnly, without saying a word for the moment, he kept chasing with his eyes the space that illuminated the headlights of the car, of course, by the late hours of the night, he only saw asphalt and the occasional vehicle light that were exceeding us or coming in the opposite direction. Cabizbajo tried to hide his affliction, however, something slipped away, betrayed him, it was his languid gaze that reflected great regret and immense concern; I asked him if he was okay, and without a word, he answered with a nod, giving me the understanding that he was.

Trying to quench my curiosity to know something about him, I asked him his name, and I only got him to answer me with a sound, because what I heard was not at least a word, it seemed to sound "plash", like the sound produced by a metal object when falling. From there I started calling him "Plash."

I confess that it gave me a lot of work to make him talk, but I did it and we started an interesting dialogue.

To my surprise, Plash is his real name, he told me it was a Polish name, that he didn't know what it meant; She learned about her Polish origin when she heard her talk to a neighbor, who asked her where she got the name, she told him that from an old Polish legend.

I will transcribe the dialogue we had, because fortunately I remember everything, until its unexpected outcome, its fading, its abandonment:

I -

Where are you from?

Plash -

From Tlaltetela, a small community, where there is no sadness, where there is joy, where people are laughing all day, laugh at everything, even their misfortunes, such as when someone dies, the people have a real party and say goodbye to the deceased With great excitement, their relatives sing, dance, tell jokes, play, even dogs get infected from that environment, because they bark like crazy, I think for a moment their souls become human.

A mighty river flows through my town, where noble souls never drown, but bad ones, although they know how to swim, are devoured mercilessly for their furious cause. Its waters are crystalline and immaculate, it seems that when people go to bathe and peeks in them, they cannot hide anything from the essence of their souls, and they leave everything exposed, their virtues and their defects; that is why when he perceives evil, he swallows those kind of people, instead, when he detects goodness, he transforms his furious currents, into protective mantles, into caresses, until he who does not know how to swim is not excluded from enjoying those divine baths magical

With telling you that once, I took my favorite pet to the river, a big green parrot called "Roque"; the river swallowed it, I think he perceived evil in his soul. That day I checked that animals have souls. The river is our oracle, the one who knows everything. People do want to confess, instead of going to a church, they go to the river.

Notice that in my town time stands still, it seems that we are always at the same time, the time to give thanks to our ancestors, the time of our gods, the time without history, because history is never written, because always events They are preceded by a cult of the past, so I believe that in my people perpetual peace reigns and the joy of eternity.

I -

Tell me about your family?

Plash -

It is a family like there is everywhere, we are four: my mother Lucero, my father Abraham, my sister Leticia and me. My mother says we were five, with my little brother José, who died when he was a few months old, he was seven months old, his organs were not developed, even if his spirit was; my mother says that the spirits of human beings go ahead of the body, that is, we reason before wishing, the spirit is already developed and sometimes the body is not prepared to receive it, as is the case with my unfortunate little brother. José before he died, said goodbye to my mother with a sweet and kind smile, it seemed that he said: "Give grace even for a minute of life." Leticia is barely two years old, she still does not transmit her thoughts with concepts, but if with her penetrating gaze, she has the power of telepathy, because without speaking words she tells us what she wants. She is very vivacious, when she walks dance, she moves her body so harmoniously that she forms beautiful figures, we love her very much, it is the joy of the house. Someday she will talk, and when she does, nobody will be able to silence her, she will create with her verb beautiful poems, I do not doubt she is a great artist. According to the oracle, a romantic spirit reincarnated in my sister. I do believe that, because our river has never failed, He knows everything, every event of our lives has seen them happen in its imperceptible essence, its ether is fantastic covers us all with a divine halo, we are fortunate to have a being like The.

My father is the carpenter of the town, there is no other like him. On one occasion a neighbor wanted to compete, but failed; people continued to prefer my father's works, authentic works of art; I even dare to say that they go beyond art, they are works of divine creation, because each one is impregnated with a wisdom, with a drive, with a will to power. They are so special, that the homes where they are, joy and peace reign, I think my dad leaves an invisible window so that the spirits of things can walk freely and transmit bliss. My father is a hardworking and intelligent man.

My mother says that when she met him he was a very brave boy with strange ideas, she calls them weird because she did not understand them, what happens is that my father was a liberal who believed in all those theories of equality and the myth of state, still retains many books with those ideas. However, now, like all of the people, profess mysticism.

I -

It shows that you love your family. I'm glad that this is the case, I share your loyalty. Surely you are an excellent student in your school.

Plash -

In my town there are no schools, and children should only attend once a week to a place we call “The Archetypal City.” It is on the outskirts of town, there every Thursday of the week the children meet, and the people remain silent, no noise is heard, adults are forbidden to leave their homes, until their churumbeles return. We arrive at the Archetype City at five in the morning, when it has not yet dawned, and the first thing we do is to hold hands and we wait for the exit of the Lord Sun. When he appears, we unite shout: Good morning Lord Sun! He greets us with beautiful rays of light and energy, looks at us attentively and sometimes I think he is so excited that he tears come in. After we ask permission to withdraw and start our activities, the sign of your consent is the appearance of a rainbow refracting the light and letting us contemplate its beautiful colors.

Subsequently we are grouped by age and each group retires to its session room, where there are cushions to sit. Before entering we take off our shoes, then we accommodate each one in his cushion, although all are equal and of the same color, we all know what is ours. It will be that we make it part of our person or is the soul of each cushion that makes family with each child. After settling in, we will choose who will lead the class that day. Usually, there is always more than one candidate, as many have leadership qualities. The choice is very simple, you choose who manages to penetrate the deepest of children's hearts. They are allowed to do anything, say a speech, declare a poetry, make a clown, even do nothing; Once I won without doing or saying anything, I just stood in front and looked at them for a long time; I remember that my opponents said long speeches, all very wise and well spoken; but who knows why my classmates chose me that day? According to my mother it was because sometimes it is better to shut up and let others decide what feelings and thoughts they want to be transmitted to them, it is like giving up your body to the wishes of others.

Once the medium child is elected, he accommodates himself on a promontory that is in the center of the room, closes his eyes and begins to yield his materiality to the realm of the transcendental, thousands of spirits crowd wanting to use the child's body to talk to us, this is how suddenly the voice of an alchemist emerges that speaks to us of his knowledge to transform the earth into gold, hate in love, plants in soft fragrances, water in fierce rays of light, fire in heavenly food; or that of a doctor who teaches us sound knowledge, always condemning, that the health of the body is in line with the health of the soul, that a healthy soul will always have a healthy body; or that of a humanist, who defends the moral side of man, and exalts us to defend his conception that man is the center of the universe, that human dignity is a fundamental virtue that legitimizes every rule of law, and not let ourselves be duped for the idea of ​​a man imprisoned for the illusion of progress, his motto is: no to the man-thing !; or that of a prophet who proclaims the advent of the new Messiah who comes to save the men who have done good, tells us God is in us! Make his person the temple of God. That is our teaching. No titles or honors. Without perishable teachers. Only the voices of men who have sought the light to live better in the shadows, who teach us to live life and to live death.

Everything was going well until I asked him where he was going, he got nervous and told me that he would get off later. He became serious again and remained silent.

I was intrigued by his emotional maturity, because he did not act like a child his age, he was really an exceptional child, extremely intelligent, or at least, a child with a great imagination.

Just upon reaching the highway of Lencero-Xalapa, he broke the silence and told me that he was getting off. The place he had chosen was unpopulated, and at that time of the morning it was extremely dark, not even the moonlight would help him. I stopped the march and parked. Before getting off, Plash without turning to see me, he told me to listen to what he had written, from the left bag of his pants he took out a yellowed sheet of paper all wrinkled, rested it on the thigh of his left leg and tried to undo it, of course He succeeded, he was content to read what he had written:

“The wind stopped, the silence penetrated where they never expected it; the ego and the simplicity of our lives, their spaces and their forces, the instants of their voices are set and lash out against the being of the One, immeasurable moments, moments that personify the absolute spirit.

The wind felt sad.

Dried flower leaves and lost branches, faint green that gives us life, and we still wonder.

Where was the laugh of clear water?

The wind lashed out at all the naked beings who dared to go to sea in broad daylight, against those who stole the laugh of the clear water.

Science that tells us only part of the truth of life, the other slips between rites and praise of happiness; The other life is still waiting to be lived.

Signatures of the kind, immaculate chant of the absent gods, their altars summarize the history of mankind.

Singing to love and tenderness!

Laments and prayers for the lost, the most sacred: tears, despair, passion.

Today is the day, today our souls must stop laughing, become serious and learn to love beyond reason, beyond the word love.

The dark thoughts will return, and the navigator without rowing will get tired and drown.

Before leaving he will sing the lullaby that the crickets sang to him, the green jumpers that swirled under his hammock, and kept him awake all day.

Finally, he will teach us to swim in the ocean of passions and deaf dialogues, he will restore our love to nothingness, to chaos, and he will die for our lives, and he will live for his gaze that is what really belongs to him.

The hurricane winds will return and they will cut our heads so that we learn to think with our feet, and our nails are the syllables and consonants with which we will make the verses of the resurrection.

We will learn to respect the spring, and we will be pleased to see the pastures grow among the cobblestones of the streets, to see the births of the birds and to realize that they do not belong to us, that their lives run parallel, indifferent, even if we try to kick them to show them that we are the masters, and let's only see their inert bodies that don't listen to us.

Ears that listen to the solidarity dialogue of the ants, eyes that have gone blind before the radiance of your birth, absolutely silent, the dialogues of the elephants will become audible, they will talk about our prejudices, our selfishness, and without that we can avoid it, we will continue to think that the realm of the intelligible belongs to us.

We will confess to our parents, that we never knew how to overcome the hatred that they inherited from us, that we continue carrying it on our backs, that the love we promised them was lost among our sciences.

The days and nights will return, they will dance and in their celestial dances the lights will be confused with the shadows, the calendar will have a single day, a single month, a single year, a single century, a single time.

We will throw time through the window, and we will be guided by smell, and measure our distances with the knots of our thoughts.

We will feel that we are born and we will green again in the middle of a desert that was never more than a garbage in our eyes.

The eyes of the blind will see again, but not the world of lightness, but the world of light that led the madmen to reveal themselves against the unity of reason and morality.

Unexpected affections that oscillate between love and restlessness, gale of signifiers that petrify mobility, and throw us into the world of chance, of pure contingency, the realm of death.

So we will remain after discovering that love has its vertex in the possibility of the impossibility of being, bodies with two souls that try to be one.

Suddenly thoughts without mercy will be present, which will savagely drag us and break our supposed completeness, we will be scattered in a thousand pieces that will move away to distant spaces where it is not possible for them to touch.

If there is something that resembles death in life, it will be that moment.

What is love? The demand to be possessed by another singular that saves us from multiplicity, that makes us poetry for a moment and a thing throughout our lives.

Let us not be sure of that vital confirmation, on the contrary, we doubt that encounter, of that moment in which we can prove a little of eternity; that is why our souls are debated in ambivalence, our hearts insist, our reasons claudicate, and perversely mock our deceived desires.

Never forget that no one will look with our eyes, nor will our hearts share the joy of their passions. ”

Now that I am writing this story to you, I wonder if all this was nothing more than a dream, because I think the existence of Plash seems unreal, and the content of his speech is unlikely. Small transgressor that contradicts the etymology of the word "infant", without a word; Story of a ghost with verb.

Before fading away, getting lost, leaving us, Plash gave me this poem for you:

“Next to your cause, which is the river that cooes my dream.

Next to the wooden house that retains the sap of nature.

Together with your memory that sharpens my senses.

Ears that listen to the solidarity dialogue of the ants.

Eyes that have gone blind before the glow of your birth. ”

I must confess that the news of your arrival has transformed my life, even my daily activities are full and virtuous, you have made things that were indifferent to me, to be the object of my attention and praise. In short, you have made my thoughts and actions have direction and meaning, reveries that transport me to the moment of origin. The reflections come from unknown parts of my being, and as Socrates said, there is a genius who takes possession of our language and speaks for us, that other freed from the world of need that can reason the eternal, the timeless.