Another version. Or vision. There are four Trojan horses at the gates of the castle; or four Trojan horsemen, which is more modern. And less epic and not Homeric at all. At the gates of the castle. And, now, some pretend to be innocent, hurt and censored artists because they were discovered. I don't know exactly how many kilometers the coast of Lanzarote has, where the horses could lap in peace. But I do know the kilometers of the invisible feather duster they drag.
It is art, without a doubt, the horses, the art of war with a trap. Of the ambush, of the hawk to the dove. Isn't it, Jason? I tell you or tell him, unfortunate ?devoid of joy?, that you should never take off your helmet. Not even to sleep. Between the unnamable, deeper than the amplituhedron and more defined than the scutoid, I wait for you. Eternally. Pierced by arrows, knives, spears, bullets... Because a bird, precisely a bird, pointed me out and made me see through me the geometry of 'before' and 'after'. The invisible lines of everything that connect and drive the 'now'. The ones that sustain the reverie of space and time. It would be for something a bird?
Let's go back to the horses. So there they are. The horses. Too bad there are no brave warriors inside. The old and ancestral art of war, the plot ?I, who am very much of Heraclitus, will always await the return of war; the clean one?. Let's make a small truce, and maintain peace for as long as possible, as if it were eternity. It will always be a truce. Now, let's be compassionate as appropriate and bring them some fresh water. Or better yet, let's move them to the gates of the Canal de Isabel II. There they will not lack water. Nor novelties. Everyone is there. And so we will continue to build history between breads for four and water for another four.
This is another story of the conejera flight in which Jason, with a lowercase j, is not looking for the golden fleece for himself. He takes the gold; the throne is in exchange for the one with the helmet, whose face is harder than the concrete of the horses of that Jason, with a lowercase j. They almost succeeded; a little more luck and they even get oil. They think about luck. And may Homer and Heraclitus and Jason, with a capital J, forgive me for naming them in such a mess. Horse droppings.
Now, they are not stupid. To enter the castle they brought: "Taylor, who is said to have achieved worldwide recognition as one of the first artists to integrate the creation of contemporary art with the conservation of life." That's why they are so hurt, with the so-called renaissance of Caesar. Damn Foundation! they cry. That was it: Caesar is dead, Taylor has arrived! That is Jason, the one with the lowercase j, and his court. If they had won, they would have paraded the horses in procession through the island. One would have been left in the pool of the Jameos, another in Famara, another in Stratvs and, of course, the last one, all together with great celebration and reporting and platform, in the puddle of San Ginés. Come on, an Oscar-winning movie.
Because the other is to leave them there, but that would be abusive. It's like leaving someone in the trenches of the siege when it's all over. And I'm not telling you if there are people inside, waiting for the assault, seeing the evolution of the world without windows from the entrails of a horse.
And as art, without further ado, what do you want me to tell you, between the concrete-filled horses as a symbol of conservation, I'll stick with the cans of preserves full of shit from that Manzoni
And as art, without further ado, what do you want me to tell you, between the concrete-filled horses as a symbol of conservation, I'll stick with the cans of preserves full of shit from that Manzoni. And years have passed. And bullshit stories. And there we go, whether it's plaster, concrete, shit or dung. Preserves of conservation and art and contemporary. And save me a fart for Monday. Packaged and on horseback.
Greta, Cook, Gaviria and Quiros
Greta has just gone to the UN by sailboat. The large ocean liners are being questioned for their levels of pollution. She puts the planes on the table. At the same time, Thomas Cook (November 22, 1808, Melbourne, Derbyshire, England - July 18, 1892, Leicester, England) was an English businessman known for being the first person to create an organized trip, when in 1841 he chartered a train with a group of people bound for an anti-alcohol congress in Loughborough. Although that first organized trip did not provide him with much economic success, Cook saw in that activity a possible future benefit, so years later he decided to create a travel agency, Thomas Cook & Son, considered the first in history (Wikipedia).
From that anti-alcohol congress came, things of life, millions and millions of drunks to drink without mercy to "their neocolonial paradises" of the world. Those neocolonialisms that, curiously, those who defend with more vehemence are the disoriented nationalists. Paradoxes? No. Golfing.
A boomerang flies through the air in time and space. It returns. It was launched effortlessly lightly and timelessly the day another Cook, the one of the Endeavour, landed in Australia, beginning for the aborigines a history of incalculable cruelty and pain. Bathed, of course, in alcohol. The boomerang does not follow a predictable route for the white man or his technology. It flies carried by a song that is a path that only he can interpret. There will be as always many innocent victims. Especially those who continue to insist on following the path of the Cooks and drag their own. Cook is cooking, you know, the story of the crabs and the pot.
I will never forget the sentence of Mario Gaviria, National Environment Award and author of the first study on mass tourism in this country, Spain a go-go. Charter tourism and neocolonialism of space. When we visited him to learn about the world of tourism for El Guincho, he told us literally: "The day there is one more Englishman than a German in Lanzarote, they are finished." He will know why he said it. Me too. And I also know who broke their asses for the English. Yesterday, at 'Tiempo' that Cook, one gave himself seven blows against the wall. And for me, that when time compresses me and I enter what I call the Aleph state, everything is amazing.
The Fisheries Society that was set up in La Graciosa at the time, also derived from the reports and intentions of another Englishman, George Glass, was called Colonia Quiros. Today, just today, a photo that they sent me a while ago of a building still standing from that colony comes up in my Facebook memories. I was always curious to know who the Quiros guy could be. Today, following the music of the boomerang, I find that he was a Portuguese navigator who worked for Spain and who was looking for the man, like a Columbus, to Australia. He was looking for Australia! The Terra Australis Ignota. Even there they evolved in peace. And the one of the whisper freed us because neither the Colonia Quiros prospered nor the note found Australia, taking us out of that black history and its consequences. That as it is English, it was never so black. I follow the music. I'll tell you.
