When someone calls you a squire, in this case of Berto, you feel flattered, especially if you live in a place called Lanzarote where there are even mysterious engravings of the Templars. That's because I invent the sense of protector, of shield. Because if I go to the internet and look at what comes out in the wiki and around there, I think you didn't mean that. I never lived in his house, although I accept serving him with honor. But I never used any weapon. And I would have been his servant if he had asked me, but without pay. That doesn't fit in a conventional squire either. Ha, ha, ha! You make it very easy for me with the knight Lancelot, the servants and the rewards. But I'll leave it. Let's go there.
I'm going to allow myself to beat my life. As a squire. From ancient times to now. If crying is an inexhaustible waterfall, in order for it to happen, there has to be a wall of solid stone behind it, from where it falls. So don't think that those who cry a lot are weak. But if you try to make that stone a value, a definition, a creed, a theory, a position, then it breaks and soon the place ends up leveling out and becomes a river. To be stone and cry, cry without stopping to remain stone. Because if you don't cry, the stone cracks and ends up giving way anyway. From thirst, it goes away.
My soul unfolds and inhabits that hollow, fresh, undulating space that exists between the waterfall and the stone. Where the light is always reverberating magic with the irregular impulses of crying. That is my existential placenta. Between the solid pain of stony resistance and ethereal joy. I have not the remotest idea of what God is, nor do I have the remotest idea of what the material universe is, nor of whether they exist. I have not the remotest idea of beginnings or endings, only flashes, lights that cross the crying as they fall and bounce off the wet stone creating infinite possibilities of everything at every moment.
And the sound. And after it, as the waterfall falls and bounces thunderously in the pool of charms, the words arise. Then, downstream they will fill the oceans of the world with stories and their symbols. But I can tell you one thing, living between the stone and the crying, I have seen them pass before they were words and stories and symbols. When they are only light and sound. That I can whisper to you.
In time and at ease, when you leave or your mind escapes downstream and you enter the ocean to leave yours, you find a steel portal with a sign that says: "If you enter, live and let live". Which means kill and let kill. Or steal and let steal. Or lie and let lie. Or speculate and let speculate. Or humiliate yourself and let humiliate. In short, the other is not you. THE OTHER IS NOT YOU (this sign is in graphene). That is the sound of the ocean of the civilized world today. The one we inhabit.
They call it living in peace, being independent. And I, who do not live in peace, and depend on everyone, even so, already almost mimicked in that habitable world, I leave mine. And so it will be as long as the oceans allow it. Some night, they will reverse the flow and the already disenchanted stories will go upstream and erase everything. And perhaps some symbol will remain engraved in the hard stone when the oceans of stories retreat. But, by the time we can interpret them again, Narcissus will have turned them into mirrors. And we will see ourselves as sapiens, one per mirror. Then, the mirrors will become distorted over time and the narcissists will not be able to stand each other. And they will create temples, and they will create a multitude of screens that return a happy image to them. Or more horrible than them. And they will shout neurotically live and let live! to death. And many will even form armies and become engaged to her. To kill for love. To the others.
This is a story that flows down the river towards the ocean. A woman was raped; she didn't say no, clearly and loudly, according to eyewitnesses who did nothing because the 'pack' was powerful. They say she didn't offer the slightest opposition. She even seemed to give herself sweetly and put herself in positions that didn't force her. Moreover, she seemed to caress someone who hit her 'dead' harder. Many said another one, another one, they are whores. And that one, big. The biggest one. Even so, she couldn't save her son, she was pregnant. At this rate that will be an illegal abortion. They will say: she went out that night to have an abortion.
This is another one. A sad story about seahorses and ordinary people, taken from the ocean of the world. They are an endangered species, but they are still being captured, by the millions. Seahorses are one of the most extraordinary beings on the planet. They are protected by the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species in China, but the stores are full of jars containing them as if they were normal products. These sea goblins are used in local medicine as a powerful aphrodisiac. Meanwhile, here, we harass homeopathy. Perhaps, if homeopathy were sold as an aphrodisiac, they would leave it alone (now the Chinese are trending) and the rapists would not have to consume Viagra, so as not to look bad in front of the 'pack'. And break well, to the entrails, the damn life. The other life. The one of others.
That's how torturers are, in the street and in the basements of prisons and in unexpected places. And someone whispers a long time ago, always present, always everyone: "I will walk the streets again of what was Santiago bloodied and in a beautiful liberated square I will stop to cry for the absent ones".
And this I saw written in the depths of the stone. At the bottom of the ocean of the world. When I arrived almost without air: "The thought that is not thought is possession. Not knowing how to distinguish it is to be Market, to be marked, cattle, which is lost for you, but gained for the market. Learning to distinguish it is evolution. It is not technology that is evolution, this will be evolution or involution depending on whether we are free to think or whether we are cattle thought. And above all and above all if we do not lose human relations as a north. Those relationships where we can contrast with the heart and the guts and what is not seen, if our thoughts are ours or if they are thinking them to us in the naive solitude of each one. Or in the political cultural back room. Inside the cattle. Market economy they call it, it could be economy of marked ones. Or worse, led!".
Polygraph question: Mr. Judge, tell me, have you been aroused listening to the statements of the victim, the accused and the witnesses in this rape case? Did something rise in the deep and dark behind the table and the robe? If so, don't you think you should have stood up and refrained from judging? And if you still judged, what would be the crime, yours? I remind you that you are connected to a lie detector. You may not answer.
Did you ever confess a wank as a child? Do you remember the questions, the details he asked for, the sighs? After a few times I went ahead, I knelt down as they asked and looked him straight in the face. He gave me a tremendous slap. I got up free. And I knew that everyone who inhabited that temple knew. My parents never took me there. I was going for the priest's movie tickets. The second slap from a priest was in the cinema. They were showing The Passion of Christ and all the older children than me were crying or pretending to cry. The priest saw me so calm and invited me to cry. As I couldn't, he gave me another tremendous slap. More free.
But the biggest one was in the OJE, that 'fun' thing of Franco. And I still wonder if it's worth telling. Everything is healed now. And it wasn't a slap and it didn't make me more free, until many years later I faced the situation standing up. That child and his response at that moment to what was the elite and conejero power, and his conscious resilience, has been my secret hero all my life, my guide, my child, my star. How not to be faithful to him? How not to allow him to grow?
Now, as of today, they invent materials that superimposed on others make them invisible. For me it is the greatest invention of all, the most revolutionary. Because it will help us understand that what we see and what we don't see has little to do with what we see and what we don't see. Those long black suits were the first technological test. Some reflected an invisible god, others a blind goddess. Quite a couple. They always, always played for the one they were covering up. And when you question them, they answer, so what do you want, the justice of the people? Strange answer. But logical if there is no people.
When I talk about the black suits, I clarify, I only refer to those who have 'organs' of power and use it. And also to the purple ones and even the white dove. And even the pink one for more defects that it takes out of me. And no matter how big their roots are and how powerful their spokesmen are and even those who cleanly appreciate them. Because I have the peace of mind that I have more defects than they can imagine. But they are my defects, they have not been sold. And because deep down we respect each other, even if we get on each other's nerves.
The other night, some kids woke me up very late to deliver a shearwater. That in such a short time. Barely forty years of a simple life. And on the other hand the guinchos almost disappear and the crying returns. I don't know if the defense of a single Rosa will bring those emotions. I certainly don't know. And I don't know if it's for money; I never knew a child who played or fought for it. You know, there are drug-dealing policemen who deploy all their potential to catch and accuse and lock up the simple sellers of four joints. And yes, it's wrong to sell four joints, but I'm not going to tell you what a policeman like that means.
I'm not going to be the one to remind you that the thing about being an integral individual falls apart when we cross paths. I don't know why. I, if I tell you the truth, I'm glad, we are the people. Although it doesn't exist, but at least we are the probability. I don't know if you know that this world is only probabilities. Well, that's what science says and with that they make fantastic gadgets.
Ah! And I'm not his squire, it's simpler. I love him. I also don't know if you know what it is to love another man without being gay. I intuit that if you knew it you would have said it like that. You know us well, you say, from the beginning; maybe you thought you would go too far if you said Berto, Ginés' love. Well yes, I love him, tenderly and unconditionally. And one of the things I like most about him is that he doesn't need a squire, neither to defend him nor to attend to him: he is completely and healthily crazy. But if he ever needed it, I would give him my life and all that they call reputation (which you see sounds like a whore). Does anyone of your 'allies' (I'm not talking about friends) love you like that? I hope so. I always liked you and I like how you write. And I despise what you hide for how you are using it, not because you know it and tell it. That is your honorable work. But, all together, I am happy when I see you. And I insist, I don't know why you slip away. I am sure it is not because you consider yourself better than me, even if you were. I know it's not for that.
You know, countryman? One no longer has the desire or the sense to fight, but sometimes it can get to me and then I ask myself who am I? And what can get to me? I get very close sometimes, but the ocean is already roaring. So at least today I am aware that something can get to me and that the ocean is roaring. From there, as always, one opens up to the experience, which is yours, mine and everyone's. The world is strange. And I can't face it separately even if we discuss together. It is a glorious fortune that we only discuss, and that when there is no other option, we have more fortune and we get a black robe that is simply a normal judge. In short, that he does not have an 'organ' of power. But the events of always and last indicate that this is almost a utopia. And the ocean roars. Without seahorses.
