“Before our marriage I never touched my wife.” That moral declaration was made by Don Castulio to his compadre Pitoldo. He replied: “My case is very different. I did do that. But then I did not know that she was going to marry you.” The story that follows would surely have been objected to the same by Mrs. Amy Vanderbilt, teacher of good taste, as by Don Manuel Antonio Carreño, arbiter of civility and good manners. This man had a closed beard, so much so that when he shaved the cannons on his cheeks were visible. The canyons are the roots of the beard hair, those so strong that they cannot be removed even with a close shave. It was with a barber who told him: “I am going to shave it in such a way that I will shave it. Please put this porcelain ball in your mouth. This way the cheek will be rounded and the shave will be more thorough.” The customer objected uneasily: “Hey, teacher, what if I swallowed the ball?” “No problem, sir,” the figaro reassured him. “Bring it to me tomorrow, like all those who swallow it.” At the velodrome, the famous cyclist went around and around the track, tirelessly, pedaling at full speed on his bike. Babalucas’s friend said to the badulaque with annoyance: “Frankly, Baba, this is not what I had in mind when you told me that you were going to take me to see the best legs in town.” In the course of Madero’s presidential campaign, a buster in the service of the Porfiriato asked the Coahuilense at the end of one of his speeches: “If you are so concerned about the poor, why don’t you distribute their wealth among them so that they can buy bread?” . At once the Apostle replied: “The people are not hungry for bread. They are hungry for freedom.” Well, today the Cuban people are hungry for two things: food for the body and freedom for the mind and spirit. It is very possible that the invitation made by López Obrador to Miguel Díaz-Canel, president of Cuba, to attend the celebrations of Independence, has been a cause of annoyance for North American diplomacy, although the leader of the 4T has also invited the President of the United States to come on the 27th, anniversary of the entry into Mexico City of the Trigarante Army. That date has little political significance compared to the traditional party on the 16th. Hence, perhaps Biden declined the invitation and appointed a representative to attend that minor event in his place. There is no doubt: Mexico’s relations with the neighboring nation are being managed in an unwise manner. Certainly not even the most devoted parishioner of AMLO could go so far as to qualify him as a statesman. His sayings and attitudes are more like those of a mayor of a small town. At least, I say, the Tabasco should act as a politician who looks out for the interest of his nation instead of cultivating obsolete dogmatisms that seem inspired by the reading of Rius’s monkeys from 50 years ago. There is no point in continually bothering the bald eagle that has us by the hair, said that to avoid the allusion to considerably more sensitive regions, but which cannot be mentioned here out of respect for Mexican families. In handling our dealings with our neighbor to the north, we must have more left hand and less leftism. A sad and cariacontecida lady recounted at the Thursday afternoon snack: “I caught my husband making love.” Another of those present reassured her: “Don’t worry. I think that 50 percent of us who are here fish for our husbands using the same method.” END.
I’m thinking geez
and with sadness I quote it,
that that traditional cry
it will only be: “Ay!”
ARMANDO SOURCES AGUIRRE
The water runs through the ditch that passes at the foot of my window in the Potrero de Ábrego house.
It’s midnight. The world is asleep. I do not. I am awake in the middle of the shadow. I see nothing, and nothing sees me. Everything has stopped. I only hear nearby the murmur of the water, and there far away the insomniac barking of a dog barking at itself.
Sleep does not come. Could it be that I locked the door of the room and could not enter? If I counted to 100, as my grandfather recommended, maybe I could sleep. But I count up to myself and I don’t sleep. The dream is gone, and dreams no longer live here.
The water would lull me, but it has work. They have commissioned him to water the garden that I baptized with the name of my wife: María de la Luz, and he still has a long way to go to reach the garden. How can she spend time lulling a man who doesn’t even know how to sleep anymore? If only it were a boy, or a girl who has not yet learned to daydream.
The water runs through the ditch and goes away.
Life runs through me, and copies the water.