Eastern Breaks

I am aware that the unwritten rules of bloggers specifically forbid not writing for long periods neglecting your readership.

I'm sorry, I was abroad and, you know, it was not my intention.

Besides, except for you and myself, there is no such readership here either. It's hard to really care.

Just bear with me, OK? I have this childhood trauma that makes me afraid of not being loved anymore if I don't keep myself performing up to the expectations.

The paralyzing fear that, precisely and preciously, prevents me from performing up to the expectations.

Aaah, *inhales deeply* the wonderful aroma of everlasting childhood traumas.

--- Any way.

This Eastern holidays I went to Austria to join the rest of my tribe, which went a couple of weeks earlier to honour the grandparents with their just doses of running and screaming children.

Eastern for everyone.

I still haven't made my mind about whether or not letting my children join in these pagan celebrations, which, once more, is merely based on buying and spending money.

For the time being, I decided the best is to allow the grandparents celebrate their culture with their grandchildren while not joining neither direct or indirectly myself.

In Spain, luckily, the Holy Inquisition seems to have made a point in our culture, for, apparently, they succeed at making sure that no whitey magic rabbit goes to no garden giving chocolate to no child.

Ah-ah, no way, not in my backyard garden, you nigger.

The whole idea of Eastern is quite unknown back at home. Semana Santa (Holy Week), that is what it is.

We stick to the good old Catholic tradition of scaring the shit out of children and freshly arrived Negroes by suddenly flooding the streets bearing candles and going all gloomy and mad-eyed, dressing like Ku Klux Klan people, while we chase around the city our fake wooden idols.

I still remember when they put Alameda Principal's street lamps' lights off, and those crazy Opus Dei people passed by with their candles and the dreary chanting of the rosary. Jesus Christ! That was religion at its best, boy! No way to masturbate in peace after that.

I think I prefer it to the rabbit thingie, anyway. An uncharismatic unnamed rabbit laying eggs for the children of the world. Quite dull and pointless really.

At least, in our stuff, except for the highly profitable rental by the holy archbishopric of Málaga of chairs and places to watch first row the processions around the city, the charging by the different churches of their respective brotherhood fees for those willing to participate in them, the sale of official costumes and candles, and of nuts and snacks to keep oneself fed during the entertainment of God's son's horrible torment, there is no focus on making money and stimulating the consumption habits of the folk.

Stupid pagan rabbit and stupid pagan chocolate. Trial by ordeal and penance is what you need.


Anyway, I just wanted to say that being back in Austria this Eastern, going through old stuff left behind, I found some of my poems of the Austrian period, most of which, actually, went down the drain back then, due to their ability of making me puke and feel disgusted with myself.

I found in surprise that those that managed to survive the ethnic cleansing by hiding in pockets and on the back side of degrading work contracts, in fact, were not so bad. Not that they are my best, mind you, but they are not my worst either.

I had wondered sometimes how come that, so often, when reading a writer's biography, it comes the part in which they go on mad sprees and destroy important parts of their works in a frenzy. Is it that they didn't read, in turn, other writers' biographies as to know that they shouldn't do that themselves?

Now I know.

Not that I want to openly present myself as one of tomorrow's great writers, god forgiving.

What I want to say is that I guess that I have understood that it works in a similar, I assume much more familiar way to us, as in, after a fight, one feels annoyed and/or disgusted by the person he is in love with.

That annoying way of eating. That stupid way of breathing. Huuummpf! *bites tongue between the teeth, in rage* I would punch him on that stupid ugly face of a moron.

Ah... what a loss. I should have never destroyed those poems.

I will try to remember all this next time Veronika sends me to fucking hell, and, in turn, I tell her to go and fuck herself in a bloody fucking fuck of flying monkeys hell.