For: Angel Luis Lara, "the Russian"
From: Sub. Marcos
Russian, brother: First, a hug. Second, a bit of advice: I think that you would have done well to change the pseudonym, so that you won't be confused by the Chechens. If so, goodbye Aguascalientes and goodbye to one of the best rockers of our time.
The date (the 12th of October) in which I begin to write you these lines is not accidental (nothing is it accidental for the Zapatistas), nor is it an absurd bridge, on this day, that tries to stretch to the place where you are working to prepare for the inception of the Aguascalientes in Madrid.
I am sure that it will go very well for you and that the absence of the imbecile from Aznar (who, as his name indicates, is only missing the bray) and of the constipated little king Juan Carlos will go unnoticed until the magazine comes. Hello!
But tell each and everyone that those who are with you in this heroic project will not pay for it in hell. A magazine (deported, for sure) is about to come out that is named Defiance that, and do not doubt it, will have a "Social" section where you guys will be able to insert a review that puts the marriage of the princess in the category of "child weddings."
Moreover, the famous magazine Defiance will surely be consistent and the first that they make will rebel against spelling, so that they do not invest much in the paid insertion. Certainly, if it has photos it will be more expensive (unless they are porn) and the price, I lament to inform you, is not in Euros, but in Marks, since over there they prefer a strong currency.
There will be no whimpers if the royalty doesn't attend. On the other hand, I think that men, women, children and elderly, not only of the Iberian peninsula, but all over, will abound. If they are there everything will be a success. But, I should let you know that following the success of those at the bottom always appears the police. Because those at the bottom should only cry and be resigned, this is what the edict says, I do not know which number, that the crown sent out I don't know when, but by the rhythm of the batons of the Civil Guard they all march with your Aguascalientes to the prison, or to the cemetery, which is the place that Spanish "democracy" has for the Iberian rebels.
I know well that it is not only from the Spanish state that will there be people who attend the fiesta of the rebellion that this Aguascalientes signifies, but it will be the majority of the people.
We can't go, but we plan to invade Europe soon and, as you might imagine, everyone here already has luggage ready (of course, their luggage could be called two bundles of tortillas, a plate of rancid beans, two bottles of pozol and chile at your discretion) and, however, no one has life preservers at hand.
The most cautious carry pills for the sickness and ask, naively, if we're going to have "bathroom stops."
But this isn't the worst, as it turns out I can't convince them that with kayaks (canoes made with a tree trunk) we aren't going to get very far.
Clearly there's no need to make much of the detail that Chiapas has no outlet onto the Atlantic ocean, and that of course we have nothing with which to pay the Panama Canal toll; we will have to turn towards the Pacific, skirt the Philippines, India, and Africa and end up at the Canary Islands.
Because it would be undesirable to arrive by land. We would have to cross Mongolia, the debris of the USSR - where we'd have to take care saying that we were going to see the "Russian" and hope that they would correct us - Western Europe, pass through France to supply ourselves with "Chateau Neuf Du Pape, harvested in 69", ( I already joked with the wines), turn towards Italy and stuff ourselves with pasta, and afterwards cross the Pyrennees. It's not that the long walk tires us, but with so much bustle, the uniform gets messed up.
Meanwhile, the enthusiasm among the future crew is almost as abundant as the vomit (by the way, I saw a comrade "chewing" and asked him why he is vomiting if we haven't yet embarked. "It is that I'm training myself" he says to me with that indisputable logic that comes from in the Southeast mountains of Mexico.
What was I saying? Oh yes - That we are not going to be able to go to the inauguration of the Aguascalientes because we're "training ourselves," as the comrade says, for the expedition.
It's important that you don't tell anyone that we're going to invade the Iberian Peninsula (the first pass by Lanzarote, where we will have ourselves a cup of coffee with Saramago and Pilar) because you already know how the monarchy is, again and again it gets nervous and for the nervousness gives itself a vacation with the infants and buffoons (or it could be that I refer to Felipillo González and to Pepillo Aznar, who, I repeat, carry penitence in their names).
Besides, to speak badly of the monarchy can cost you; at minimum, they oust you from the area. What has occurred to them is to make the Aguascalientes in an "occupied location," because the headquarters should belong to the decent people; no one doubts that there is more nobility in any occupied house than in El Escorial.
Damn! Already I have inserted myself again into royalty, but I shouldn't do it, because when one puts himself in a bucket of trash he ends up smelling like shit, and that odor doesn't come off, even with bottles of adulterated perfume that they sell in the English court.
Fine, say yes to the piracy but not to the dispersion, so I retake the thread of this monologue that has the great advantage that you can't speak or be pious, as when you're in front of the Benemérita Civil Guard that, if you will permit me to say so, neither is a guard nor is it civil, but it's already known that the world of power is full of incoherence.
What? Did I go off on a tangent? You're right, shit, it's just that the prospective of losing the reheated Gallego broth that they will be distributing because they haven't got a penny left for something more, makes me, let's say, restless.
I said that the date of this letter is not accidental, that if this writing begins October 12 to salute the Aguascalientes project it means something.
In some sectors people have the erroneous idea that the situation of the Indian people of Mexico is due to the Spanish Conquest. And it's not that Hernán Cortés and other scoundrels of armor and cassocks that accompanied him have been benevolent, but that compared to the neo-liberal governors of today, they are brothers of charity.
From the men and women of dignified Spain we have only received brotherly words, unconditional solidarity, attentive ears, helping hands that salute, that embrace.
So pardon me Father Hidalgo, but we Zapatistas shout: "Down with neo-liberals! Up with Spaniards!"
I imagine that over there there must be a group from Catalon'a that plays a mean ranchero, but in the job there's nobody to carry the rhythm. And also should come those from Galicia, from Asturias, from Cantabria, from Andaluc'a, from Murcia, from Extremadura, from Valencia, from Aragón, from La Rioja, from Castilla-León, from Castilla-La Mancha, from Navarra, from the Islas Baleares, from the Canary Islands and from Madrid. Give all of them a hearty embrace for our part, that is for all of us. Because with so many brothers and sisters, and all of them so big, our arms have grown by the force of our affection for you.
What? I have left out the Basque country? No, I don't want to ask you to permit me to make a special mention of these brothers and sisters.
Well I know that that grotesque clown, the self-named judge Garzón, from the hand of the Spanish political class (which is as ridiculous as the court, but without this discrete charm that we get from - How have you been, Duchess -Well, baron, I don´t miss for anything Phillip's jester because Pepillo is as funny as he was. By the way, you would do well to zip up your fly, baron, don't let it happen that you catch a cold, which is the only thing you could catch in the court, etc., is bringing forth true state terrorism that no honest man or woman could see without becoming indignant.
Yes, the clown Garzón has declared the political struggle of the Basque Country illegal. After ridiculously catching Pinochet with that tall tale (the only thing he did is take expenses-paid vacations), he demonstrates his true fascist vocation by denying the Basque people the right to fight politically for a legitimate cause.
And I won't say anything more because╔yes. But that here we have seen many Basque brothers and sisters. They were in our peace camps. They did not come to tell us what to do, nor did they teach us to make bombs, nor to plan attacks.
Because here the only bombs are Chiapans that, unlike the Yucatan's, never rhyme.
Because here Olivio comes and tells me that if I give him a few walnut chocolates that they gave me because, they gossip, I am veeerry sick, then he will recite me a bomb.
"Fine," I tell him as I see that the chocolates are already moldy. And Olivio raises his voice when he recites: 'Bomb, bomb: in the patio at my house there is an orange bush, how cute your sister is."
I don't get too offended by the bit about my sister, but by the lack of rhyme, and I give Olivio the chocolates anyway.... but in the head, because I throw them while chasing him until I'm exhausted, which is after the first few steps.
What's more, here the only attempts against good musical taste are when I get hold of a guitar and intone, with my unmatchable baritone, something that goes 'whenever I get drunk, it's said that something happens to me, I go straight to see you, and I end up in the wrong hammock."
I'm sure that if Manu Chao hears me he'll hire me. That is, provided that I don't pay for two strings I broke when, hand to hand with the insurgents I was singing that one about the Schitzophrenic Cow. Or was it Crazy Cow? Anyway, if you go by there give a hand to Manu and tell him nothing more than that we'll pardon him about the strings when we meet in the next station which, as it's known, is called "Hope."
And if Manu doesn't hire me, then I'll go to the group from Amparo. Although they might have to change their name, and instead of "Amparonoia" I would call it "Amparophobia," by that which any one of my critics also globalizes.
In the end, what terrorists lack more than anything is vocation and no means.
But, well, it so happens that here there have been brothers from the Basque country and they have carried themselves with dignity, which is how basques themselves act.
And I don't know if Ferm'n Muguruza is around your way, but I remember that one time when he was here they asked him where he was from and he said "Basque," and they asked again: "Basque of Spain or Basque of France?" And Ferm'n didn't even bat an eyelid when he responded "Basque from the Basque country."
And I was looking for something in basque to send as a greeting to the brothers and sisters of that country, and I didn't find much, but I don't know if my dictionary is good because I looked up how to say "dignity" in basque, and the Zapatista dictionary said "Euskal Herria." Ask them if that's right for me, or even better, I'll go back.
Finally, what neither Garzón nor his cronies know is that there are times when dignity becomes a hedgehog, and ouch! from there they attempt to smash it.
Fiesta of the Rebellion
Well, I told you before that the Aguascalientes should be a fiesta of rebellion, a thing that none of the political parties like....
-They are a fraud! - Durito interrupts me.
- But.... wait, Durito, I'm not even talking about Mexican political parties.
- I'm not talking about those frauds, but internet porn pages.
-But Durito, in the jungle we don't have internet.
-We don't have it? It sounds like the European Union. I have it. With a little ingenuity and another little thing I've converted one of my antennas into a powerful satellite modem.
- And you must know, walking postmodern gentleman, why the internet porn pages are frauds?
-Well because there's not a single photo with lady scarabs in it, not even nude, damn, not even with one of those knickers of "dental floss," as they say.
-Sure! Fuck! Aren't you writing to those spanishistas? &endash;Durito says and asks while he jams on a beret.
-Knickers? &endash; I repeat, trying to avoid the inevitable, being that Durito gets a hand into what I'm writing, because for this he's got too many hands and too much impertinence.
-Let's see, hmm hmm &endash; murmurs Durito already leaning over my shoulder.
- Russian? Are you writing to Putin? I wouldn't recommend it, don't let it happen that he sends one of those gases, not even the ones you lay when you eat too many beans.
- Look, Durito, let's not start revealing intimate things, because right here I have a letter that the Pentagon sent you asking you for the formula for the development of ultratoxic gases.
- Ah! But I denied it. Because my gas, like my love, is neither bought nor sold, but I give it as a gift, because I am detached and I give things without looking to see if people deserve them &endash;Durito says with an andalucian accent that must fuck him up.
After a pause, he adds:
- And what is the subject of your writing, lad?
- And nothing, uncle, of what it's going to be, on rebellion and an Aguascalientes that they're going to open near Madrid &endash; I respond, infected by the flamenco that spreads in the country.
-Madrid? Which Madrid? The one of Aznar and the Benemérita? Or irreverent Madrid?
- Irreverent Madrid, of course. Although it wouldn't be strange that Aznar wants to get his hooves in on it.
- Magnificent! &endash; applauds and dances Durito in a way that revives Federico Garc'a Lorca and is made up of the little-known and unedited Soleá of the Epileptic Scarab.
When he finishes his dance, Durito orders:
-Write! I will dictate you my report.
- But Durito, you're not in the program. Not even if they have invited you.
- Sure, that's why the Russians don't like me. But it doesn't matter. Go, write. The title is "Rebellion and Chairs."
- Chairs? Durito, don't come out with another of your....
- Shut up! The idea comes from something Saramago and I wrote at the end of the last century and it's called "Chairs."
- Saramago? Do you mean José Saramago, the writer? &endash; I ask, perplexed.
- Of course. What, is there another? Well, it so happens that that day we drank to the point of falling out of said chair, and on the ground, with that perspective and lucidity of the underdogs, I say: Pepe, this little wine hits harder than Aznar's mule &endash; and he didn't say anything because he was looking for his glasses.
And then I say to him: - Something's happening to me, quickly José, the ideas are like beans with sausage, if you stop worrying another will come and we'll have brunch.
Saramago finally found his glasses and together we gave shape to that story, if I remember correctly, early in the eighties. Of course in the credit only his name appears, because we scarabs battle a lot over the rights of the author.
I want to abbreviate Durito's anecdotes so I urge: -The title's already there, what more?
-Well, it's about how the attitude that a human being assumes towards chairs is what defines them politically. The Revolutionary (like that, with capitals) looks with detachment at common chairs and says and says: "I don't have time to sit down, the weighty mission with which History (like that, with capitals) has entrusted me impedes me from distracting myself with silliness." This is the way he passes his life until he arrives in front of the seat of Power, knocks it down with a shot so that he can sit in it, and he sits with a knitted brow, as if he were constipated, and says and says, "History (like that, with capitals) has completed itself. Everything, absolutely everything, acquires meaning. I am in The Chair (like that, with capitals) and I am the culmination of our times." From there he continues until another Revolutionary (like that, with capitals) arrives, knocks him off and history (like that, with lower-case) repeats itself.
- The rebel (like that, with lower-case), on the other hand, when he looks at a chair, common and average, he analyzes it fixedly, and afterwards goes and nears another chair, and another, and another, and, within a short time, it looks like a book club because more rebels (like that, with lower-case) have arrived and begin to swarm with coffee, tobacco and words, and then, precisely when they begin to feel comfortable, they become restless, as if they had worms in the cauliflower, and nobody knows if it was the effects of the coffee or the tobacco or the words, but they all rise up and continue on their way. Until they encounter another common and average chair and history repeats itself.
- There is only one variation, when the rebel comes across the Seat of Power (like that, with upper-case), looks at it fixedly, analyzes it, but instead of sitting he goes for a file of the type for nails and, with heroic patience, he files the legs until, as he understands it, they are left so fragile that they will break when someone sits, which happens almost immediately. So, so.
- So, so? But Durito....
- Nothing, nothing. I already know that it is too arid and that theory should be velvety, but mine is the metatheory. I could be that they accuse me of being an anarchist, but value my report as a humble homage to the old Spanish anarchists, that there are those who silence their heroism and don't shine less for it.
Durito goes, although I'm sure that he would prefer to come back.
Well, let's leave joking to the side. Where was I before that armor-plated impertinence interrupted me.
Ah!, in that the Aguascalientes is a fiesta of rebellion.
And then, my dear Chechen, all that's missing to define is rebellion.
It could be enough for you to take a look at all the men and women that put it upon themselves to erect that Aguascalientes, and at all those who will attend its inauguration (not to the closing ceremony, because I'm sure the police will do that) so that obtain a definition, but since this is a letter, I should attempt to do it with words that, as eloquent as they may be, will never be forceful as seeing.
So, searching for a text that would serve me for this, I found a book that Javier Elorriaga lent me.
The little book is called New Ethiopia, and it is by a Basque poet named Bernardo Atxaga. There is a poem there called "Reggae of the Butterflies," which speaks of butterflies that fly in the inner sea and that will not have a place to land because the sea has neither islands nor rocks.
Well, I hope you pardon me, Bernardo if the synthesis is not as fortunate as your reggae, but it helps me with what I want to say to you.
Rebellion is like that butterfly that guides its flight towards this sea without islands or rocks.
No to logic!
No to prudence!
No to immobility!
No to conformity!
And nothing, absolutely nothing, will be as marvelous as seeing the journey of that flight, to estimate the challenge that it represents, to feel like it begins to stir the wind and see how, with those airs, it is not the leaves of the trees that tremble, but the knees of the powerful that until then naively thought that the butterflies died in the sea.
Well, yes, in my Muscovite appraisal, it is known that the butterflies, as is the rebellion, are contagious.
And there are butterflies, like rebels, in all colors.
Those who are blue are painted such that they are confused with the sky and the sea.
Those who are yellow are painted such that they are embraced by the sun.
The red ones are painted with rebellious blood.
The brown carry in waves the color of the land.
The green, like always are painted with the hope.
And all are skin, skin that shines without importance the color that it is painted.
And there are flights of each color.
And there are times that butterflies of all colors and from all parts get together and then there is a rainbow.
And the work of the butterflies, which is said in whatever encyclopedia, is to bring the rainbow down in a way that all the children can learn to fly.
And, speaking of butterflies and rebellions, it occurred to me that when they are all in a circle, or in their tribe, in front of the clown Garzon, and they ask them what they were doing in the Aguascalientes, you can respond, flying.
Although, they send you flying deported to Chechnya, the laughter will be heard until the mountains of Southeast Mexico.
And a laugh, brother, that will be enjoyed as much as music.
And speaking of music, I know the dance of the crab that has been the manner of the governments of Mexico, Spain, Italy and France, and it consists, in a gross way, of moving the hips and arms in the inverse fashion of hands of a clock.
And since we are the hands of a clock, if you see Manuel Vázquez Montalbán, give his hands a squeeze for us.
Tell him that I already learned that The Fox asked him if he knew why Marcos and the Zapatistas were in silence, and that he answered him: "They aren't in silence, what is happening is that you don't hear".
In passing, tell him that pork sausages are not like diamonds, that is to say, that they are not eternal, and that the ones that he sent, were finished some time ago, and that if he doesn't get handsome, let's say with some 5 kilograms, then we are going to take him and Pepe Carvahlo as hostages.
No, better not. Because they are not going to take us for terrorists and Bush, from the hand of the United Nations, strews us to the wind with another "humanitarian" war. Better that you send pork sausages, and in return I'll send the recipe for Marco's Special, for which - not for nothing - the chef of its majesty has asked me with useless insistence.
Good &endash; now I say goodbye. Keep letting me know which jail they throw them into, for when we pass by there.
No, don't think that it will be to free them &endash; it will be to assure ourselves that they are well enclosed, because all of you are crazy. It appears that, to inaugurate an Aguascalientes in Madrid.... The only thing missing is that they make an autonomous community inside a jail.
Anyway, we won't be able to send you cigars. But we can send tortillas and pozol, of course &endash; just as worthy as you.
Health to you. If it is a matter of reigning, then reign the rebellion. From the Southeast Mexican mountains.
Insurgent Subcommander Marcos
Mexico, October 2002.
P.S. As Eva said, if in the Spanish state (she said it like this, I think) they have videotapes because she wants to carry her collection of Pedro Infante movies. I told her that they have another system there. She asked me, "You're kidding, they don't have a neo-liberal government there?" I didn't respond, but I say to her now, "Commander Eva, what else could it do?"
- Don't think that I don't know that the Aguascalientes Rebels will also go to Italy, France, Greece, Switzerland, Germany, Denmark, Sweden, England, Ireland, Portugal, Belgium, Holland and etc. Greet them all and tell them that, if they behave badly, we will also.... invade. We're going to globalize the moldy tortilla and the rancid alcohol. We're going to see how the number of globalophobes grows geometrically.
The Subcommandante is being trained for the trip, that is to say "chewing" the chocolate with moldy walnuts that the Olivio left thrown on the ground.