[As always, just keep scrolling down for the latest EZLN translations and other, much more frivolous, topics]
They came, he talked, they listened. They talked, he listened.
I wish there were more to report, but that seems to be the gist of it. Other than the fact that one of the main topics of post-talk discussion was the very one we’ve been having here, albeit mostly in the Comments.
The reports were odd. Reuters, AP and the BBC ran, word for word, almost identical stories. Cuarto Poder had tons of pictures, apparently in search of the money shot relating to the Sup’s “good health.” There are two sides to this story, dependent on subtext and sense of humor.
One aspect: a pointed dig at Fredy, a “journalist” for El Universal who’s been struggling for years to keep his name in print and who regularly, when times are quiet, resurrects fantasies about Marcos’ failing health [and Fredy has been notably absent thus far this weekend].
The other point is that the Sup has apparently – according to one of La Jornada’s reporters and to the above referenced money shot – put on the odd pound or two. I'm not sure I got the right link to the Cuarto Poder money shot, but I'll try again. You'll also get to see Penguin. Well, I just tried, and I can't get a link to the article, so I'm going to try to import the shot in question. We shall see.
But madre de dios, if you want to see comments – and if you can read Spanish – you must have a peek at what’s going on in one of El Universal’s ad hoc forums. It had me instantly seduced, though in a train wreck sort of way. I simply couldn’t stop pouring through them. No mincing of words, madness, memory or choler.
Quite a few of them, even those pro, expressed concern over the lack of civility of some of the recent words emanating from the Mexican southeast. Words of choler begetting, such a surprise, words of choler.
Basta, for me, for the moment. We shall have many more goings on over the next 6 weeks, but right now I’m in the mood for a dose of lyric chivalry.
Yes, we remember the age. When knights errant of various size, ilk and genre roamed in the oddest places, words were wielded like sly rapiers and wit reigned supreme.
It might be a good evening for revisiting Cervantes, reminding ourselves of gallant terrain and truly risky venture.
And Lorca, please. Always Lorca for the perfect word matched with perfect heart. And duende, of course.
“Verde, te quiero verde...” I’ve never understood how, but his words can, and often do, call the heavens themselves to come down and play. I swear.