Rango Finito

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sacrificio

The cabin in the woods

Son reglas. Siempre son reglas. Cada pieza encaja, dicen. Nada es arbitrario. La convención sirve a un propósito. La reiteración de estereotipos y giros es inevitable. Hay un orden y un sentido. Alguien debe morir. Cuestionar su pertinencia es necio: nuestra existencia está en juego. La trama nos antecede. Es impuesta. Está escrita en el lenguaje arcano de nuestros instintos más básicos y hay una razón para que esté ahí. Nos protege del miedo. Contiene la amenaza. No podemos olvidar le pacto. La estructura del sacrificio es una exigencia de lo que estaba antes del tiempo: lo eterno, lo innombrable, aquello que juzga, castiga y observa. Cumplimos su voluntad para conjurar su ausencia.

The Cabin in The Woods
Su sueño es frágil.

The meaning is in the swinging

As I swung gently by my heels in the thick fat fucking breeze of sheer humidity, I had a clear view of the court and could see and hear all that went out there. So this is humankind. Swinging. Backwards and forwards. Swinging through history. These are my people. I am their people too. Crucified upside down by my heels. My Golgotha a chickenyard. Father! Father! Why the fucking shit did you conceive me? You have no meaning. I have no meaning. The meaning is in the swinging. And that is ridiculous. Absurd. Ha! That fucking bitch, my mother, why did you open up to receive him? After that annunciation, that lecherous gleam of his single glittering eye. Did you writhe and shake our history’s shirt front? As now I grind my teething people in a cocoon. Swinging. Swinging in a cocoon of chickenshit. Europe was my head, crammed together with Africa, Asia and America. Squashed and jammed together in my dustbin head. There is no rubbish dump big enough to relieve me of my load. Swinging upside down, threatening to burst the thin roof of my brains. Those years of my travels. Years of innocence and experience. Motherfucking months of twiddling my thumbs with insecurity. In search of my true people. Yes, in search of my true people. But whenever I went I did not find people but caricatures of people who insisted on being taken seriously as people. Perhaps I was on the wrong planet.

In the wrong skin.

Sometimes.

And sometimes all the time. You know. In the wrong skin.

This black skin.

—Dambudzo Marechera, Black Sunlight