Fight By Songs

I have quite clear that political scientists, mythologists, and musicians can never become friends. And if they want to take courses of Carl Jung, first consult with a psychiatrist to see if they’re physically able. If not, they’ll remember this day. Jung knew about the incertitude of Hermes but the prideful Apollo and Minerva at this moment look down from heaven, with clarity, shitting themselves from laughter saying that these foolish humans have never been better off.

Good day, I’m Laura Canepari, I’m a Honduran professor of Genoese descent and I have an exhaustion that aches. The other day I thought to myself how the hell did the ancient falangists come to think that it’d be more efficient to kill at the sound of the pipe? A note of that thing is capable of calming or destroying the world. How barbaric…

I sit while the magazine Ni Dieu Ni Maître slips down my breasts as I have on repeat the song La Zingarella over the gramophone filled with nausea, made-up, hair-raised, and paralyzed by the traumas. What more can a submissive and pacific women do while a world filled with insanes and fanatics crosses in front of me?

I’ve said one and a hundred times that humans, more specifically man, is the only creature that slaughters at the beat of a the drum, as well as the only creature that resuscitates at the sound of the lute.

Now I pick up the marionettes that I picked up during fascist Italy. Just the other day, one of them, in his eagerness tried to liberate himself by trying to cut off his strings but didn’t know that scissors not only cut strings but expired illusions. Alas he was left with that desire. He almost discovered that I was a musicologist and fabulist of my own delirium of a savage indoctrination and of malevolent mythology. As if I were going to give him that luxury in the first place – silly puppet. Good thing the nasal-sounding sculptor forgot to sculpt them a great mass that knows the great thing about the leery and uncertain character of a cave, that is only partially known by its stalagmites, plasters, and rhythmic tides by the bat that knows many things. They won’t need to be varnished any longer. Looks like a rain front approaches…


Wrongdoings, the puppet who wears a black beret hoists his bludgeon, trembling, in defense of the so-called romancier song Onward Joy while the other, The Great Etchegoyen, wears unkempt and dusty black leggings while holding his bludgeon in defense of the same song except he knew it by Tidy Up With My Handkerchief. Only when death and life agree on the existence of a semi-dead will this dispute end.

The two felt the lack of drum beats of their weapons, and like two rabid foxes with unsettling feet, they lit the star of their cataclysm. In midfield, the soul of Saint Barbara floats, with the biggest sulk on her face ever seen as if someone had canceled the nights of feasts, gave a brief sob and dispersed at a thousand kilometers per hour, dispersing between shoes, nails, wigs, over the corners of the plateau.

The puppets collided and whirred amongst themselves under a cloudy and lightning blanket, fueling even more the collective amnesia. Paint peelings flying over here and wood chips flying over there without the slightest sight of truce. How horrendous it must be to slaughter during drought. Onward Joy carried connotations of moral and spiritual elevation, the ultimate refuge, the blankets of the vagrants, the envy of Venus, a healing herb to the cerebral. Anyone sang it like a ritual.

Wrongdoings, beaten, tells his nemesis: “Look how good you’ll look spread over the brambles. Don’t wipe off your blood, I’ll clean it tomorrow; nor run, the current will take you.”

“That thing, when the imaginary and the real world collide, who knows. What calls us to such savagery? All I know that it is over all, very human. Come now, pick up your stick, cause we’re about to give each other some rubs.”

Driving Nativist

Creation myths, national myths, and national psyches are like ecstasies. It gives people something of a high. Sociologist Robert Bellah explained that such concepts have a quasi-religious and psychological comfort from the dangers of the external world. I know what such ecstasy his like.

I picked up my Ford Explorer and drove to the fringes of the valley towards West Jordan, an idyllic suburban paradise; the kind that Republican legislators are always promoting. There, houses are neatly lined-up with perfectly trimmed lawns. I turn up the slow and serene alternative rock of Erin McCarley; the kind that would play at a Fourth of July firework date night. A few streets later, there is an LDS ward accompanied with a violently waving star-spangled banner against the imminent front. A gentleman in the parking lot helps his partner onto her seat. Both are Sunday-dressed. All of this simultaneously as the climax of the song hits. It felt like I stepped inside a Norman Rockwell painting. I felt an unwavering sense of patriotism.

This is what it must feel like to be an Anglo-American nativist in Utah.


Pasillo solemne,

retrato retrogada,

la gitana de Santa María toca la melancólica melodía de viudas y canta:

“Rey de reyes, ¿que no sabes que está prohibido prohibir? Nosotras cantantes, también cargamos las culpas de brutos malévolos.”

Atardecer lamentosa; el sol muere,

techo tenue,

Mística mirada,

“Tribulaciones esperan a nadie, pero como escuchan. Por ocho días el vagabundo viaja soñando de realeza, muriéndose por más cantigas…”

… canta la laudista de Santa María