Waiting at La Aurora

by Ares Demertzis (Aug. 2008)

(i)

So much history falls victim to expediency. I am certain that years from now, perhaps even at this writing, new generations will consider three hour flight check-in and invasive security procedures normal. Like schoolchildren in urban settings who color the sky grey and respond to the question “where do apples come from?” with what for them is obvious: “the super market.” It will be politically incorrect, considered xenophobic, chauvinistic and bigoted to divulge the truth: a resurgent, supremacist Muslim ideology was to blame. Islam was responsible.  

Two more hours until my connecting flight to New York. Unattractive terminal for a country with such extraordinary natural beauty. Should have done what I normally do when I come through here: stay a few days; visit Atitlan, Chichicastenango, Antigua. But I´m a free lance film director; “we are all grape pickers, we go where the work is,” Orson Welles is credited with saying, and I have a job pending in Dakar. I need that paycheck; now more than ever. My real estate taxes were raised to fifteen thousand annually (I´m informed they are currently thirty five thousand for the individual who purchased the house after my divorce). Thirty five thousand dollars to the government of the United States for the privilege of a roof over one´s head! How much does one have to earn to pay thirty five thousand simply as tribute for home ownership? And you better pay up, or the unforgiving, implacable suits in skinny ties and black tie shoes will cometagetcha. At three o’clock in the morning. With guns and handcuffs. They have all the power to destroy a citizen, regardless of the Bill of Rights, written by fellows just like me, distrustful of unrestrained government. Beware the State!

(ii)

(iii)

Just yesterday morning they let me know you were gone,

I walked out this morning and I wrote down this song,

It´s only when incalculable lives and property will be lost in a nuclear attack on an American city that a surprising void materializes in their humanist ethics. Millions of endangered lives are somehow less important than the security of those perambulating unprotected astride their two wheelers on a lazy Sunday afternoon in the park. Or can this disregard be interpreted as a wicked entreaty – that in nuclear devastation the American villains will finally comprehend their guilt? As a nation, the United States should be concerned with the cruel, pitiless, enemy within: from the perverse, unforgiving, counterfeit Christianity of the American Negro, “God damn America!” in a selective, judgmental religiosity proclaiming that “the chickens have come home to roost,” and a Nation of Islam, the black supremacist movement, a laughingstock of authentic Muslims, resolved to fomenting racial hatredand, to a vicious intellectual sophistication acknowledging the appropriateness of mass slaughter by proclaiming those in the Twin Towers, each and every one, were “little Eichmanns.” It behooves the American people to be as distrustful of the fifth column in their midst as the observable Muslim peril; those who dance in glee at the massacre of infidels.

(iv)

(v)

repeating what seemed to me to be a nonsensical phrase, “quaquaqua!” Synapses are tricky little critters; you can never predetermine what association they will make in a given nano second. 

Most people think croissants are French. They aren’t. They´re Austrian. Before dawn, bakers throughout the world prepare the large variety of breads to be consumed at breakfast. In Vienna, with the insatiable, brutal Muslims clamoring outside its walls, menacing and intimidating the populace, the bakers of Vienna continued to perform their vocation. On this particular morning they heard odd noises from beneath the bakery floors and alerted their army to the Turkish tunnels being excavated beneath the city in a clandestine effort to breach the fortifications. The Muslims were vanquished, and in celebration, the Croissant was born: the crescent moon of Islam to be consumed by victorious infidels for breakfast. 

Some consider me an ambulatory encyclopedia of useless information.

Unlike Estragon and Vladimir, in a little over an hour my plane will come and I will finally board my flight to New York.

 

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