From the Notebooks of Juan Beauregaard-Montez, a short story by ryburndl. Date added: 2011-05-03. Times viewed: 745.
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- Intro: There are some blows in life so hard. I don't know! Blows that seem to come from God's hatred; Cesar Vallejo in Los Heraldos Negros
From The Notebooks of Juan Beauregaard-Montez
Juan Beauregaard-Montez was born in a small village in Chiapas, Mexico, the bastard son of a Zapatista guerilla and a British diplomat's daughter. For reasons of state security and to avoid scandal he was reared in France by Mennonite missionaries, where according to Juan, "…he was taught how to hate".
This hatred manifested in Juan becoming a guerilla, joining his father in the mountains of Chiapas where his hatred of the vencendoras solidified and his love for common people materialized.
Although he had received a classical education studying Migration Period art at the Sorbonne and surrealist poetry under the auspices of Yves Bonnefoy at the Lysee Mercure, he became the fiercest and most feared of all the revolutionaries in the region.
Because of Juan's revolutionary activities a price of $50,000 U.S. dollars was placed on the head and genitals of Juan by the Mexican government's governor of the region. Juan's mother pleaded with his father to convince Juan to return to Europe where he could better fight the battle for his people's liberation before The Hague and the European Union.
Today, Juan continues his battles on several fronts, writes blog columns, op-eds and articles under several heteronyms and some of the world's most beautiful, important poetry under the name of Juan Beauregaard-Montez.
The following is an excerpt from one of his many journals.
“There are some blows in life so hard…I don’t know! Blows that seem to come from God’s hatred;
Cesar Vallejo in Los Heraldos Negros
Ponocito never cared for our glorious Chiapas sunsets. He claimed they had ruined the beautiful days he had spent with his murdered daughter, Marachita. She was always very tired at twilight.
We, in the Chiapas Mountains, with our gleaming machetes, old Chinese carbines, soggy ammunition, were terrified of the coming night. We were not afraid of the wild cats, grey wolves, or spirits of the dead; we were afraid of ourselves.
The darkness came and we changed. With the death of each blood-red ray of the dying sun, we metamorphised. We transformed into murderers of men. We evolved into arsonists of homes. We became heroes.
Ponocito was the most ferocious of us all. He was proud of the cause and incredibly brave. The death of his lovely child Marachita at the hands of the Norte Americanos drove him finally and alas fataly into an absolute fury. He went off alone each evening at twilight eventually not returning.
Ponocito’s body discovered on Campamento Quetzal had been mostly consumed by ravens, condors and Azteca xanthochroid ants by the time we found him. His ragged poncho filled with dozens of bullet holes. A stalk of coca had been driven into his heart. It bloomed. His parrot, Trotsky, intently watched us from a nearby acacia tree as we quietly loaded Ponocito’s remains onto a makeshift sled.
I remembered then how Ponocito had told me the story of an escape from the hired private contractors of the Norte Americano oil companies. After blowing up a pipeline, he had hidden in a truck underneath forty cases of wind chimes. He said he had covered himself and his parrot, Trotsky, with an old man that lived within him.
He said he fell asleep to the whine of the old truck's tires. He dreamed that silky-cool liquids poured over his skin. There were no more fields of stones. No more too-small ears of corn. Inside his body great flocks of swallows sang and dove. They carried off the roots and insects of his life in Chiapas.
They carried off the tiny bones of his daughter, Marachita. The woman who had punctured his veins, the mother of Marachita, reappeared and comforted him.
He said, while he slept shadows knocked over a lantern, gathered close by and waited. They waited for the track of the sun to be left behind. The shadows perched on the tailgate, smoking.
Night dampened his clothes. He blended with the darkness. He was a warm, comforted widower. He was a raven, leaving too late a dead world.
No, we, in the Chiapas mountains do not fear Vallejo’s black messengers of death, or the ghosts of El Christos, haunting the swamps and villages. We do not fear yellow jaguars, with black rosette spots, ancient saber teeth and amethyst claws that shred our souls along with our bodies.
We fear the faith of missionaries, who rape and murder our sons and daughters, in rituals of repressed lust. We fear the Norte Americano oil men with their lawyers, guns and money. They commit the theft of the bread from our ovens.
We wear black cloth across our faces, not as an expression of Peircian semiotic triadics, nor for fear of recognition. You know who we are. We wear black masks to remind us of the black hearts of our enemies.
Ponocito, my great friend, we will miss you.
“The Secret Doctrine is the common property of the countless millions of men born under various climates, in times with which History refuses to deal, and to which esoteric teachings assign dates incompatible with the theories of Geology and Anthropology.“
H. P. Blavatsky
The Shadow of a Raven
Forty cases of wind chimes
Covered me and my box of parrots
The old man that lives within me
Perched on the tailgate, smoking
I fell asleep to the whine of the old truck's tires
Silky-cool liquids poured over my skin
No more fields of stones,
No more too-small ears of corn
Inside my body great flocks of swallows
Sang and dove into me
Coming and going
Carried off the roots and insects
Of my life in Chiapas
Carried off the tiny bones
Of the woman who had punctured my veins
Shadows knocked over a lantern
Gathered close by, waited
For the track of the sun being left behind
Night dampened my clothes
I blended with the darkness
An uncomforted widower, a raven
Leaving too late a dead world
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