One last cigarrette, with Saturn's permission

 

Crime and punishment is a kind of truth or consequence. In a more fucked up version. Dostoevsky's Rodion would agree with me. 

The second is a pre-teen game, the first for adults who are stoned. Neither of them pays off.  Neither the truth nor the crime. If it paid off, it would be worth it. And popular wisdom says, which is attached to us, just as lice and scurvy are attached to the sailors of the medieval age: it is always worth it, when the soul is not small. It was what was missing, the punishment and the crime being great and the soul small, everything must obey a symmetrical, concordant vision. The boot has to match the perdigota. Thus, for great crimes, great punishments, for great truths, great rewards. Truth should serve as a reward to a soul of the same size as truth. 

And as I am in a tide of hake fillets, with neptune on the glue and mars retrograding through my venus above and then knocking me down to the house of the self, yes, I arbitrate and condescending to mars in me, I deserve a cigarette. Today I deserve it. And it's been fifteen days. It's just blue pastilhinhas, like viagra but smaller! Is it true that you never smoked again? It's true that I never smoked again... without feeling this guilt glued to my glottis, almost strangling my neck. This compromise is a lot of things, especially when they are made with others. That's why I condescended. How? Just by answering like this, tell me Pluto from his new throne, in Aquarius, bring death, please. The ugliest version, the original from 1968. And here comes Hades, opposite my sun, like a mangy dog with venom. And I open the window. And he lashes me with his gaze, with long, straight dark hair, with nuances of electric blue and a penetrating gaze. If I knew that Hades of '68 was so "interesting", I swear I had had this conversation with him before. It reminds me of the guitarist of Kiss. And I, who am old, but still young, who come from 68 but still live with those from 44, I have the luxury of being condescending to myself, I who have always been demanding with others, but I started with me. I became a baldas, permissive and laissez faire like the others I was used to seeing and criticizing, even if it was scathing and silent to me. Go fuck yourselves. Go fuck yourselves. And I repeated that about four hundred times: GO FUCK YOU! Until I understood that that fuck you was for me and for the memes of me. And now, let's get to the facts. While the shit of the monologues is done and redone, the box of the sg ventil white, gray, is already all open, all straddled and Hades looked at me again. He measured my pulses, threatening fears and nightmares. You're going to die! And I shouted at him: do you want a cigarette too? 

And there we were, me and Hades. He sitting on the edge of my bed and I sitting on the edge of the window, with the superb darkness stalking us as if they were the tiny neighbors peeking at the lovers hiding under the bed in someone else's house.

I go down the window to look for the fucking lighter, which I don't know where it stops anymore but it's easy, because in the smokers' house there are lighters and ashtrays, more than bread. And it even reminds me of my penultimate wedding, there were more empty bottles than in a regional wine cellar. And I found a bic lighter in the drawer of the dresser. The shutters open, in the direction of the tank and the cherry tree. In the background, at Father Pimentel's house, a light on appears in the window. No cats, no full moons. It's only in Aries, sprawled on your ascendant, white, icy and distant, almost like you. Almost like me. The brick pajamas. The flowers are roses. And as I look at Hades, I light the shit of a convict's last cigarette. In this case, of a woman sentenced to exile. Torture and solitude. And I begin to speak to Hades in my own language, woven of pains of my own, which only I know, whose predicates have their own nomenclature. Except when I take away their name and space, I mold them as a plaster representing states of soul. And Hades attentively, raises his eyebrow, looks at the cuticles of his nails, scraping the ground with his stumps. I see smoke. But it's not from your nostrils. It is from my cigarette that the space of oxygen and the meek and dull darkness of December burns. And I force Hades to a cigarette, because he can't stand dealing with my language, built to smear him with complaints. Oh, yes!What good is Hades, if there is no book of complaints? I have so many, where could I keep them, since I was born? If you want me to die, give me a book to complain about this infamous life. I want the glory of the rivers, the mountains, I want the trinity on top of the fig trees, kisses from my lover under them. I want the rocks all surrounded, as if they were waves on the day of judgment. I want less modesty and more love, please. And if there has to be hypocrisy, let it be the name given to a dead-end alley, where there is no risk of contagion or imitation! I want the child I was to leave me and not feel abandoned, I want all children to be alive, to belong without fear of being deceived, mistreated, I want so much for myself, as for others. And if they want me to die, I also want to die. That I'm tired of breathing, of existing, of surviving, of nothing being worthless, of everything being made of donkey excrement and lame lies, of all of us walking around To be deceived, I want to be a soul, but not a feather. It's just that I'm tired of being mistreated by life. And Hades does not speak. Always silent, clinging to the cuticles of his nails, all that remains is to ask me for a fucking file, and he would even get him a manicure, but he won't leave here, without him finishing unraveling my accounts. And while I'm talking, I'm writing, I'm mutilating the book of Plutonian complaints, I see him tearing up the pack of cigarettes, smoking one after the other, stealing my lighter, the ashtray, Hades olive oil, that after all quitting smoking is right and even easy, that you're even a cool guy, but if you had my life,  Hades, you were a great walking ashtray. Torture inhabits Hades now. And he on fire and I on fire, he for not being used to smoking and I on fire for not being used to the hot seat of Hades' foolishness. And to crucify him, I start from scratch. When I was born, I didn't want to be born anymore, but I was told it was too late to regret it. Accepted. I thought about it. I paused and even blushed, with pain, astonishment, torture and tears. That the mother they offered me didn't even give me the reward for so much pain, for such a long trip. She came from afar, full of thirst and hunger. Without even knowing how to breathe. And she turned to the side and fell asleep. The rest of the adults, just because I didn't cry, believed that I was happy. And they opened sparkling wine. And I dried it. Neither sweet nor semi-sweet. There they wrapped me in swaddling clothes and I fell asleep in pain and cold. With nightmares of being inside contracted, sick, regretful for the mission. The mission could not be aborted, the date expired of the term of such punishment. And then, so many later, I revealed to her that before the abandonment, I was already abandoned. He came to fulfill something hard. Lose everything. Until it reaches nothingness. That I already had there, since the day I was born, that this was guaranteed to me. , shut up, I'm going to buy you a pacifier so I don't hear you cry. If you had heard me cry, at the time of my birth, Hades, we would have crossed paths a thousand times, you and I. Many complaint books would have been filled. Do you want to see that I only have obligations and no rights? I did not come to atone, I came to fulfill. And enforce. I didn't come to measure anyone's pulses, I came to learn and teach. And if it was to go hungry and dehydrated, suffer eczema and pains of abandonment, I had stayed in my kingdom, serving another type of punishment, which you call nirvana here. Look at what I tell you, Hades, when I'm gone for good, there are no more cigarettes, no more nail biting. The harvest only lasts until the baskets are washed. Do not forget that I do not forget. I was still on page 365 of book 7, Hades had already fallen asleep, frozen, through the open window of December, he would wake up constipated. I snuggled him in my blankets, after closing the window, put on green striped pajamas, and and I even sang to him the moon that will moan in Gemini. Around the 15th. But the 14 is already moaning and I am with her. And you too, Hades. That it is to tell your boss, Pluto, that I did not come to be easy or to spare them embarrassment, that I did not come to be a wooden spoon for all the porridge dough, that I want to tell everything, tintin by tintin, bread, bread, cheese, cheese, and no açordas that I vomit! I am, therefore, telling you how the inhumanities down here are revealed, threatening him with dismissal, if they did not send me the minutes of my birth mission. Come Venus in person, come Saturn and a piece of cornbread, come the black moon, juno, the vesta, come all in the same basket that I make you a Christmas wrapping, I want to see, with these eyes that the earth will not eat anymore, I want to see everything, where is my signature, my nightstand, I want my tongue cut out,  The tomatoes cut, the beard cut, I want the eunuch sitting in the Holy Office, showing me what I came for, if it was for these disappointments, these taverns of of asses, he was better employed in the sky, washing kites. Releasing kites, rehearsing plays and debiting berbicachos! Did I come for this shit? In so many acts? To take punch after punch, to be deceived from the time I was born until I died 3 times, what the hell is this business, what cheating was there here, that I only see crooks since the day I was born?! Bring me another book that I am not yet in ashes, that I still do not assemble phoenixes, I still do not climb trees, I still contain myself with humanities! I'm tired, unhappy, that here all the lies arranged, all the organized crime has a reward, but I am even denied an act of contrition?! I'm the biggest sucker of 68! I want a retired lawyer but who will not speak Galician, who comes from the best breed, who comes from the most serious ministry, and who does not wear aprons, without grains and without logies, if you please!  I want a balanced, honorable defender of justice, no, Hades, he cannot be human, bring me God, only he can honor my name and act in my defense. And now, Hades, sleep, for tomorrow, when you leave, I will play ashes and you will take my petition to the heavens. And if necessary, I speak directly to Pluto. And if not, we will meet again, it is more year by year. Or more month less month. Mars retrograde, is reminding me of the shadow of fear and the courage I needed to overcome lies with truths. Now sleep, that tomorrow you Hades or you Hades not.