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Sphinx Written Something told me of Zombies

You promised me things from my father. Do not linger. I do not explain anything. Open the cabinets. Recognize that my patience has been exemplary. I have only seen movie memorabilia, chapters autumn. The hours of comfortable sequences impregnated Will wait for a confirmation? Do not you realize that any change would shred it? Like a desert in which children appear games and are looking for reptiles. And no one knows who has brought, to whom they belong. Leave them there on the bed. Listen, this is not personal. I'm not going against you. But have enough time, I think, and I prefer to think of everything, ruminating slowly, but I know that will not lead anywhere. Perhaps it is best to keep distance and watch me while I'm juggling and sleight of hand. I promise not to bother too much, but I demand to hear my complaints, my cries occasionally. And it must convince the changes of presidents and swift time that escapes us. I pretend to accept his condition wise. Serious nod to their pronouncements. Fidelity also plays a role here and now. Will you be my lord and master Have you understood? And I will not do anything to please him.

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I soon realize. That, at last, after all, can be considered as an advantage. That is, not hide behind the coordinates own and be able to at least recognize. I've been (I think I've been). And I appreciate, and I realize the whistles, the peace of mind offers hope. Races nerve devilishly children, their parents scolding from a mature and responsible balance. Families can still grow and serve to accommodate and support. It is a spacious lounge in a mall. Immediately referred to repeated scenes, as taken from a cultural mold need not be renewed because it continues to operate without clogging. Shopping carts, kids entertained with a toy given time to shut them up. The loudspeakers spitting music. Can make up hundreds of bizarre stories, full of fantasy and cruelty. But we would be so obvious disregard for reality, our blindness! I prefer today's photography portrait in this issue: the possibility of being content with the acceptance of an image or representation that seems strange to our vision encenizada by sarcasm. In itself is quite tricky to populate custom ridiculous fears of invented characters. When on the contrary, it is in the healthy and smooth where the monsters appear, as more serene and clean, adequate response to the world.

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Resume José Ramón Busto Saiz, a Jesuit and professor of exegesis of the Old and New Testament in his book Introduction to Christology, the "theory" San Anselmo Theological on Redemption, made in the eleventh century:

"According to this explanation of S. Anselmo, I present a fast, man's sin causes an infinite offense against God. Since man is finite and limited, can not repair an infinite offense because the offenses are measured by the category of offense. A being that must be infinite to satisfy the offended honor of God, which God has to incarnate, to be that being infinite infinite offense repair done. And it has to be incarnated, because, having been committed the offense by man, must also be repaired by man. Jesus dies and his death deserves God's reconciliation, because that offense repairs infinite, since the death of Jesus is a sacrifice that is of infinite value to be the death of an infinite being. So Jesus saves us. "

Given this reading of the death of the Nazarene, Busto Saiz opposes a modern theology (his), much more in tune with the mood of our contemporaries, according to which Jesus appears in history as a fighter for Justice and freedom of the oppressed and the Powers of this world (Rome and the Temple of Jerusalem) can not digest, so they decide to remove it. Redemption is specified, then, finally adequate response to his Lord of Creation. God has won because his love is bigger than fear, oppression and death.

Although, in my opinion, the New Testament study suggests the confusion of dealing with this issue (if the sacrifice of Jesus is a redeemer, it is involuntary, since they know that sacrifice is a sacrifice), I now much more interested in the theology of St. Anselm in this regard. For, indeed, if we read the Gospels carefully, it is clear that Jesus insists that his blood is used to erase the sins of the world (idea much more starkly exposed in the letters of St. Paul.) And I think the wording of the NT texts are deliberately seeking to introduce this argument in the minds of the early believers: The sacrifice of Jesus cleanses sin itself. Then God committed to the fallen and it comes back. But "the fact itself," the death of the Nazarene, redeem. This is uncomfortable for the most progressive in theological body of the Catholic Church. No wonder. It is very hard to think that the deity needs the blood of an innocent to eliminate faults.

time ago, exchanging views (somewhat violently) with a Christian church not assigned to any particular (and now, sadly, is no longer with us), I discovered a new interpretation: for him, not that God needed death of an innocent to redeem His creation, but was the man who, to destroy the feeling of guilt must believe that the Blood of Jesus Christ was "sufficient" to clear his conscience. It was inevitable psychic phenomena.

has impressed me this reading. Not sure to share in regard to the interpretation of the Christian faith, but I am very keen on what you have naked exposure of the behavior of the human mind.

If my late partner was right, Christianity is the only cure for the neurotic world we inhabit and the Gospels would be the most acute reflection of the nature of man. One might, therefore, is able to be happy thinking another person (in this case, "Big Other") has paid for his sins.

I am not a psychiatrist or psychologist and, therefore, I am unable to analyze this in detail. I lack conceptual tools with which to work this mess. I will say, however, that, as I see it (just, I think, look around) the killing or at least an attempted sacrifice (a misconception about him) is on the agenda in our societies. How many people really think giving up something for someone? The sacrifice here is a real murderer of doubts. Standing in the artificial dilemma: "Fulanito I care but I care more Somebody's niece and jacket Walk the sacrificial ax and I Fulanito book ", ie giving the appearance of harshness to an election many mists dissipate emotional and can begin to work with in the joy of having given up something: it is a leap has justified. There

sacrifice. It is a decoy that hides nothing moral cowardice of not knowing face an uncomfortable reality: being incapable of love and surrender without, somewhere, pain appears as an essential ingredient of soup sentimental. And it's funny because the sacrifice is not so, but is sought and, once found the idea false, he denies and blames the slaughter ("he / she asked for it"). Is it possible that our happiness depends on an alien destruction, a destruction not only physically but from everything that once surrounded him and meant something and now crumbling up in memory?

And if this is what we are?

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Sacrifice Elle fut Repatriée Convenablement

there in the biography of Arthur Rimbaud (the poet acclaimed cliché rebellious youth and pimples) written by Enid Starkie (and published in English by Siruela), an episode which is not given the importance it deserves and I, on the contrary, catalogaría as essential to understand the psychology of the French author. Namely, a Rimbaud 30 years away full of literature, and dedicated to the most varied professions (among them, the arms dealer and, perhaps, slaves) is found in Aden (Yemen) where he has returned from Harar (Ethiopian city) "with Abyssinian woman, probably a slave, "Starkie says (page 498), with the firm intention to make her his wife. To this end, he decided to send it to the French mission in the area to receive an education. However, in October 1885, taking advantage of the preparations for a trip, decide Rimbaud return to his country "giving him some money." In fact, "so is the repatriated properly. " That is, to marry, the former poet decides to buy a slave and cultivate his taste. It's interesting.

But stop a moment and accept that Rimbaud "important" is one beautiful and wild teen who wandered on the wild side of life in a pathetic company Verlaine. Remember the immortal Rimbaud is "A season in Hell", that of "Illuminations", the rebel and extremely gifted young spendthrift literature led to a confrontation deicide and inexplicably consumed when he was twenty years.

Although not so inexplicably. Exotic fantasies of the poet Charleville reeled in his books, his desire for adventure and experiences reflected in his poems, got the reward in the form of reality: Rimbaud abandons the literary exercise "to the age when others begin" and sets off, opting to provide his dreams true juvenile. And travel. And you risk. So far so good. It is even admirable. Not all are so brave. Almost no one is, in fact.

But the fate of the poet, far from cherry-picked lead to the triumph adventurer plunges into a succession of failed experiences, accidents, illness, murder, dubious morality and terrible loneliness. What looks like gold in the mind of a bourgeois hope be disgusted by, it becomes a nightmare subdued, not quite unbearable, but it gradually undermines and destroys the foundations of his brilliant intelligence. Rimbaud unlearn his life in a catastrophic choice that ultimately leads to long life which could be: the undisputed triumph, and so terribly far before the age of thirty.

And buy a slave ... Reading the hardship of the poet, it is surprising that at no time, you pass through my head the idea of \u200b\u200breturning to France (where his books begin to be known and revered by a court of fans who know the author) to take charge of their letters and / or sedentary bourgeois know some young man from "good family" of fine manners and raise a family with many children, become the prince of poets or a mere functionary. It remains a wild and even his quest for "normalcy" is full of lunatic behavior. Everything becomes ugly when you play Rimbaud. And he realizes it. And then get sick and die without having built his life as the young man thought. There are only refining their books as evidence of failure. He, during the years before his death, is upset when he recalls his past as a "wunderkind" of letters. No wonder. Rimbaud know what has happened and what no (which is even more serious and painful). As he said in one of her poems, once sat on the beauty on her knees and insulted. Picked up a bitter seed. Finally, it could not continue the charade, take it to the most painful extreme, deep loneliness knows who lost. It was his choice. He could never get rid of it. Did you really wanted?

Drawing Paul Verlaine. 1872