Proyecto Historias

Are you really the type of person who thinks of tequila and mariachis when he hears Mexico?

Oh, please. What about the sky? What about the lipstick? And the crosses, what about them? Tell me, please, what about time?

Time does not pass the same way in Mexico. Seconds dive. Minutes go out in stampede when they hear a siren. Hours commit incest and days… oh my, days. In Mexico, days gurgle through a wound made by a SIERRA knife whose real name, believe me, you don’t want to know.

In Mexico, flowers bloom from stone crosses. Christs carry two guns and it is forgiveness what’s rare. Bullets are laid in altars as offerings. Between the candles slides a snake that only you would think grows feathers. In Mexico the Virgins of Guanajuato still bite off fingers. In Mexico, rosaries taste like garlic.

I’m telling you, in Mexico lipstick is used to paint silhouettes. To go through wet lips, so warm like fishes without bread put under the sun. To leave messages on the road, messages to that father you never knew, the one who vanished from your sight and your mom’s faster than a police raid. To write one thousand times Buñuel’s name on a dead policeman’s imperturbable face.

Don’t look at me like that. All is true. In Mexico the sky touches you up, licks you with a tongue made of heat. Skins a close, closer, you burned. In Mexico voices blaze, wrath is alive and carries a machete. In Mexico justice can neither read nor write. There they remember that the people is to be feared, papacito. There are no air controllers there.


Jesús Cañadas



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