Unmerciful Patterns

God damn this unmerciful patterns.

This roads that lead us nowhere, just dizzy us with hope and sights, only to end up right were you started, older and full of anger. And you just try to escape, to brake this patterns, but you are not strong enough, maybe you are just scared.

A decade has passed through my hair and I just keep bumping in the same walls, just that every time they are colder than the last one.

Let me start again. You know, I always love ranting about culture and how foreign it has become to my mexican comrades.

Lets reflect about the capabilities of pure human culture, and more precisely art, to exsist, develop and expand within the confines of comerce and dollar.
Historically, money tends to build the roads in which art will transit. I dare to comment that maybe there are no artists in human history that were able to create beauty outside this limits.

Maybe there is a way, just a mediocre maybe. Because people don't need art to live, they need money. No one needs a Remrandt hanging in the hall, they need tomatoes and corn in their tables. They need loose change to pay a black smoking death-tank of public transportation that will violently carry them into a modern corporated mine.

That's it, nobody gives a damn in this money mongering world. Rich people will lock up in their castles not throwing out even the most corroded penny. Poor people will fight for a few coins to the point of killing each other, maybe even eating each other.

And fuck!, here in this lovely country, no one will ever pay you for your work unless you whiplash the shit out of their fat and golden asses.

None of this human creatures gives a fuck.

Aberrant

Aberrant. Spiteful. Shameful.

I stand on the brink of economical annihilation, looking backwards in the aftermath of a tale of betrayal, social tragedy and bad blood.

The background goes as this: Working with a camera is a responsability, and bear with me when I say that a camera is an opportunity. I know many minds lost in Mexico City that will be able to do marvelous stuff, and I mean historical documents or fictional explosions of truth and beauty, but they don't because of money and therefore lack of equipment.
TELEVISA is well known, I dare to say, worldwide. As shameful as it may be, it represents the projection of some old yuppie junior, heir to a vast media empire, of what Mexico is, should be, will be and most importantly should see.

So there I go, enthusiastic as I can, because at least I would be working with a camera, a jet power sony HD capable of razor shots and godly light. It would be good money and I will be shooting musicians creating tunes in different styles.
Besides I will be helping my blood, my cousin had more "interesting" work to to and I would be holding his job for a couple of months.
So yes, I would be working for the greatest crap hole in the whole world, the thing that pretty much represents everything I've hated since my coming of age, but hell, I needed the money badly and it would be good reporting material, and most importantly, just temporary.

So I got tuned right up and went into a pool of lost souls, children with tools for adults, all kind os people in need, amotional and economical. Ignorant of any beauty, "tecnics" as they call themselves they diferenciate themeselves from "the creatives", which they identify as the ones that tell them where to point their cameras and microphones, uncreative as he may be. Constantly blaming each other for their mistakes, they plan their ascent into the ranks of the corporation, longing for that couple of bills that will lift them above the water that drowns them.
They guild. They form unions that bite your salary at a rate unheard. An average of 30 percent of your money will go to them one way or another and some part of that will end in oppressing political parties. All this I know as a fact.

I tried to avoid them as I do always, avoid dull tramits, so I dodged the unions with a little help from my cousin, he will do all the tramits, and since he would return eventually, it had no sense for me to undergo their massacre. I thought I cut a good deal, my cousin would be payed for my work and would give me the cash entirely the 15 of every month punctually.

So I was dancing with the devil and I was enjoying it. Very good money would fall on my lap, but by this point the deal with the corporation had changed for everyone and I was no longer shooting musicians, I was shooting local celebrities dinning or sick fan clubs of strippers. In other words, I was doing their everyday programming. Because their programming can be summed in the phrase: psycotic fat transvestites shouting at a misoginistic perverted taxi driver, my ethical battle was getting stronger.

I've been there a while, in rivers, next to hot bread ovens sweating, doing my work, minced and paralysed to what they asked of me. Taking suspicion and bad vibes. Contribuiting with my grain of sand to the dubness of the country, to the erroneus display and mock of mexican culture, for the money.
The money, I haven't seen a dime of that money. My cousin betrayed me and kept the money I worked out of the devil. He kept it for his fat children.

Now Im standing besides a phone that will ring asking for destructive work out of me, and I wont answer it. I will cast out the devil, the devil of betrayal and the devil of artistic irresponsability.

The world will go around, Televisa will continue to degrade and stupify this country. Traitors will continue their slavery to money and snake wifes.
And I will run. I will take my people and run away, somewhere where the beast that inhabist the land is less fierce and cruel, somewhere where the money- beast is tame. Somewhere where it may let culture and beauty live.


Its been a couple of months of decay and shame.
But we will rise. With our guitars and our brushes and our cameras, we will rise.
We will look down and spit. And they will rejoice.