Letters | The human homeland | By Juancho Barreto

Juancho Jose Barreto Gonzalez / [e-mail]

White noises neutralize banal sounds. The banal is that which has no meaning, but makes a harmful noise. In the human homeland the banal has a lot of force, it attracts attention and dominates. The banal walks and guides us to the banal.

The banal homeland is a game, it is called Forgetfulness. It doesn’t matter what I did yesterday, or what I will do tomorrow, the occasion is worth it. It is incoherent and irresponsible. It does anything and is not guilty, it does not assume it, it evades the blame, it believes itself not to be held accountable.

The banal homeland is opposed to the human homeland. The banal strikes at the sincerity of the human homeland, immobilizes its circulatory system, paralyzes it with strong doses of false credulity and incredulity. When it rains, when the waters churn, the banal floats like empty plastic bottles. They are there, floating, superficial, interested in covering up the profound, falsifying it, making it look banal. The banal sells empty, floating bottles.

Its advertising mechanism repeats and repeats, not so banally, the banal.

This is an image of the contaminated human homeland. Every so often the waters move and perhaps the human below appears on the horizon while the banal ones fall by bites, managed from special controls by more banal banal ones. All banal ones like bananas and have not stopped being arboreal. They love to show their necks and have a protocol for the dummies. The banal ones have led us to a banal war that produces banal results.

In a memory exercise, you can replace the word banal, written banally in this far from banal letter, and put in its place dates and characters from this… banal story.

I feel the loneliness of the house. Don Quixote stares at me while a real fly moves quickly on the computer screen. “A spiritual hurricane is capable of elevating the human homeland to the future, removing the plasticity of the banal and posing as the other force for understanding.”

As in a story by Rubén Darío, Quixote, transmuted into Quixotes, still weak from General Washington’s rough aggression, gets up and begins to climb the abyss into which he had been thrown. His hands, stained by the history of all his defeats, grasp the old lance of redemption. He throws the lance, he dances. He pierces all the plastic walls of this banal homeland. There, with sudden force, blows the spiritual hurricane.

Thus, the human homeland begins to move sideways. It squats up to clear the clouds that only allow us to see the clouds. The plasticized homeland in its double version wants to repeat suffering so that everything remains the same. That is, the banal war.

The sound of the fan whirring and whirring. The eye strain in my left eye has dropped a little while the right eye looks at me out of the corner of its eye. The ideal is the meeting of the gaze. I have managed to push aside the plastic bottles of the banal. I discover the route to the iris. Double iris, joint iris. By looking we launch ourselves into the depth of things.

I had fallen asleep after putting in the last drop of the night. It feeds the eye and allows the eye to look into dreams. He falls asleep anywhere and dreams. He is like me, a militant of dreams.