DIARY OF A SON OF GOD

ANOTHER DOOR OPEN, THE HEART OF MARY

My time is short, train ain’t coming yet, but is on motion, I got to cut short the entire story.

I jumped from Immortality Highway to Eternity Road, to end up in King’s College Hospital, London, in the hands of students operating a stupid foreigner with the femur broken, ran over by a car, stupid Europeans, looking left when the car is coming from the right. English are always right. They did a mess. They nearly bleed me to the death, had to cut me open to tie up the pieces broken. I was on the Moon, I just wanted to get out, get back to my child. The bones will fix.

From highway to road, and from road to a rural path leading to hell. That was the next gift from God to this man. The hammer was ready to hit, my soul ready to hold on. Start moving on, son. I did so, as always, and ended up in Paris, in the midst of the Bicentenary of the French Revolution, year 1989. Happy to be there, I give Him that. I got me a whole company of English drunkards singing songs for cocaine. I left them to fuck themselves after my song was finished and moved around on my own with the head on the Past and the soul on the Future. Very noisy, those French guys. No people on the planet to fill the night with laughter, I give them that. My favorite place in those days before the big party was the little Garden behind Châtelet, with its contrast between Modern and Old Architecture, a place to lay watching the blue sky, while everybody around drink full bottles of joy in the open air. It was right there that my Muse came up and instill in my heart the diamantine idea of writing the Divine History of Jesus. As a matter of fact I had read hundreds of book on the subject and the end of all was confusing. Something was always missing, and it was THAT THING MISSING why anybody could write a book on Jesus, because that thing missing allowed any idiot to become a divine idiot. Myself I was too much in the pretty thing of the Spirit thing to bother my head with History. But it was that decided that I should do so; I was going to head back South and study the subject from a historical point of view, and write The Divine History of Jesus. It was not a suggestion, it was an order. “Do so right now”. I woke that very morning empty handed. My guitar was gone. End of a journey, beginning of another. If you don’t know God, let me tell you, He can play with your life in hundred ways. Once you give up your soul in His hand, you are just a leaf in the wind. The wind rises, you are moved away, you have no power to choose the direction. I don’t say this to discourage no one; you deal with the rain, you get wet, you deal with children, you get wet. You got to know who you deal with, that’s all.

You may guess what. During the next year I buried my soul under a mountain of books. I did some little jobs to keep me going, but I counted on the best people on Earth to back me up, my parents; I needed them to help me with my child. They never complained about it; they were crazy about my kid. If my entire work is worth something before the Gods in Heaven, they got a lot of credit for it; I don’t know what would have I done without their silence and understanding. They had not a clue what I was doing, but they would not ask me anything.

Anyway, my knowledge of the History of the Jews in particular and on the Ancient History in general, it was pretty short. I had to dive deep, get up, breath, dive again, deeper, back to the sunny sky, breath, back again to the bottom of the question. I had to rely on my parents’ love to fight back the pressure from the people related to me from my woman’s side. I won’t say that my parents did understand much about what I was doing; they knew there was no evil on me, and that was enough for them. My woman’s people would not give for me a single drop of blood. She knew it and I knew it; it was my mother who showed to my woman everything a mother need to breed a child; it was my mother and my father who took care of our child as he was their own. I never crossed a word with my woman’s people, they never crossed a word with me, that was the deal.

The period from the ‘89 to the ’90 I managed to complete my Study on Ancient History as deep as I could. There was a very interesting school of Spanish Historians keeping the ratio of Spanish Intelligence very high on the Study of the Classical and Prehistoric Ages. The Spanish Universities were getting out from the isolation in which they were locked by the Civil War, and, taking on no account the Quixote Complex typical of the Spanish Scholars, they were bringing to the stage of the Knowledge of the Ancient Middle East facts very much abandoned by the Masters of the Ancient History, the French and the English. I bought me theirs books, expensive, few, but very interesting.

While I was working here and there things were OK for me, you know. But from the moment I started to hit my type writer machine, howling of criticism began to fill the air around me. I had a child, I was 34 years old, what I was waiting for, act like a man, like a father, find you a job, make some money. The story of my life! Stranded in the center of the storm, God on one side, men on the other, how could I say, you don’t understand, I have no power to stop Him. I gave Him my Soul to do with it as He pleased. And I couldn’t take back my words. It was too late; and I didn’t want to take it my words back for that matter. He knew what He was doing, and that was enough for me.

I was a nice person, you know? I kept silence, I wouldn’t put the blame on nobody. But the pressure became hotter and hotter, and I had to move away. It had to write. I had to sit and dedicate my entire time to fill empty papers, find me a place where I could write without being hit with monkey words day after day. I had some guys in London living in a crazy place, an old Hospital, in Knightsbridge Hill, where I could get me an entire étage for me alone, if I wanted it to, set my old type writer machine on, put my fingers to work, fill one thousand pages on the subject, go down to the underground to play a song and make my living, come back, keep paraphrasing, get a break, eat a donuts, listen music, play cards. I don’t know, to breath, to sing a stupid ballad in the shower, to snore like a horse and fat like a bull, laugh with some friends and drink a fucking beer without no one to demonize me, or stone me.

Worthless to say I met the guys in Paris that Night of the Bicentenary. I had done my mind to Celebrate the History of the Birth of Christianity with the Divine History I was meant to write, one day, somehow. Those guys were looking for a guitar to play in a pub, it was late in the evening, they saw me walking along the Pont Neuf, called me, “sir”, begged me to stop and listen what they had to tell me.

“Please, sir”, said the leader of the band. It was the first time in my life someone call me “sir”. Was I that old, already?

“How can I please you, young fellows?” said I in an ironical tone.

The leader of the band was a genuine reproduction in flesh and bones of David Bowie, one of my favorites stars from my adolescence days. He was tall, and educated, and he was accompanied by a short fellow with a large smile all the time in his face, the bass player. The third one was the pianist, a French guy, very French.

“The situation is this….” and he explained me what it was all about without taking a break, all in all in a very fine Londoner accent. I was going to burst laughing while he was killing me with his Londoner Tower perfect diction, but I held my lips quiet. When he finished he breathed, heavenly, and killed my possible negative answer with the sweetest kitty kitty look he could play on a “sir” like me.

“All right, all right, let’s go” said I. He nearly kissed me right there.

We went to the pub, it was too late, the time to delight them with their English Music was gone. Shame!

So what? The night was young and the Party was to start in the Champ Elyssés Avenues. I got to give to Monsier Tonton Mitterrand what is due. He was a bastard, but he knew how to expend the money from the Public. The Party Night was absolutely amazing. The terrible Mirages loaded with their Massive Destruction Attack Missiles stormed the night sky painting for the occasion the stars with lilies and roses. Champs Elysées looked like the face of an old man kissed by Brigitte Bardot and Marilyn Monroe at the same time. Wow, explosive and sexy. Let’s drink a bottle of champagne and celebrate that great night, 200 years ago, when the poor threw the dices and decided that life in chains is not worth living. For them, for us, for all the men born, and to be born, ready to pay the price of freedom.

We passed the Bicentenary Night together. My drinking days were gone. I was tired and left the guys keeping the party on. They gave me their address in London.

“I might use it, guys. Would you mind?” said I joking.

“Not at all, we have plenty space, you will be always welcome, Raúl” answered me the Bowie guy.

Politeness is one of the virtues of the real English people.

One year after I was knocking on their door. You see what I mean? Once you are in the Hand of my God, you are a leaf in the wind, the personage of a book written by a hand who powers your life as it best please to Him. You are living in the actual page, the page to come is in His head. Does the personage in the book knows what is waiting for him in the next chapter? Not at all! You realize that once you are living that chapter. And there I was. One year after.

“Come on and look who is here”, shouted the short smiling guy, the bass player, to the inside of the building. What a surprise!

A real Hospital for them alone. They knew how to squat those guys. Most of people came to London to fill an empty house, they got themselves an entire old Hospital. They explained to me the trick. The building was sinking with shit. The broke in, shot lots of photos, cleaned the places from basement to roof, shot another lots, and went with the photos to the local authorities to request permission to live in it until the building was to be demolished. They will leave without making a fire, in the meantime they will pay the electric bill. Easy, fine, and smart.

“OK Raúl, you are in your house, crash wherever you like, plenty rooms free”.

I breathed my freedom, got my type writer machine out and in that very day I wrote the tittle, THE DIVINE HISTORY OF JESUS, by Cristo Raúl.

It was the beginning of Autumn, 1990, in that year Margaret Thatcher was to fall. She ran the Show of the Malvinas War. The War Industry Market used the Fall of the Argentinian Dictators, they fell thanks to the Malvinas War, to bring on the stage the famous AWAC, the French New Missiles, and so on. War Machines got to be deployed in action to be sold under guarantee that they work as they were meant to do. It was, we got to recognize them that, a great show. And if you give it a twice thought you will see that the Argentinian People got the best out of it. Without that stupid War the Dictatorship would had been running the country for another decade at least; the Argentinian military new generation profited of the situation to kick out of the Power those bloody dinosaurs and bring to the stage the star of the Century : Democracy. But Maggi was getting a little too far on Local Policy. She was hitting the bollocks of the young people all over the country. A woman would not mess with the bollocks of the gentlemen. The English guys were not monkeys to let themselves satisfy with banana and pinups. She got it all wrong. She thought herself a kind of Miss Goddess. London got mad at her, the riots of a young population mostly living in state empty houses lighted the fire in whose flames was burnt her pride and glory. I never liked the woman very much anyway. The “Iron Maiden”, they used to called her. Guys in London called her the “Iron Bitch”. She put down a lots of social benefits, she rose the taxes, she cut down the education system level. A real fascist. Not that she was the only one. The World Policy was walking the road to Global Idiocy. In Europe since the Socialist Parties got the Power the middle class was getting poorer and poorer. Hidden behind the Mask of the Progress the New Fascist-Socialist Era was shaking the Three of Education, cleaning the streets of street artists to bring in an army of drug dealers, and prostitutes managers. The intellectual level of the populations was sinking before the eyes; what was missing in knowledge of sciences and letters was filled with alcohol and drugs. By the time of the Fall of the Iron Maiden the brutalization of the generations had reached a point so high that the English became an horrendous barbarian tourist spreading violence wherever he went. The intellectual stupidity of the English was so high that while fighting the Malvinas War most people had no clue where on Earth was Argentina. But for this matter the French did not know where he had his ass; the Spaniard could not find his own nose in the face; the Italian was lost in the jungle of the Pope, the Mafia and Andreotti. Ronald Reagan was the only good man around, but he was succeeded by the Shadow, Emperor Bush I, and the USA began his way down to where Americans are these days, swimming in a pool of shit.

Nearly thousand pages, believe it or not, I sent to the fire that Spring of the ’91. Beyond this fact, and except but for my heart missing too much my child, that winter was one of the best of my life. I got into the life of the guys playing in the underground, made my own company, found me a girlfriend, Anne, good friends too, and when the Hospital was shut, we celebrated a bye bye party and I moved to my own squat.

Why did I burn a thousand pages? As I advanced I fell in a wrong hypothesis. I played with a scenario where the brothers and sisters of the Hero of the Divine History were His blood brothers and sisters. You can’t imagine the storm my God brought on me. “Are you happy? Have you finish playing your little games? Now, get up, burn those papers, let’s move, your work is not finished. Go to Jerusalem”.

Spring was gone, and Summer came. Anne joined me in the journey to Israel. We could make the money in Athens’ streets, she would pay the Ferry back in case we could not raise the money in Jerusalem’s streets. I accepted the deal. My situation was clear. I wrote a letter from Rome to my woman with a keyword, divorce. Not that I was planning to live forever with Anne, but I could not lie to myself.

A most splendid summer followed. We did not hurry to get there. We played everywhere and enjoyed our love affair as much as a good cup of tea is to be enjoyable for the nice people around the table. I had been in Rome many times before, Athens was kind of second hometown for me, but for Anne everything was new, and I lived through her eyes the places and cities I knew so well. We were out of this world. No television, no newspapers, just us and the people we met here and there, laughing and joking, dreaming and loving. Finally we got on that Ferry, from Athens to Haifa. Long many beautiful days, until one morning, at dawn, we saw the Tower of Haifa, in the horizon, a mirror reflecting the sun, like a Colossus of Rhodes by the modern hands built, welcoming the ships from the Western World.

Mad with joy we headed to Nazareth. And there it was, the Basilica of the Annunciation, a real bunker of iron and concrete ready to resist a nuclear attack, if it had to. It was one of those moments when I have to be left alone. My soul had to eat the place, the sky, the heat, the stones, to fill my mind with the pictures of the Present through which one day I would fly to the Past.

Then we hit the road to Jerusalem. And there she was, the Spanish Avila from old, the oldest city in the world still standing, full of Jews walking their machine guns on one hand and their girlfriends on the other. It looked to me like a city under siege. What was going on? I could not help asking if that was normal, the soldiers walking their machine guns.

“Where you from? Do you come from Mars? There is a war around the corner. Iraq has invaded Kuwait, man”

Well, to be honest, the Israelis seemed to me pretty much happy. The Jerusalem Post and alike were talking of Neutron Bombs. Some fellows in there were crossing finger and begging Moses to send them a Global War, it was the time to get rid of the Arabs once and for all. A Nuclear attack on Medina, Teheran and Damascus, end of the Palestinian Affair. The little Palestinians were, obviously, hailing Saddam Hussein; the poor little people, they never understood the Palestinian Question, they were a pawn in the game of the Arab League. The Palestinians meant nothing for the Arabs, just a fire to keep burning their stupid hate of the Jews.

Next stop, of course, Bethlehem. Some Jew stop to tell us not to go, it was under Palestinian control and they would eat us, fry us in a pan like stupid chicken, suck our bones. We laughed and kept going. Most delicious tiny village on a hill. With a crazy guy at the door of the cave of the cradle where baby Jesus was born. The valley below slept with reminiscences of young David learning to reproduce the roar of the lion, to fight back the wolf. The forest of old were gone, the land which one day was rich in honey and milk was now rich in dead sands and bloody wars.

Jerusalem was the hit. King David Street was our stage to play a song for living. Now and then a guy dressed like a prophet used to walk up and down with a flag: “The end of the world is near, come down and have a beer”, was written on it. The Prophet’s Pub, where all the tourist ended drinking and laughing and telling their stories. We ended up there too, drinking and laughing; Anne was feeling groovy, she was beautiful and lovely, but she was afraid of the War going on. She began to believe that the Arabs and the Jews were to bury their mutual hate under a neutron atomic rain, now!

My journey to the Past was completed anyway. The Present, as I saw it, was that the real Israelis have nothing to do with the Jews of the tale. They are people like me and like you, with the handicap to be born and raised in a country surrounded by people who hate them. The Israelis want the same thing you and me we want, to live free, to live happy, to travel, to learn, to love, to go from town to town, jump from country to country. We don’t know how lucky we are until we don’t visit Israel. The Spanish have the French to criticize; the English, the Spaniards; the French, the Belgian; the Germans criticize everybody. Anyway, we have no borders, we wake up today in Madrid and tomorrow in Paris, next in London, next in Berlin. There are no barriers, no frontiers, no borders, no walls. You don’t have to have money to go to Helsinki, just a finger to stop a car, and a stomach ready to eat rock, if you had to. No one deny you the freedom to go to Bratislava, to play in Budapest by the riverside, do as you please, no one hates you. Those Israelis live in a prison, surrounded by the most terrible of the jailers, Hate. And they can’t break through. The Koran is there to remember the Arabs that their mission in this world is to destroy Israel, to erase the race of the Jews from the surface of the Earth. And the poor little Palestinians are the excuse for the Arab World to maintain the fire of the hate to the Jews alive. No wonder that the Jerusalem Post was claiming for the Neutron Bomb Arsenal to come on stage.

The trip was over. I took Anne back to England and faced my situation. My ex wanted me to come back to her. She could forgive my adventure, start again, we, the three of us. Had grandpapa advice be taken I should had stay alone, out there, on my own, living my life as it was, free from criticizing, stoning and cursing. Second parts are no good.

But love is a powerful argument. I took them to Rome with me for some months, till I figured out what was next. Then we went back to Madrid and hire us for keeping tidy and warm the house in the country of a rich aristocrat couple, the Marquises of Antequera. They came once in the month, for the weekend, and they went away again. We just have to be there for no one to come in and sack their little home-palace in the Segovian County. Our child, Israel, was seven years old, and going in the school in the village; I loved crazily that child. I could kill anybody if I had to protect his life; even to live with a woman I did not love. She too, for that matter. The end, however, was close. The aristocrat couple sold their house in the Segovian County and we moved to the place of another millionaire in the Toledan County. After few months we broke, I sent the woman with her child back to her parents’ home. It was over.

And if second parts are no good, the divorce after a second part is hell. But I had to swallow the pill and keep going. I had a Divine History to write. Whether I lost any right on my child, or she kept the child from me and I could not see him, I had to finish the study I had begun. Just the storm had to pass away. I wandered around Europe until the picking grape thing in France, and I drank the French wine with a thirst which would had drown ten men in a row. My anger was a fire hard to cool down. I was a fool when I left her come back. Now I had to face the consequences.

After that picking grape season I went to Athens to pass the time, did the round of Italy and back to Spain for the olive picking season. As a matter of fact there was always a picking season going on here and there in Europe. Olives in winter in Spain, oranges in spring in Greece, apples and peaches in summer, in Italy or in Catalunya, grapes in France during Fall, and in the spaces between you play guitar in Florence, Venice, Santiago de Compostela, Avignon, Bratislava, London, Amsterdam, Vienna, wherever you fancy, man. No world in the Earth but the European Community. There were plenty guys everywhere you go. Unfortunately in those days the Horse of Death was massacring the population. The streets were changing. The street artists have definitely been invaded by the junkies. Especially in Spain since the Socialist Party got the Power the change was amazing. They had banned the street artist under penalty of, even, jail, and once the streets were clean from those hobos they call in those poor creatures of death, the junkies. As time passed by you could see them on their knees begging some coins from the passersby, heartbreaking.

Those couple of years doing the round of Europe from country to country finally cooled my soul. The Gods decided that I had to reopen my Studies on Ancient History, and where better than London, the land of the British Museum? I popped in England during the Summer of the year 1993, worked in the country, got my money out, found me a flat in London, around Finsbury Park, and spent a little fortune in second hands book in the bookshops around the British Museum, where I found real jewels for a pound. There was where I discovered the Old Cambridge Series, John Acton, John Bury and company. They opened my mind to the days of the firsts cities and empires. And I followed them straight to the land of the Jews in the days of Daniel, wherefrom I took by myself the horse by the bridle and began to ride on my own.

Once I thought myself fit for the task I bought me a type writer electric machine, shut me in the flat, and commenced to rain in the papers the first sketches of the Divine History. During the next months I hardly came out. That time I would not allow myself to play with ideas, I had to break in through the real and true History of Jesus. I found myself sleeping as I was sitting, my head on the table, to restart the chapter where I just left it, early at the break of the morning. And as I advanced from the days of Daniel to the days of the Maccabees, and straight to the time of Joseph and Mary, I finally broke in… in the THE HEART OF MARY.

I had reached the Door most Sacred and Well-guarded in the History of Christianity, the Heart of the Mother of Jesus. I had conquered again. Now I could write “THE HEART OF MARY. The Divine History of Jesus”. I can’t describe the emotion, but I think the discovering of Penicillin did not bring so much joy to the soul of Pasteur as the Opening of this Door to mine. One day there will be sickness no more, and penicillin will be in the museums of Science. But MARY’S HEART; THE DIVINE HISTORY will be always in the heart of Mankind, forever and ever.

As I woke that morning, the snow had come down during the night, and dressed the trees by my window with a white gown, delicious picture to the eye of a southern man. I got finally out, to breath the cool air, walk my joy through the London streets, cut my hair, buy me a jeans, some nice jacket, a gift for the Victor. Christmas was ringing the bells, was on the air, people happy, faces dear to my eyes. I felt full of joy and life again; I could huge God Himself one more time, tell Him that no matter how hard He plays on me, still I loved Him, I could dance a Irish song with the Sun as a partner, seduce the Moon to let me sing a song of Victory with Andromeda and Perseus in the Valley of Calm. I could kiss Sirius in the cheek, in the forehead, in the lips, and sleep in the Mountain of Hope up there somewhere in the Planet of Ice, my beloved Saturn. But there was something I missed with all my heart. A kiss, one kiss from the few people I loved most. I was thinking in going home to celebrate Christmas; I would be back later to my little Londoner flat, to give body to the Divine History, and find a publisher.

I could not wait calling home to say I was going. That was me, I never thought twice a thing of the heart. I localized a telephone cabin and ran to it.

DIARY OF A SON OF GOD