How come, how come…by the end of December countless people

seek for your guide…pardon to their sins…your benediction…wishing

them good luck in their first night of love making…on their knees…

before that obscene bloody representation of yours attached to that

wall. And at the side of the Church’s navel; the representation of you

as a baby in a rustic crib in a stable…surrounded by a donkey, a cow…

a sheep, and Mama and Papa keeping an eye on you. And all the above

scenario is very elaborated. With tridimensional images made of Paris.

You, sweet brother. In the first hours of your life…in the last moment

of your life. With nothing but suffering in between. If the story is true…

we think we only know something about you in the last three years of

your life. Oh, yes. We have heard the story of you when you were a kid

and gave a big speech and lecture at the Temple. Let’s say you were a

good man. Tried to do for others. You were so crazy you opted for a

humiliating death to make people understand. People don’t

understand. Has always been that way and it will always be that way.

You know; through History, Mankind has had great thinkers that tried

to make others understand. A great number of them. Unfortunately,

we as creatures of bad habit and complacency and seekers of

immediate pleasure…don’t think too much really about important

things. But, I’m digressing. Were was I…ah,yes. One of these days I’m

going to take you down that ugly stinky cross…take you to the nearest

river…wash you off…massage your tender young body with the help

of two women with the most expensive oils in the world. And carry you

in my shoulders to the highest mountain and bury you under a pretty

tree. As close to the sun as possible.

Love you brother.

EO