LTWR 425 - The Revolutionary Men of My Time Did Not Cry

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<img src="images/journal.jpeg" alt="An image of an open journal" /> <<audio "death" loop play>> <<audio "sad" stop>> <<audio "present" stop>> Journal Entry | 20 November, 1970 It rained the past few days here in "Tierra de Soledad." Once a breeze's beatific song garnering the gaiety of its grains and the dancing of its trees, now nothing more but scarce somber solace. No longer is the sweet nectar from a tree's bosom bestowed to its saplings, nor the sought song of a songbird sounded. It has been some time since I have written in this dear journal of mine. The joys and wonders in this land, oh, how I have written of you. Even so, they do not diminsh the tremendous tragedies and longing love I have experienced during my youth and age. [[Youth]] or [[Age]] With the sun slowing emerging from behind the clouds, I have been meaning to take a kind walk around [[Tierra de Soledad|Go outside]].

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Journal Entry | 07 September, 1909 Qué cosa más bella con la que Dios me ha bendecido. (What a beautiful thing God has blessed me with). Never has there been a time where the songs of my heart manifested into the portrait of a beautiful woman. Her glistening strands of hair reflected the brightness of the sun. Her forgiving, blue eyes embarrassed the ocean. Her lips ummatched by even the most lovely rose. And all together, she evoked the captivating perfume of the sweet flowers in town. But what was I, a humble man, supposed to do? [[Sing her a song]] or [[Admire her from afar]] or [[Do nothing]]?

Journal Entry | 30 December, 1958 "Tierra de Soledad" is drying up. There has not been any rain in the past few months. The crops I have been trying to harvest are inedible, and of those edible, scarce. There have been times where hunger pains strike this body of mine—is this how it feels to be shot by a carabine rifle? I am getting ahead of myself. There is a nearby town "Rancho Agua Dulce" which may support a man of my age with some resources. A bit of food and water is all I ask! And I dare not go to the city our government is pushing forth. Something having to do with offers of job and greater living—"a push for modernización." I would rather die an honest man on this arid land than face those deceitful men who promise justice and social betterment. To Hell with them! [[Stay in "Tierra de Soledad"]] or [[Go to "Rancho Agua Dulce"]]?

<img src="images/tree.jpeg" alt="A desolate road with a tree nearby" /> It has been an enternity since I read through this old, stained journal of mine. It is but a collection of yellow pages, stiff and unbending, to a historic myth of grandeur and pride. Bah! All those memories scar my consciousness and continue to ravage my mind with no remorse. "Tierra de Soledad," are you the place I call home? Are you the place that tore apart my dearly beloved heart and joy? Perhaps... Or perhaps you are not to blame. Am I to blame? Am I to carry the burden of the revolutionary men of my time pained by the grief of their women! We lived. We fought. We died. Am I to carry their weight? Who am I but an old, dying man in a Iand untouched by the grace of a growing nation as a seed to a fruit. But this fruit is rotten, and those who consume it are destined an illness before time. "Esta gran tierra nuestra..." And as I walk out of "Tierra de Soledad," I am reminiscent of a laughter longed for, a sound sought song, and the gentle rhythmic resonance of a guitar resonating throughout the lands before me. But I continue to walk under this scorching sun in search of shade. And afar I see a promise. [[Walk Toward Cactus In The Distance]] or [[Go Back|Start]]?

Can the songs from my father to my mother suffice? Can the burning passion of this mere countryman suffice? Can my words, careful as they be, suffice? Her name is Marisol. Of the sea and the sun. She shared with me some of her experiences at "Tierra de Soledad." The late nights spent beside the warmth grasp of a fire, the common tuning of a guitar and its rhythmic resonance, and the contentment of living a simple life with her family. No one to bother and no one bothering any one. Marisol and I... [[Progress through Youth]]

A melancholic smile forms, resonating a profound sense of astoundment engulfed in the brevity of time. Temporary as it is, she stands there observing her surroundings. Each gaze is sincere, for they absorb the townsfolk and their cattle, their sombreros, their children, their laughter, and their singing. For a second or two, she looks at me. Through raised eyebrows, we share a smile and wave at each other. Poor fool am I. To see her portrait engulfed in the sea of men and women, of children and animals walking from either side in either direction. And as a drop of water disappears into a flowing river, so did the woman from afar. She who shared the brevity of time with me. I with her, and her with me. [[Back|Start]]

Even the most stubborn know better not to interact with a goddess. After all, I am nothing more than a poor boy, whose sweat and labor define him. But now, tears cleanse the grime off my cheeks. There is nothing to it; I am not worth it. Best to accept this now and not later. Life is full of wonders, but I must be willing to let go this foolish dream of mine. [[Back|Start]]

Journal Entry | 04 November, 1910 The revolution is nearly underway and it pains me to see Marisol worry for me. I kept reassuring her everything will be fine; the men are simply going to take back what is rightfully ours, fight for better treatment and recognition. "For God and country!" I said. "None of that matters," she said, "if what I want is you. If all I need is you! You can't. Please, don't!" She keeps telling me it is dangerous and that I am crazy. How is bringing justice into this world crazy? "The men are calling me," I said. "We're fighting for the good of us all. The land and its people need us to go fight." Marisol tells me I am not the same anymore—but I still love her. "I'll be back," I said, embracing her body against mine. "The war will be over soon. Everything will be the same as before." Marisol tells me I will die if I fight—but I am ready to lay my life for her as the other men will for their wives at home. If not for me, for her. [[Join the revolution]] or [[Do not join the revolution]]? <<audio "death" pause>> <<audio "mainsong" loop play>>

<img src="images/rifle.jpeg" alt="Rustic, wooden rifles indicative of a past, forgotton period...war" /> I watched my brothers die and felt death around me. Though I never suffered any wounds as the other revolutionaries—the Villistas, the Zapatistas, or the Carrancistas—the bullet which brought even the strongest horse down was fired by Marisol. She could no longer bear with the anguish of me joining the Revolution. "He's dead!" Marisol would scream when the first bridage of men died with carbines at their sides. "Why God, why! Why did you take him away from me so soon? Why!" And as the legend of the hollering woman, the cries of Marisol would be heard from dusk to dawn through Tierra de Soledad. But I was not dead. I fought with tears of blood for my love at home and with the sweat of my brow. The men beside me fought with honor as well. "¡Viva México, hijos de la Chingada!" The men of the Revolution had cried. ¡Viva! "Long live the Mexico," I whispered. "Long live the Revolution, and may God have mercy on my soul..." I was told Marisol had a miscarriage while I was away. She became distant of me and of Tierra de Soledad. Those who remained in town would visit. The women would bring bread and milk and pray for her well-being. But Marisol remained bed-ridden for months. Every so often, her cries would wake the town and myself in the dead of night. "Shut that damn woman up!" our neighbor, an middle-aged countryman, would say. "Please be charitable, señor," I said to the countryman. "My wife is not adjusting well to everything we have been through." "I fought too!" the countryman said. "All I ask is for peace and quiet. Nothing more... I need sleep." Marisol and I were going to have a boy. I was going to have a son. I was going to be a father! And because of my foolishness in not listening to the pleas coming from the soul of Marisol, I ask God to pity me. Only He can forgive my sins. This hypocrite son of His. He who lives by the sword, dies by the sword. [[Back|Start]] <<audio "sad" loop play>> <<audio "death" stop>> <<audio "mainsong" stop>>

Marisol gave birth to a boy. My son. I named him Emmanuel. For a while everything seemed well. There was enough food for the three of us. I would often tune the guitar and sing about the marvels of the countryside. Marisol would join in and observe with those precious, delicate black eyes of hers. Emmanuel would soon sleep soundly at the strum of a song and the singing of stars. Everything was going well, and we were all enjoying our time in "Tierra de Soledad." But Marisol and Emmanuel fell ill one day after drinking water from a nearby well. I had no money and no one to go to. The remedies of past generations, those of my mother and her mother, did not alleviate either of their conditions. I stayed beside Marisol and caressed my son, Emmanuel, who remained quiet beneath a motherly embrace. For days and nights did I pray to God. For days and nights did I remain by their side. I now carry their songs and laughter. [[Back|Start]] <<audio "death" loop play>> <<audio "mainsong" stop>>

Journal Entry | 08 January, 1959 ¡Gracias, Dios! (Thank you, God!) It was not much but I was able to ration the grains of rice, maize, and a bag of beans until it began to rain—miraculously! In my time at "Tierra de Soledad," I have noticed I have started to become a quiet man. There is no one to speak to but myself. No one to sing to but myself. No one to listen to but myself. The next harvest will appear to be a good one. I have faith in the Almighty one that this is the case, if so help me God! [[Back|Start]]

<img src="images/town.jpeg" alt="A overarching image of a white, complex and a historic architecture for a cathedral" /> The ranch is in as much of a drought as "Tierra de Soledad," but they have sustained themselves through a well they preciously use. It is an awfully quiet ranch, with only a few people here and there. The old folk do not do much but sit and observe with their eyes and brows. Hell, they seem to not talk as well. I was gifted some small bags of rice, beans, and maize. I am sure they will maintain for a while. On my way back to "Tierra de Soledad," I came across the half-eaten, dried carcass of a cow. It bones were protruding out from what used to be its coat, and its head outlined would could have been a promising cattle. [[Back|Start]]

<img src="images/cactus.jpeg" alt="A sorrowful, darkened cactus"/> Here I lie, the sun no longer in my eye, with shade aside and face toward the sky. I sing for the good times I sing for the bad times; where love and joy were mine, where chaos and confusion had people die. I lived a life worth living for, nothing less and nothing more. I lived a life worth living for, a rich life though I remain poor. for you I give my songs to adore! "¡La vida es bella!" ("Life is beautiful!") [[Back|Start]] <<audio "present" loop play>> <<audio "death" stop>>

<img src="https://images.pexels.com/photos/3837278/pexels-photo-3837278.jpeg?auto=compress&cs=tinysrgb&w=1260&h=750&dpr=1" alt="An open, dry landscape with a few bushes and one standing tree encapsulating its vastness and gloominess"/> Here I lie, the sun no longer in my eye, with shade aside and face toward the sky. I sing for the good times I sing for the bad times; where love and joy were mine, where chaos and confusion had people die. I lived a life worth living for, nothing less and nothing more. I lived a life worth living for, a rich life though I remain poor. for you I give my songs to adore! "¡La vida es bella!" ("Life is beautiful!") [[Back|Start]] <<audio "present" loop play>> <<audio "death" stop>>

Journal Entry | 20 November, 1970

It rained the past few days here in "Tierra de Soledad." Once a breeze's beatific song garnering the gaiety of its grains and the dancing of its trees, now nothing more but scarce somber solace. No longer is the sweet nectar from a tree's bosom bestowed to its saplings, nor the sought song of a songbird sounded.

It has been some time since I have written in this dear journal of mine. The joys and wonders in this land, oh, how I have written of you. Even so, they do not diminsh the tremendous tragedies and longing love I have experienced during my youth and age.

Youth or Age

With the sun slowing emerging from behind the clouds, I have been meaning to take a kind walk around Tierra de Soledad.