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“At Lucha Libre fights there’s a bad and good guy luchador beefing it out. Just what does the Luchador represent? Do you think the professionals in the ring know it’s theatre ; )”
“Do you remember that the fighting ring, or the carnival you’re experiencing is just an unexamined creative dualistic universe... one that you may or may not remember creating?”
“Mescal is a fine beverage made from the fermented juices of green agave - usually accompanied by a delicious worm at the bottom of the bottle.”
“Are you finding higher rebellion in the manifestations of your smaller-self?”
El Luchador's ego
I was flattered that Chumba bestowed upon me such a kick ass label—El Luchador!
The only problem was… I wasn’t Mexican, just half. I wasn’t exactly the best wrestler either.
Intoxicated with new memories, I relived each one, narrating as they appeared. My hands mimed the actions of chess pieces of midget pawns, and masked competitors for knights, explaining,“While staring at themselves in the funhouse mirror, the fairgoers had difficulty distinguishing their reflections from the real ones with double chins. They spent their time outside el cuadrilátero (fighting ring), chatting about face paint. Unaware that the shape of the ring controlled who they rooted for, they sat glassy eyed as the carnage spilled outside the ropes and into their seats.”
My Spanish was seeping into the dream conversation. I was wondering just how ‘el cuadrilátero’ snuck itself in.
“You’re a damn prodigy. A mammon chingón! Impossible to kill, even as a fetus!” Chumba chimed.
I added, “Unlike us, they were unable to ring the bell on the sledgehammer game; dwarves and midgets engaged in the progress of slaying evil babies and licking butts. I think you’d call them 'los minis', the incredible midget wrestlers that fight as a team... right?”
“Si, so you liked the twin fighting midgets too! Damn full of ourselves aren’t we, Xavier?”
“Who gives a rat’s ass?” I answered. “We made sure they could sleep after convincing fairgoers to swim in outhouses, without full wetsuits. They could look at the mustardless hotdog in their hand, and with a confident sneer, state there was no hotdog, because as we all know, a hotdog cannot be a hotdog unless it has mustard on it. Abusing their choice to go to any ride they wished, they gave their rights tofair authoritiesso they could fondle themselves in public.”
“But we reaped the rewards! A butt load of ingenuity for a couple of chigasos, eh?” Chumba chuckled.
“Yep, no longer could they distinguish between Chihuahua and pigeon,hexagon and being hexed.”I replied.
“Hey… you’re getting ahead of yourself mi Luchador, because I’m telling you you’re grimace will fall off your ugly face when you’re pinned like a quedada in a espanos planes. I said you’re going to get worked like an old lady in a submission hold!”
Chumba’s bravado brought visions of El Jefe reclining in a cowhide ambassador’s chair, smoking fine tobacco and sipping the most exquisite tequila.
“Xavier, you’re as difficult to mount as an oiled pig. Without doubt, your methods are moldy, your smarts fermented, your intent wandering around like a drunk. Still, I promise you’ll become a better wrestler, one who’s free to use techniques like the guillotina. Be assured chingón, we can’t waste more time. Now that you’ve accepted my presence, I’ll even teach you the tornillo! Oh, and chilito little dick, only morons do the Mexican Hat Dance in front of the recently whooped, and only retards warn they’re going to punch you in the mouth.”
There was an empty space where fidgeting sat.
Chumba suddenly trumpeted like a matador on crack, “You’re a pinche Luchador, just like me. You’ll always return to the ring, I see it in your corazón, your heart.” Though my pupils were open to the message, unease nagged. I brushed it aside, taunting, “Alright Chumba, if you’ve got more to say, say it!”
“Oh I’ll say it,” Chumba answered, “You and me, tag-team extraordinaire, lead the shallow into deep waters. In many we’ve resided, and they in us. We were partners and still are. Naked, except for ourmasks,we bent over, showing off our pink baboon-like rumps, all the while tearing down worlds with controlled chaos. We squatted with rolls of fat hanging over our huevos, belched as we emptied the hearts and pockets of our offspring. Some said we’d become los culeros of creation.”
“Oh I’ll say it,” Chumba answered, “You and me, tag-team extraordinaire, lead the shallow into deep waters. In many we’ve resided, and they in us. We were partners and still are. Naked, except for our masks, we bent over, showing off our pink baboon-like rumps, all the while tearing down worlds with controlled chaos. We squatted with rolls of fat hanging over our huevos, belched as we emptied the hearts and pockets of our offspring. Some said we’d become los culeros of creation.”
“Who the fuck called us the assholes of creation?” I demanded.
“Forget it amigo, and learn a thing, for I’m powered bypulche and morcilla,and belch suggestions only the subconscious digests. While knocking down shots, we mastered circular grammar. While gnawing blood sausage, we pumped it hard with triple XXX geometry to activate all the right triggers.”
I blushed as a 135 degree heat flashed into my cheeks and down my neck.
“Xavier, quit being a bitch. Words are a drug mainlined by those swimming against the torrent. So do as I, and you’ll remove any sense left in the populace. Not a single eye will wink back… except mine of course.”
“You see, I am El Jefe, your boss, and you are my pupil. But listen, there are Gallos de Pelea engaging us in a battle of Wills. We believed not a clucking would be heard again. But you can smell it - the odor of fighting roosters. We must warp that fucking mirror, give new reasons to peck and scratch, where open eyes lose their authority to speak the truth. Use the Luchador methods and steal the worm from their mescal!”
Sensing my disdain, Chumba’s fervor increased, “Why have you become sterile like a half-breed Dalmatian-Chihuahua from TJ?”
I responded, “You know, I’m sick of your accusations.”
“Xavier, the silencing of loud mouths doesn’t require removal of all back talk, it only demands the smack down of competing ideas. We must get ready for la pelea del año, the fight of the year. Rememberlos rudoslike us use it for its end game, which isn’t only money, but to inflame the passions of the ignore-ant for a larger purpose.”
“Amigo, the music of persuasion’s felt, not heard. A bad ass Luchador, one who becomes el Capitán, will remember we’re always inside them, snoring away, ready to be awoken.”
A cat-like breeze rubbed my shoulder. Behind the scenes, an itching complaint was wondering ‘how is it that our goal's always receding?’.
Chumba continued. “I’ll grab a sixer, chase it with a swig of Don Julio, smoke a cig and kick back. Sprawled out on the mud, I’ll watch, not moving a finger. You’ll be my bitch! Without shame, I’ll mine my nose as you cultivateelec-tedcarny representatives and hawkers of electrified propaganda. I’ll be watching Mexi-dwarf hardcore as the public raises their beers, cheering.”
Shaking my head, I questioned, “What’s this ‘you’ stuff? I’m nobody’s bitch.”
“Xavier,” the voice reassured, “You’ve believed it was me who was El Capitán, but it’s actually you. You weren’t always dressed like that derelict Captain Nemo. So pry your flattened butt up. Come on! Harpoon critical thinking before they dive too deep.”
Before I could rail into him, I drifted back to ‘reality’. Standing there, my reflected image showed myself standing on a flooded floor. With flushed skin and panicked eyes, I resembled a cow aware of the slaughterhouse at the end of the ramp, or a first-timer in thefunhouse.
Aware of the pounding rain and the dimly empty Tavern restroom, I wondered if I really chose this reality. Excited to move forward, and fearful to move back, I was consumed by a thirst for power.
Then, in the most vicious tone, Chumba’s voice blasted back into my consciousness, “Kiss my nalgas! I don’t care if it’s a rusting farm truck carrying poultry, a perspective whisking passengers to oblivion, or a bullet carrying disagreeable souls into gray seas. Show me the boats of people, packed in like steak-house cattle. Wow Xavier, I’m starting to get a hankering for a nice rare slab.”
Gritting my teeth, I recalled out loud, “When they realized that no amount of smarts could Evel Knieval the chasm, they sucked down another shot glass of 180 proof hope.”
After an eternity, Chumba spoke. “Bienvenidos! Look, their swollen tongues are convincing others to board. Listen, a Mariachi band playing the most wonderful out-of-tune music. Can you hear them? The crowd is surging as the quartet plays on.”
Perhaps it was my imagination, but it sounded like the rain was becoming a deluge. I staggered around, fumbling for the light switch. Strange, when I came into the bathroom the lights were on.
Chumba had crawled from the pit of my dream into the now.
“Lavese sus manos and take your finger away from the switch. I’m here to turn the real light on. Chingón, between torrents, this womb has been like the night. You’ve been waiting for a ride to begin, to fly into that brief encounter called life. But it started before you knew. You were listening to one story, but two were being read. This ride’s the somersaulting of a machine with rushes of panic, excitement, and terror. Here Xavier, smoke the butt of my cig. Mira! Now you can see the multiple dice rolled in the moment… all with different endings. Feel the thrusting of the machine. You ride, fall, push upward and reach for wonder. Aye aye aye!”
Rain filled the background.
“Stop pestering yourself pendejo. I’m letting you know the ride is just a ride.”
There was a remnant of memory, walking to my trailer, sprinkling rain, hiss from tires on asphalt streets. I ignored it and confessed a slowly appearing memory, “Every time the ride swirled by I’d catch their stare, plastering fake terror across my face. Seeing my expression, they anticipated a false future—the horror their carriage would disconnect, launching them into one last experience… oh, the dread! After they departed, some didn’t remember the ride, while others carried their memory as burden. Still, a few knew their destination was to run naked through thefairgrounds.”
I cleared my throat and forged ahead, “Well… this wouldn’t do. They all needed to remain on bail-lined paths alongside the prize beasts, or alone in the arcade of silence.”
“So Señor, so why did you convince them to board?” asked Chumba, knowing the answer.
“So that ants might be convinced to move pebbles, that the torrent would move with our minds only — not theirs. I created a current that swept the ignore-ants away from the essential nature. A moral entrepreneur I was, I am. But in the end, it was their choice to wallow in all that carnival filth.”
Luchador – A small-self ego entity & observer perceiving its partition as more real than its essential higher-self nature. (See; angle, essential nature, ‘Fallen Angel/Angle‘)
“Are you an observer of life, outside the ring? Or, are you on stage creating powerful new shows for others to watch? ”
“There are Wills (aspects & manifestations of your smaller-self) who desire you to never see outside the carnival or ring. For if you put one foot outside and one foot in, you become sovereign. This is an offense to the ego-dream which wants creation to be the creator, duality to eclipse singularity, and the relative to be independent of the absolute.”
“The ‘torrent’ is a metaphor for the watercourse way, the absolute, the essential nature.”