Fragmentary souls in the La Sagrada Familia



The plates were noising on the table, speaking about the prominence on the table places from each one. This happens in certain social groups, like small interest groups with a silent fight. They were in an effusive conversation about life's circumstances, questioning their life situation, if it could be cracked or definitely, turns broke could they lose their positions or functions, finishing their life in the backyard.
    No more shelves would have where they could hide; no one cleaned up would be them, and no more could do part of a ritual sustaining a special meal and composing with design an offering to an important guest.The plates live inside shelves in a porcelain society structured in a complex interweaving of utility values.
   They are utilitarians, functional people inside a hierarchic order, always seeking a position like it was the reason for life.     They live in the same form, unmoveable and unchangeable, with a tough character from thousand years, same thus, it is not sufficient. To live needs to have material sense. They want a ranking podium, a position from the origin, race, condition, might, money, and aesthetic.

    Another day (a long time ago) it came to a porcelain shelve, an old plate with a cracked border. No one believed it. There was a wrong against the porcelain world offending its social rules. In there was that strangerous figure whose meaning does not was understandable.
    So, it tried to explain that he was a rarity who came from a past life at a castle serving queens, nobles, kings, and saints.
Another porcelain plate came too, "it is absurd," they said.
It was a golden plate with a wave design called volutes which had pure gold and silver, precious jewelry, and colored adorns.     The people of porcelain laughed at him, pointing out that he did not belong on that shelf, "it was a fake plate," calling all the time a futile thing, inadequate, new-rich, freakish, and ridiculous.
   They dialogued about waste, vanity, and submission in a rhetoric about class conscience - without the act being an abstraction -and had no awareness of the fragile and lonely situation from that ornated plate. It took less time for the porcelain plates to see the stranger plate gain a special place on the wall of the main hall.
  Commentaries like "indecency," "a shame," and "is a complete mediocrity by half" however they habituated with it. The golden plate anymore has seen around them. It stayed in the home entrance with a light that made it bright.
    The time came and took the tradition. It was another house, another place, and different people living there. Some porcelain plates disappeared, some live in another home with simple people, some live in the backyard or at museums, and others were fragmented and made part of a mosaic in La Sagrada Familia church.
  Something happened; discussions without sense about social position, advantages, gains, or merit with nobility feeling were no longer. It does not want to say that they, the porcelain people, do not exist at least as authentic, unimaginable. The lily also can be born in the swamp. In the middle of garbage can live a philosopher.
  The one who gives importance to gossip is the same one who brags about the position of power, living from the disgrace of another. Therefore, I know that a plate, a broken porcelain soul, can also recuperate its value. I know some broke porcelain now, at just moment, are praying for all of us in the La Sagrada Familia church in Barcelona.

  

I am someone who came from a place that never was. River water, calm lakes, waterfalls, edges where bushes and trees grow, the open field, the sky reflected in my hands in the trembling mirror of the river, the waits I am, this man lying in the river in the middle of autumn of my existence, loves his children, he likes to be alone, and he has a great company. I leave out the conceptual groups that put their finger on the face and follow fashion. I try not to be like that. In this boat, I am also the water where I sail. I take the sky with me, the fields, the flowers, and the fragrant herbs all my mornings. I am a being of the dawn. The scandal of nature in the voice of a bird, the incessant hum of the bells that insects make. I look like it, but I am not afraid of anything. I do not think I ever was. Indeed, my father, especially my mother, sweetly led me to read and write. I am always primary; I am still learning to read and write, row, and let the boat go safely. pmnt

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