Status Updates From Autobiografia do algodão

‘—theatre of cruelty. A stain on the floor of the world. It is Friday. Conscience sometimes explodes like a ripe, shadowy, pained watermelon. No history of agriculture could be spelled out without water. The precise language of hammers. The heavy sensuality of cement—the musicality of metal, sand, wood, gravel. Everything was on the verge of being. On the verge of flowering. Revueltas—hammering—hundreds of telegrams’

‘Not a single cloud in an outrageously blue sky—something definitive about the rural sky—stars had history—weight of shared emotions. A strike is what one finds on the edge of silence, but it is also silent itself. There are calls one can only respond to by changing location—queer, nomadic, iconoclastic. These bonds aren’t carried in the blood—but in—stickier substance: affinities—on the other side of time’s tunnel—’

‘—acacias—barrel cacti—anachuita—unpredictable cycles—desire is a cruel master. People—in languages he half hears & half understands. If you looked into the distance, you could see the order that cotton had imposed on the plains—you could feel the eyes of the cotton on your back—Gossypium hirsutum—the Mexican cotton plant. Here—on the very frontier of all things, were those who had nothing, except faith—persistence—’