José Cueli: Malinalco, Tepozteco and Xochicalco

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Holy Lord of Chalma, Malinalco. Magical, fantastic times and spaces that are neither tangible nor concrete, but rather those of the magical triangle of Malinalco, Tepozteco, and Xochicalco, where one lives another distance from the Mediterranean logic, of those who struggle to escape from the fire, a yoke that represents the other culture, ignorant of rituals, silent voices of deep, rancid country flavor, transmit the heavy pain that was felt, was felt in the morning afternoon of magical spell between screams and moans.

Searching for a change of path in the pilgrimage from the rocky sand of Malinalco, that of the eagle knights and the tiger knights, in the distance of a different, singular time or space.

Especially the Christian struggle between Jews and Romans in the festive procession that is linked to the Malinalca rites.

Malinalca pilgrims from Chalmas, knowing that in this world we are all pilgrims on a journey of no return, to a harmonious, voluptuous, fulfilling beyond; which simply implies being, losing oneself, like when one looks at the sea, a fire, or a tree and detaches from oneself, goes away, distances us from the sensible, from the internal world, turns in the opposite direction, describes other worlds, other ways of living, where pilgrimage only means a different path on the journey.

Pilgrimages to the sanctuary of the Holy Lord of Chalma, the old cathedral of Malinalco, an archaeological site that leads to the highway from Santiago Tianguistenco, with the monumental pyramids of Malinalco as a frame, looking out to see their children who come from all over the Republic in search of resignation in the face of loss and sorrow, dressed in wreaths of flowers on their heads, like crowns of thorns, accompanied by the village brass band, sour, sharp, brave Mexican metal, an expression of centuries of indigenous hunger in the midst of crowding, openings, confusion, they offer their offering as an indigenous sacrifice that is repeated and repeated.

Pilgrimages in the authentic Mexican religious festival, death lurking along the paths between the magical rocks, waiting for death in the glare of the road, a sad, tired walk in the imperceptible trot that emerges from the thicket, seeking death from fair to fair, from rodeo to rodeo.

Malinalco sad, silent as if its familiar magueys with their brave silhouettes cut out, peeking out at the cathedral of death, trotting and trotting, desperately searching for the sad dust, wind of tiredness, spoils of the leaves, in the trees, enslaved by the bitterness of the race.

Pilgrims full of faith seek inner emotions on journeys of inner preparation that blossom slowly, asceticism seeks the freedom that annuls chronometric time, reduces measurable space, finds time within, space that lasts, mysticism of the primitive not influenced by reason, there are no successive days and nights, nor people or places, the presence of the body is annulled to establish communication with beings of the past, present and future, the opposite of the systematized, non-robotic, electronics, logic, omnipotence: the delusion of grandeur.

Malinalca race lost in the labyrinth of fantasy of the rocks and ancient ceremonial temples, full of ghosts, evocative shadows, legends that ignore where they come from and where they go, without past or future that they know exists beyond the magnetic, magical stones that limit the horizon of space charged with perfumes, notes of distant harmonies in an internal language that is prayer.