Laura Benetti
Angela Carranza was born in the city of Cordoba in 1641 and arrived in Lima in 1665, after being abandoned by her lover Chile. No fortune, pitch to their fate and unable to marriage, decided to become a saint. Little by little, gained fame for his public speeches, his writings, his raptures in crowded churches and some dubious favors offered to merchants at the time. Changed its name to Lamb of God. She, the chosen of God, always had a response and was estranged from the Church authorities by refusing to submit to the confession and obedience. She was arrested in 1690 by the Tribunal of the Inquisition, with a folio of 609 chapters. She had written more than 7500 pages whose content is unknown because they were burned. She was convicted in 1694 and detained no pious habit. Also his portraits were burned and was removed from the city in compliance with strict enclosure.
there anything about the women that states enjoy better, as far as getting to state-on extraterritoriality. Were not those convents, gathering sites and also the apathy, species ; of fresh speakers impossible to say where that was the enjoyment of a territory where murmurs rise and hopefully get on the wires hanging from a feminine skirt when clearing the stone?
My encounter with Angela Carranza was fortuitous and has the value of chance, which is the same if they happen on the sidewalks and reform. Knowing that blessed not only lost his chance to continue plotting the game with the language, but had suffered the blow on his being inquisitive machine, I decided to honor his life and invent a farewell letter. None of this has to do with memory.
The phenomenon of the rapture, the rapture, can open a vein, a space to hear what women when manifested in the presence of the body. This leads me to believe that the device of the Inquisition allowed the entry of feminine discourse in the City of Kings. It made possible a statement. So subversive was able to reach that knowledge scholars ignore the courts, by failing the task imposed on the confession.'s Unique erotic truth of each of these ladies of the colony managed to rise above determinations of law and still knows, now, run away from historical curiosity.
I do not know what was the way that God's favorite dressed to trace the letter, because his books are ashes. I used to write the letter first, my structure, I assumed there was some appearance between yours and mine. Then, I researched the life time of Lima wandering in churches and houses to give me back something of the aura that had enjoyed the blessed city. I stayed a few hours in a confessional or saliva drooling looking for that time and found, without looking, dust on the edge of the trellis, and saw fossilized flies in the farthest corners of the icons of the era. Segment difficulty in language, did everything possible to darken my shadow to reach a joyful castizo ominous.
Angela Carranza was not a mystic. He was a master on which king, sometimes a man on which rode his trance and had a hive of women with whom to practice their transmission and conversion. Was a city. To survive their stale meat thirties, turned crook and got miracles among the followers of the suggestion.
He atrocities and did a child. But that aside, outside of the intricacies of the phallus, that other enjoyment that is not talked to the appropriate hole, necessarily had to find its shape in the proportion that offered mystical ways of the Other in his time. Came and went. Spark erosion and outlined his uniqueness. Rapid pulse was undoubtedly when he stopped and waited to be firm, like many other females, the male standard is imposed through the figure of a servant of the Church. His body was forced to surrender speech. Nothing could make it the policy of the state or get a word today's sophisticated machine on the market. He failed to say feminine jouissance, nor I get the text I built to give, through it, a present place that failure. So this as insignificant detail of a tear that is dried before spilling.
Angela Carranza mystiques Les voix et l'écho d'Une
Laura Benetti
When he approaches, winding delightful, effeminate, heart in hand, all the clamor of your fun to be small trail of a slug who writes his doodles in soil constipated.
Lords of the Inquisition dressed in their dark robes are prepared for trial by: ebrietas, Lighting and Dexada.
Men crude that under the impregnable wall of the heavenly Jerusalem, say exalt our Holy Catholic Faith in the Edicts of the accusations
Neither the doxa of San Bernardo's convinced of the virtue of my ministry. I close my senses silence, then she will go almost needed.
My dancing and my singing my ecstatic jucunditas seem work the dark side of the trap.
A fire of love will consume the verses that make my soul from heaven to heaven in the perfect state of divine intoxication. Seven dwellings carved concentric Santa Teresa to endorse his honor to the weak: his poems aloud cradle me in this unfortunate incident : And so the margins are the rim of time the infant death.
How dare you speak a language completely ignored?
lights that go beyond the touch of the Divine, they close the doors of the Andes to meet their styles of art tasteless criminals. Play the frames of our rooms, uploaded to this ridiculous merry go green. We dress accompanied by an air, a yellow cloth scapular, printed on our torsos crude drawings of your face on fire with demons and dragons in the Corozal put our heads which is a paste made of paper hat that is cone shaped and there also draw these fools, snakes, fire and earth. Eventually we do come up with a green candle in his hand.
me I hurry. The voices sound on my body and the chirping of fire hit my head. On the thumb of my passions resulted in me not persuasive. Or is it to persuade me bows to the memory of my first squat prayers?
Oh, usual impassive, wake up my letter to leave a legacy. Do not leave me shaking early. Lifts the pleat that hides access to the tent, I'm like someone looking in the dark without knowing where they hid their memories.
hurry I
Forms wandering encarnadme assist me and the beautiful indiscretion.
I praise the Treaties and be limited to restricted areas, Agnus Dei.
It's time to vacate the world.
Walk / walk / go out / mute / reveal yourself puts the nail between the warm shroud.
Muda your destination, the current slide in cobalt, fecúndame with your presence. Oh, God does not leave me howling away.
Sudama and I know you stay.
I hurry. With open eyes to the sad songs the drums are out of tune, supay woman, devil woman. Women
Supay call me, saying that the essence of the verb mix with the juice of death.
I have offered, I swear, not a single chewed coca as a symbol of submission to the idol.
Only one / only one / only one How many times should I repeat?
I was not the architect of the legend of the glowing man, nor drew the fangs in her mouth, not put on their altars offering some mysterious.
And I did not know until today of occurrences of * lliphi Haqques *, not the work of my mouth the fable of the bird man with fluorescent properties. The light you see in me and makes me reflected from another source. It is true that I have baths moon hides that God put me on earth, it is true that among the birds loved by countless nights without stopping, it is also true that I threw on bigamists and pressed them their private parts: but the light that turns me on is very different origins.
Just one.
is true that when I asked the Good Father to bless my account basket, his voice asked me in that circumstance if this: was it a matter of fruit.? To which I replied that the accounts that hung from the neck of the Saints were to bless his name and protect the righteous against evil furious. The use of St. Jerome to convert the infidels, the San Jose to remain chaste, the San Juan against the plague, the San Andrés to the madness.
is also true that my popularity has led to the concubines to dispute my old shoes as if they were relics and also to cut my nails, were kept in silver boxes were then sold in good amounts . What I can I do if I paint on canvas as an angel with outstretched wings and air, with the dragon repented at my feet and put my hand if the staff artists of St. Augustine together with the keys of St. Peter?
Lies invent the areas to lock in that cage called ambo , court and pretend to be some grace in the Virreicito in this city of kings, lies that allow I justify the executioners holding the wheel, which tightens the flesh to dissolve.
smugly sinister lie that has them patched writing those little letters, Autillo of Faith
Rumors are not left waiting.
will burn my skin, my pubes, my privacy, my prose, my songs get-together, the bridge of my nose. Burn my work. Psalm singing burn the first seashell diligent on my lips. Will fire on your last traces of saliva and the small shadow of the most fearless of the night, honey buttons running down my back.
the day is done at night when our contact waned, night frozen to death before burning to occur.
more despuescito dreamed with it.
Speak, God, "also burned my dreams?
I trust you, love boat, I hope a bunch of dreams that I told you in our golden paintings mornings.
Keep them, bring them sheltered from the stake that marks the end of my road.
will not live to see when the scattered among the offspring that much fertile but the power of my shine-in the centuries to come, spread rumors poetic flashes in the crowd.
My dreams, love for tomorrow, put your memory and your forgetfulness.
I had a vision: I noticed you walking with a layer of white bear, below the water your body was anointed with balsam Copayba, touched the cross hair highest Augustinian convent. In the middle of a troubled crowd and yell, a hand smoking up with my body, my breasts crystal reveal a drawing of a verse written. With-You look beautiful - like my inner voice and you read to them the legend in my breasts, your voice came from heaven. We have nine clouds and bustle of the people moved, camped compasses scattered in the wind.
With your pale hands short to love a part of my body, the head of my femur. Your hair is now sound in the farthest hill, give some use to the bone, everything seems to elevate it MECES prayer to your ancestors. And in the secret language of the Indian woman language, similar rune, return the gloss of my enduring revelations.
My God says, will help you convert on your sheets the miracle to accomplish.
I stay awake to win a foot to writing.
forgot to tell you. My name is Angela Carranza and I am God's favorite. My people outside the convent defies the laws and calls for my forgiveness to the Holy Tribunal. It manifests itself in this day, for seven days and nights.
not know how long I have left. Women and men of tomorrow, I will make this letter wrapped in fish skin that will honor me, the evening before my incineration. I hope for my act in the capable hands of Mary Manteca, servant of the convent, My God will make my handwriting can hide in the folds of his dark complexion. After leaving the convent its mission will deliver my legacy to the good rebel leader Maroons. I guess my response will venerate the lyrics of my discontent. Hierarchies are noble I choose to sleep some time in the box of their altars, and the sounds of his gut.
Served Lucifer filters cluck my close contenders. Many of them, those, my dear pious women of Lima, will go through the trials of the Inquisition, but I'll be the one to reveal the mystery of the Conception.
These will end his days in the ashes of their bones anonymous, more than seven hundred wives suffer the fate of the Grand Court.
I do not feel pity, some were ferocious with me in the years of my swing. Timid rival petty procedures they used to reproach against the authorities. I make fun of them because there was little they could win with tricks.
bolder were some who dared to blaspheme about my excessive love, my association with witches, my bizarre methods in the construction of miracles.
Draw each of the pitfalls that spread as bait in my way.
The sonorous voice of the good Lord was confirming each of the instruments at the service of his sweet captivity imposed on me.
The informer groaned with rage before each of my successes. The poor will have to be content with their victuals, better than on.
Gregoria de Castro, by then my seamstress, simple and faithful woman who knew how to admire with decorum and discreet distance, informed me one afternoon when Ana de Castro had convinced my confessor, Fray Manuel de Ulloa, of which I was confined to the close with silence regime. There was no time then to my defense, nor will be during my trial, I'm very safe. Wanted Gregoria narrate the issues that inspired the fury of the partners slanderers. Having discussed a day with Don Manuel on some theological points, I heard God's voice telling me: * Who gets to this mockery teologuillo to go to look? Can he understand my secrets? * And the voice was so strong and gracious word is made between my lips, listen to Don Manuel I wallowed in the mire of the street and I swore revenge and treating me bitch.
With medium embroidered dress, I ran home without knowing where to turn. My feet took the road to Calvary, my hands were in my torso away the thorns .... O father beautiful day, hear my prayer, just hearing my plea, give me the signal will you want to restore? Then his voice stopped me.
"discovers his deceit, the truth of flesh and lust is contained in its noble parts , pours tastes dirty message of the informers will be up to them to do you justice. Depart from the city, looking for Don Prospero as your new confessor and wait a reasonable time to return to the Court. "
black gold Byzantine and slippery. A huge trampoline.
Clamores of prayer and rose pruning shears.
A religious energy permeates the rooms.
Abyssinian A drum at the foot of the Crucifix.
On the wall, the portrait of the Viceroy of russet gold Guadalcázar rests.
The dark magic of the precincts of my father confessor.
I approach a large missal. Inside there broadsides.
Eloheim God is One
shall kiss the lips that giveth a right answer.
was the dawn, the steam tacked on the high seas, a cold wind coming from the southeast.
full promise of gifts ... My name stood impatient with so much hope pre announced.
sudestada The wind was between his teeth my name, folded my sweet name on the lips of the God. Angela ... Angela!
Less my eyes - all my past, remained quiet.
I can not dwell on the criticisms of the language. I've been in a hurry, I prefer the truth. Give me, give me the verb will be for later.
God A child, a child of voices and a son-figure, a dialog child, a son to say ....
substitute And God chose you for a while.
And I nailed my look
To see your buttocks tight.
guessed your hands in the deepest part of your cock,
making rings, a wisp of smoke or a wisp of rainwater with the help of Mr. Sun, hazy ring.
Your fingers,
a scroll wrapped around your cock.
Trail yesterday a lady who took it among their seatbacks.
Butt tight.
The movement of the sea announcing welfare is biblical.
A ring of flesh around the base of your cock.
A sea contrasol goodbye, entredormido, colors, entredespierto, day and night. Among my name, spoken by God himself.
And
your cock, my mouth you never know.
vomiting Among slaves, many moons passed me separate from the land. The songs of Africans remained incomprehensible to my ears cautious and, at the same time, haunted bars took over my body. My feet left the litter to be homeless, my hips are listening to the music, cheered blown by the lips of black eschar.
between my upper and my school yawn your voice:
- This is the time you have-
The water was part of the ceremony.
silent entered the forest of my death, I hung my cloak of happiness in the nearest branch. Took me to the cliff. Shoot an arrow that hit the center of the red moon.
are so many memories. ... And I feel noble Letraherida horror today I canceled. There is a woman with a purple robe, walk, walk, walking.
Búscame behind poor.
Look for me in silence. They are only shadows, my hobbies to create a false world. But what they encounter there with me. Not much: curly hair, flabby underarms.
The dream itself is spread, or air, led by my nose into another piece of debris.
And tonight is the first in the world.
Or is the shyness that I armor themselves?
And in the middle of the sacred valley of sorcerers me sing Women fuel the fire with crispy ears, Rodent spy after the husks.
Proserpina, let me return, I beg you.
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