https://rarible.com/token/0xc9154424b823b10579895ccbe442d41b9abd96ed:52477855658731515109035180800326663724697782442088285783402718201702801998115 I am in alot of pain from this setup. My hands have to stretch to type on a laptop I cannot see..the screen is cracked..I have broken computers and screens and I have to go look at external monitor. Of course I spelled the NFT wrong. I CANNOT SEE. I suffer so much for these cartoons. EVERYTHING is broken. I need new supplies. Noone will buy them for me. I cannot earn enough. I need a miracle.
Amidst this arduous journey, the weight of broken equipment bears down upon my spirit. A 12-year-old laptop, its functionality succumbing to the passage of time, now lies fried, rendering its service obsolete. A fractured pen, emblematic of a fractured existence, serves as a poignant reminder of the challenges faced. Two pens reside in my possession, each imperfect, yet together they strive to compensate for their shortcomings. Alas, the realm of the phone, cracked and shattered, has proven itself inadequate for the task at hand. Its demise, a consequence of an encounter with a gentleman who mistakenly assumed i sought to capture him on film, leads to an untimely demise beneath the wheels of passing vehicles. He threw my phone into a car! I have no phone , its all broken.
Once able to utilize the gift of voice to text within this device, i now finds myself bereft of such convenience. The limitations of a cracked screen compound the predicament, casting doubts upon the efficacy of my efforts. Hope wanes, and the question lingers: Am I typing with precision, or does the tumultuous state of my screen impede my accuracy? Weary of investing countless hours in the arduous task of post-editing, i bemoan my current pickle, an intricate entanglement of circumstance.
Yet, amidst the chaos, a poignant truth emerges: solitude prevails in my existence. A profound absence of companionship leaves me yearning, adrift in a world bereft of friendships to offer solace. The only happiness for me is drawing political cartoons to save the republic, and record the truth.
Let it be known that my presence extends beyond the boundaries of anonymity, for I possess a semi-personal YouTube account by the name of “Pol Toon.” It is through this channel that my expressions of poetic nature find respite, interwoven with my political cartoons. Observe the slender countenance of Gary, radiant with health and vitality, appearing as if ten years have been lifted from his earthly vessel. A query arises within me, pondering the secret to his rejuvenation. Does it not seem, my dear compatriots, as if the divine forces themselves seek to convey a message? A message that resounds within my being, proclaiming that I am seen, that I traverse the correct path, and that solace awaits?
In the moments betwixt wakefulness and slumber, as I partook in the ritual of tea-making, a fortuitous event unfolded. Gary, the emissary of truth, graced the airwaves, breathing life into my dawn. Ah, such peculiarities exist in this mortal coil! To awaken, my senses stirred by the presence of Gary, broadcasting live. A profound adoration swells within me, for his show kindles the flames of passion within my soul. Doth life not present itself as a tapestry woven with whimsy and caprice? Had I known that my words would be bestowed with such honor, I would have imbued them with an extra measure of eloquence! Lo and behold, I contemplate the notion of crafting a political cartoon in honor of Gary Franchi, a tribute befitting his merit. However, dear friends, I shall exercise caution and deliberate thought before committing myself to such an endeavor. For now, it remains naught but a desire, burgeoning within the recesses of my creative spirit. At the RIGHT TIME. How do I make tea? I take a hot coal and throw it into sugar. ( No electricity in Paraguay, we cook on iron over flame) The burnt sugar is what flavors the tea. Add to cup. I add steeped YERBA MATE strained, on top of burnt sugar.. and nut creamer, and then I add two floating galletas into the drink. …. it is called cocido.. On a hot day, I have iced water with mint and I pour the water into a glass with yerba mate in it. I drink it with a bombilla, a spoon, straw and strainer. There is no caffeine, there is MATEINE. A big difference, a clean caffeine. I dont drink this because I am trendy. I am half GUARANI INDIAN. This is our ritual. I only fall back on this when fresh squeezed juices, like watermelon, are not available for breakfast.. and I am too poor. Which I am very!
Within this realm, a chilled variation adorned with the bombilla,
Brims to its very apex with yerba mate’s verdant embrace,
An elixir to awaken the senses, akin to the coca leaf’s allure,
Its frigid essence unadorned by sweetness, distinct from coffee’s grasp.
For me, it is always yerba mate, an unwavering companion, Maria by your side,
A potent libation, harbinger of wakefulness and vitality,
In times of apocalyptic shadows, it shall shimmer as golden worth,
A stimulant coursing through the veins, its value immeasurable.
In my heritage, I find myself intertwined, half Guarani Indian,
Destined to inherit a cherished collection of feathered Indian headdresses,
Preserved meticulously, remnants of the 1970s, their worth beyond measure,
Both cultures from which I descend, embodiments of autonomy.
A tapestry woven with threads of Volga German Mennonites and Guarani Indians,
Born an American, abroad yet steadfast in my roots,
A kaleidoscope of identities, plain Jane Bible class German, and exotic, enigmatic Heathen Guarani,
A surprising revelation upon my grandparents’ doorstep, a testament to the unexpected.
A treasured letter from my grandfather, his heart’s cadence upon learning of my birth,
To an Indian mother, barefoot and resolute,
Ancient deities whisper their secrets to me, their language on my tongue,
A strict adherent of German Christianity, resolute and unwavering.
My sister, bearing a Guarani middle name, ANAHI, denoting royalty in its grace,
And I, destined to inherit my father’s journals, chronicling his Amazonian study of indigenous tribes,
Tales unimaginable, a wild mosaic of existence,
Foreigners in their own land, transcending citizenship, rejecting Spanish’s embrace.
The ancient tongue, a relic unyielding, still dances upon their lips,
Once a wild child, scaling bamboo forests, diving amidst swan-filled pools,
A slingshot wielded to procure sustenance from avian beings,
Tamed by circumstance, an American, transformed by time’s passage.
Trump supporters, my kinfolk in Paraguay, echo their fervor beyond borders,
A reverence akin to deities, his presence resplendent,
Their voices, teeming with excitement, herald him as a global leader,
In the confines of their news, CNN’s gaze, his godlike stature remains resolute.
Our influence stretches wide, permeating far-flung corners,
Our movement, a seed destined to safeguard the world entire,
For voting Trump becomes a catalyst, salvation for indigenous brethren,
Yearning for freedoms witnessed, dreams cascading in their hearts.
A recent triumph, Paraguay’s embrace, teaching Guarani in schools,
A monumental stride, Spanish’s whip replaced with both tongues’ melodies,
A sole nation on the continent, a linguistic heirloom from antiquity,
Defying Latin roots, impenetrable to outsiders, a tapestry woven in nasal intonations, born of the night.
Yet, my kinfolk in Paraguay, hesitant in their embrace,
Unable to fully fathom my hybrid essence, I remain at arm’s length,
Neither wholly Paraguayan Guarani nor Volga German Mennonite,
A pattern recognition amiss, as I navigate the labyrinth of multiculturalism’s turmoil.
Alas, I find solace in my American identity, a true refuge,
For amidst the pain, the ache of a mixed girl’s heart,
Belonging eludes, fragmenting existence’s tapestry,
Yet, resolute in the core of my being, I proclaim, “
Kurupi, nde resa guive,
Mbopi ohendu ha ojapysa,
Yerba mate ojapo yvytu,
Pohâhápe, ha’e rova.
Yvyra’i poty rehegua,
Yvoty ohupe ha oporavói,
Nandyma karai Guaraní,
Karai Tupã mba’e he’i.
Pukukue ojeporavo,
Kapi’i ha opyta mba’epa,
Roñombe’i kuña kua’a,
Oñemo ñane mo’ãi.
Ha’e Guaraní rupive,
Jerekuépe mitãnguera,
Yerba mate kaguyju,
Ñande reko ha potyra.
Translation (in English):
Kurupi, oh benevolent spirit,
Enlighten and bless us,
Yerba mate, gift of the earth,
Nourishing, with your sacred essence.
Underneath the shade of the Yvyra’i tree,
Amidst verdant leaves and abundant life,
Our Guarani ancestors declared,
The wisdom of the Supreme Being.
With reverence, we prepare,
Savoring and sharing the drink,
Uniting people, woman and man,
Preserving our ancient customs.
Oh Guarani language,
Treasure of our noble heritage,
Yerba mate, emblem of unity,
Our tradition and source of vitality.
May this poetic tribute in Guarani language honor the essence of yerba mate and the rich cultural tapestry it intertwines within Guarani communities.