beliefs
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You have Started to Smell like Ketchup
Your ketchup is leaving a bad smell in your pantry. When was the last time you poured ketchup on your food? Was it with Thai takeout or French fries? I bet it was the second. You pulled out a bag of McCain’s frozen fries, tossed them in the microwave, squeezed ketchup on top, and started…
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Your Thoughts are like Shoelaces
Editor’s Note: This piece continues my encounters with Jorge — a chemical engineer by trade, yet a priest by chance.
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This is not Housekeeping. This is Exorcism
These are further pages from Jorge’s writings, the ongoing Conversations with Virgin Mary. I have learned to approach them with less skepticism and more attention: each letter is dense, peculiar, sometimes unsettling, yet never entirely opaque. They feel like fragments of a mind speaking across time, a mixture of instruction, confession, and something I cannot…
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Your Daily Bread
These are more pages from Jorge’s writings, which he entrusted to me. He calls them Conversations with Virgin Mary. At first, I was skeptical. But with each day, I find myself less certain of my doubts, more convinced that something beyond ordinary explanation runs through these texts. They arrive like fragments of a dream: dense,…
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The task left to those unseen
Editor’s Note: I continue to share the letters Jorge entrusted to me. He insisted on calling them his correspondence with the Virgin Mary, though there is no way to confirm whether these texts are a form of channelling or simply Jorge’s imagination—his own way of wrestling with demons or gods. The writings arrive like fragments…
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The First Fragment: Conversations with Virgin Mary
If you cannot forgive the child you once were, you will curse the adult you have become. A man who despises his younger self is like a house divided: forever repairing walls, never able to live inside.
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Remaining Seated, I Stood Up. Reflections on Authority, Censorship, and the Rules We Follow
Sometimes I think about the absurdity of customs. We follow them like lambs—not because they make sense, but because someone once told us to. Why sit at the back when the front is empty? Why turkey every Thanksgiving when I don’t even like it? Why drag a tree indoors every December and cover it with…
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My Dad was a Monster and I loved him deeply.
On Christmas Day 2024, my father passed away at the age of 85. He was, in the truest sense of the word, a monster—but not the kind that lurks in shadows with fangs and claws. He was the kind only a father can be: imposing, untouchable, a presence that overshadowed everything around him. And I…
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Why People Don’t Buy Art: The Stories We Tell and the Rituals We Keep
For most people, the morning is a ritual of familiarity. My grandfather used to read the newspaper while the radio droned the morning news, offering him a constant stream of updates to critique over breakfast. My mother, more focused, restricts herself to the local news—traffic, weather, maybe a fire or two. My wife, in contrast,…
Carlos Fentanes 