The Thrill of the Kill

Hemingway had his bull running in Pamplona, Spain. My family had their piñatas at the children’s birthday parties. These were colourful papier-mâché figures, usually in the shape of an animal (donkeys were very popular), which were filled with sweets.

What could be more exciting than to hunt a hanging piñata with a broomstick? Hitting it as often as you could before you are torn away by the adult overseeing the game, and the broomstick was handed over to another child.

It doesn’t really matter who hits the animal so that its guts spilled forth candies; everyone gets a thrill and their fill.

Years after we left Venezuela, my father went on a business trip to various South American cities. He arrived back in Montreal, having carefully lugged a piñata through one airport to another – you could not buy them in Canada then. What a surprise that was!

Today’s poems talk about the thrill of belonging, and why it is meaningless (here), the yearning to fit in and not succeeding (here).