From meat that dances to cannon fodder, by Josep Maria Fonalleras

East Carnival we have renewed (those who enjoy celebration and debauchery) the irrepressible desire to go out into the street to carry out the ceremony of the change of masks. From surgical to festive. From the usual obligatory accessory that has diluted the face for two years to another costume, that volunteer, which takes us away from the foreboding darkness of Lent (it’s a saying: now hardly anyone relates one thing to the other). Some have chosen drive away the memory of the pandemic with an evocation that distorts fear and turns it into a parody, individuals disguised as spherical viruses, with many membranes and proteins that simulated the deadly presence of SARS-CoV-2. I have also seen young people who have had the idea of ​​becoming antigen testing, with a white poncho that reproduces the result with red adhesive strips. It is easy to carry and everyone can choose whether to be positive or negative. Not like in reality, which diagnoses the present without jokes or fictions. This reality that now turns into unruly chaos, sound and fury that mean nothing. Not an exalted flesh that dresses up and dances, but the tragedy of meat that is cannon.

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