The character of the year is neither Trump, who tied up the fascist histrions, disguised as Indians and with bizarre hats and royal weapons, against the Capitol; neither Angela Merkel, that it will go down in history as the most progressive right-wing politics of the 21st century; not even the Queen of England, who defies the laws of the mortality of the bodies and remains in a solution of formalin and gin, above the deaths of others, such as that of her husband, Philip of Edinburgh, that this one was mortal. It is not either Lionel Messi that, in fact, also died for Barcelona when he decided that Paris is well worth leaving behind a lifetime of Barça, between tears (one day) and smiles (the next day). The character of this 2021 is not Jean-Paul Belmondo, which was buried as only the French know how to do, which is to pass off the majestic protocol of goodbye as a minimalist act. It is not either Raffaella Carrà (so enthusiastic and so dancer) nor Franco Battiato, which was looking for a permanent center of gravity that we all have a hard time finding. The character of the year, although it could be, is not the great Stephen Sondheim, who wondered, in that sad song, where are the clowns. There should always be clowns.
We need real clowns (not the kind that clown around) to return to a normality that we no longer know what it was like, as distant as we contemplate it
The character is called Manel Monteagudo And it is that man who declared, first, that he had been 35 years in a coma and, then, that there were therefore no, that perhaps it was not 35 whole years, day and night, but that sometimes he also got up and down the trash, from time to time, and that, yes, he fainted every two by three. Mr. Monteagudo exaggerated, as is well known, but woke up among many of us the temptation of a very long dream, of a kind of nebula of consciousness that would make us forget, even for an instant, that nightmare that has lasted for almost two years and that comes and goes and seems to go back and forth, with more restrictions and more warnings and more doubts and more anguish. At this point, we already know by heart half of the Greek alphabet, that of the covid variants (perhaps the only respectable contribution of the pandemic to culture) and we live with the idea that it is not over, as we thought, but that it is the incessant beat of an ocean of waves. The first cover of the year of ‘The New Yorker’ read: “The plague year”, but as we go it will be the decade of the plague. Or the century.
The new ‘president’ and the dialogue table
We have had luck with vaccines, which have saved us the apocalypse and which have given us a topic of conversation. We have not talked about anything else. In favor, against, with delusional arguments of the anti, with varieties of menus for those who are in favor, with previous appointments and passports, with the debate on the obligation and with a colossal display of hypocrisy towards the world, the Third, specifically, where they cannot discuss vaccines because there simply aren’t any.
Has there been life beyond the covid? Of course. In this country, a new ‘president‘and the usual (old) brawls, one dialogue table with dancing legs and a bad milk on the right, the extreme and the most extreme, with delirious outbursts. Oh yeah, and budgets that are, in fact, a political puzzle with pieces that don’t fit together. Y Puigdemont entering and leaving Alghero prison and with the political prisoners who stopped being political prisoners for a pardon that did not solve the problem, but reduced the pressure cooker effect.
From the female Barça, to the volcano and the metaverse
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We would like to be like Mr. Monteagudo and not wake up except from time to time. To see how the Female barça, for example, win another Champions. Or live in it metaverso, that invention of Zuckerberg and company that begins to be all the rage and that is about living as if you did not live, in a cartoon reality. Where there is no volcanoes that spit out the bad slime (and lava) of the Earth that contemplates the summits of the climate with telluric indifference. Or fires where the homeless burn, or electricity with incendiary prices or emeritus who say they are coming back and the Taliban who have already returned, all with impunity.
We need real clowns (not the kind that clown around) to return to a normality that we no longer know what it was like, as distant as we contemplate it. “Well, maybe netx year …”, as Sondheim said. Maybe next year.
Reference-www.elperiodico.com