“I’m talking to the man who always accompanies me,” Antonio Machado confessed. For my part, it’s not even that intimate, comforting or torturous anymore. But I find that sometimes I’m talking to myself and incontinent. That means I shout, I curse, I blaspheme. I notice it in problematic situations. It happens that they are renovating the facade of my place of residence for two months. And the terrace of my house is the center of the action. It is full of stairs, pulleys, ropes, safety measures and several workers who take care of this equipment from 9 in the morning to 6 in the afternoon, a few meters away and separated by a window from the room where I practice my survival. And while I’m saturated with nicotine, I open the windows to discover a confused look from visitors as they realize I’m talking to myself and their logical certainty that my brain is damaged.
This happens to me when I watch television and read the printed press out of strict obligation. Although it must be worse to break stones like the people next to me, but they are not complaining, they are professionals. However, I curse, I get angry, I laugh sarcastically at what I see, hear and read. Almost everything is predictable, overwhelming, irritating, repetitive and has a lack of expression that is astonishing. And they are always clear about what is good and what is bad, what is comfortable and what is inconvenient, virtue and sin. They profess a calculated and, I imagine, well-paid militancy in censorship, imposing on the recipient what should be thought and done, the infallible dogmas, the glorifying and the forbidden. Now they want to make pornography illegal.
And of course they don’t neglect for a second, not even cheating, the sacred cause of football players. Though ideologies were in twilight, they were already being replaced by a new, abusive and unforgiving order. And I remember the disgusting NODE of my childhood and youth, the ritual and obligatory hymn to the state of things, to the always happy Spain, to the law of vagabonds and criminals, to the certificate of good conduct, to the hateful, but always resurrected Inquisition.
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