I start this delivery without direction and I think that it is not necessary at all to draw up a road map for life in general or to write a delivery of this lunar homily that only has one meaning: to fulfill. There is no inspiration that drives me, not even anger that drives me. Nothing. Personal issues and collective issues have placed me on the periphery of responsibility. I put together letters to convey the horror that the threat of world war provokes in me. I put adjectives because I am not able to put the appropriate verbs to explain what can devastate a medical examination in which they discover a cable outside its connection.
That’s why I don’t get news from the future. The usual means of communication have been blocked. And in this absence I come to terms with my contradictions with even greater faith. What can you expect at this point in the game? The appropriate thing would be to alienate oneself and take the middle path, that of the floral praise, since that is why we are in an August spring, but I seek protection in the billboards and the first impression is of being involved in a transition at the vital decision points. organizational that in some points of power is being managed decisively and in others with routine.
And yet festivals, programming, changes, replacements, statistics, awards and more awards are announced. And even more prizes. Shadows of a catalog of impertinences. Deep down, what exists is an attack of individualism camouflaged as a fantasy orgy with sado overtones. Or put in a clumsy way, the dumbest capador. Because on one of those nights that cannot be equaled, a ghost appears, walking through the tables, the groups, the political decision centers, and to the rhythm of electronic rumba, he asks if anyone is controlling the situation. And those asked get angry. And they answer with outbursts or with deliberate ambiguities. Are supply and demand balanced?
What we do, support, produce, disseminate, criticize or program is a cultural act that needs, in an essential way, the presence of that other foundational entity: the public. And that audience is not a client, but a citizen, a taxpayer, a lover of Chekhov’s literature or the magnificent physical expressions of that sublime dancer. Therefore, one cannot always be entertained, lost, self-satisfied, with professional, managerial or political matters. That is an alibi for everything to remain in the mediocrity of the least bad, the plugged in or the white label opponent.
I give up. I enter the reconstruction process. I’ll see if there’s an emergency exit. Meanwhile we will tune the trombones, we will clarify our voices, we will adjust our steps better and we will remain still, like a pillar of salt, to be photographed by any camera until the epiphany of the new redeemer of the theatrical hordes that walk towards the accumulation and gurgling. While alms are distributed, those of us in need will give thanks to the Lord of the official bulletin. We will make a pilgrimage to his chambers, we will act out, we will beg for help, we will widen the distance between flat possibilism and determined cultural political action. Or perhaps just the opposite, that one is not up to much demagoguery.
I leave you my message, I am going to send carrier pigeons, smoke signals, certificates of existence and coexistence. Just in case. Although perhaps it is more pragmatic to pay attention to another popular saying: why worry about half days when there are full days. The future can wait.
