Either one extreme or the other. This thing now called polarization, which used to be black or white. And in black and white, too. "If it rains too little, it's a drought; if it rains too much, it's a disaster," sang Raimon. Delays, lack of solidarity, and excessive negligence rain down. The only thing is for someone to drown, and it's always the one who steps in the mud. It rains good rain. Restrictions are eased. Minds relax. At least mine, which isn't very fond of deserts. But we want to hang out the laundry. The sheets and towels, at least. We don't need our face or our shirt in the sun, for that there's already a legion, an excess of nostalgic newborns who yearn for a past of constant restrictions, what they now, with the passing of the years, call freedom. They seem more foolish, but they've been quicker to steal the words. And they don't even need to speak. Violence is silent. Like fear. And everything has shit in it.
Five years ago, it rained nonstop, there were strict restrictions, and we bought toilet paper beyond our means and our asses. We also drank alcohol to excess and video-called each other so much that we've now stopped talking for a while. "Get drunk on wine, poetry, or virtue," sang Baudelaire, the poet of excess, and eventually, the drunkenness will be of missiles and tanks, of course. Made in Europe, since we are already doing the spent Let the weapons be zero-mile-high. We'll talk about out-of-season tomatoes another day. Let's arm ourselves, above all, because the arms industry needs encouragement, which is the poor sister of the arts of war, poor thing, it was more abandoned than contemporary dance. But luckily, someone with an excess of sensitivity has put their hands to work on the dance of war, and, just in case, we now have the tools to dance and, especially, to fight. We Europeans have arranged to go to the supermarket on Saturday afternoon and jointly buy cannons and rifles before they close. And let's not forget the berets on our uniforms, which look as flattering on a soldier as on an elderly gentleman smoking a caliqueño in the shade of summer.
There are restrictions on utopias. They've been left on a siding, and a Renfe train sponsored by the government of Spain, charged with keeping Catalonia in line by annoying those they consider Spanish subjects, in other words, Spain mistreats itself. Catalanophobia makes them more pro-independence than the Catalans. The excess of grayness The strategy we have in the sky is the same as in the Catalan government, but who knows if this strategy can be as effective as the rain. In any case, the rain will always win. And let no one suffer, because in summer it will be sunny and excessively hot. Let's check the Meteocat forecast every five minutes. AI still hasn't solved elevator conversations for us, and the weather remains a historical resource for awkward situations between humans that works like thunder. Never better said.
Musk's excesses have led to a drop in sales of his cars, some fires in the US, and a steep drop in the stock market. It doesn't matter how significant it is for his empire or who he blames. The blame is all his. Like his arrogance. The joy is ours. However restrictive it may be. And how envious we are of the two astronauts who left for a week and stayed for nine months. An excess, yes. But this is making a reality of that phrase we use so often on trips: "This is so beautiful, I'd stay for a while." And, come to think of it, right now the space seems like a good place. Although, for my taste, it's a bit too big.
