Obscene May

Yes, May is ending, the month of abundant flowers, of bubbling energies, of animals in heat, of fertility and reproduction. The world moves forward, it doesn't stop. The winter snows are melting and the rivers are full and the reservoirs even more so. Quantity of everything. Less of sense and peace and tranquility. The problem is that we get used to misfortunes. War and destruction. The war in Ukraine continues with no horizon of peace in sight, Gaza has been annihilated by Israel. Trump threatens Cuba and wants to make it his own, just as he did with Venezuela. Greenland, for now, seems to have forgotten it. Trump is a big, capricious child. They say his mother, when he was little, once said: "My son is an idiot, I hope he never goes into politics." Mothers' wishes! The Chinese talk to one and talk to the other, but it is clear that they want world hegemony and, as a bonus, Taiwan. Poor Zelensky only wants to survive and I wish he could. We must fight against the imperialisms that want to eat us all. 

Here, in Sant Feliu, after rain every afternoon, summer seems to have arrived. Today, Thursday, as I write this, at nine in the morning we were at twenty-one degrees. Now, at midday, it's an invasive heat. I don't like the heat at all, not even spring. I'm a winter person. And autumn, of course, when the world seems to fall asleep and meditate at length on its end and its renewal. I like yellow trees, leaves rolling pushed by the wind, smoke rising because farmers are burning hedges. I like long afternoons and hours of rereading forgotten books, breaks for a cup of tea. It's the best time to listen to serious music, Beethoven's Triple Concerto, for example, which invigorates the brain. In late spring, on the other hand, and especially in summer, with the t-shirt stuck to the skin, you can only hope to have a lemonade and the thirst doesn't go away. And read? Only something superficial. And music? Too. No, away with spring and away with summer.

Triple Concerto by Beethoven, for example, which invigorates the brain. In late spring, on the other hand, and especially in summer, with the t-shirt stuck to the skin, you can only hope to have a lemonade and the thirst doesn't go away. And read? Only something superficial. And music? Too. No, away with spring and away with summer.

The herds of tourists will begin to arrive, ugly and fat, who will smear themselves with protective and stinky oils and spend hours lying on the sand, which gets dustier and dirtier every year.

But it is still May, late May, of course, and the gardens are overflowing with wide-open roses, with oriental peonies of pink and mauve colors, with sticky sap lilies and heavy perfume and pollen. The insects are crazy, the bumblebees don't stop buzzing their noisy wings, the ants make their long processions. A blackbird with a yellow beak, the father, therefore, often comes to our balcony with two small blackbirds with still brownish plumage to scratch in the pots looking for grubs or whatever. In fact, they are a joy, but they poop a lot and leave the floorboards well splattered. Let's forget spring, and, above all, let's forget the summer that is approaching, inexorably. Everyone says it will be an unbearably hot summer. 

. If Spain has never been, red! They should call it And Catalonia? Do they mean that Catalonia exists? I don't think so anymore. It has been abducted by that thing that also doesn't exist, Spain. It's all nothingness. And if it isn't yet, we're heading for it. What role does Esquerra Republicana play? What about the PSC? I have the impression that not even they know themselves. No one believes in anything anymore. Only in lasting as long as possible, comfortably seated in their subsidized chairs. For us, of course, those who at the beginning of each summer pay taxes to a State that keeps everything and distributes only a few crumbs of the cake to those who maintain this absurd situation. And now the World Cup is coming, la roja that they will make us swallow day and night. It has always struck me that they call it  la roja. Spain has never been red! They should call it  la gualda, which would make more sense. Anyway, let's not complain anymore. Everything is fine. We live in the best of all possible worlds, we are truly privileged. And on top of that, the phenomenon Rosalía gives us fame and prestige all over the world. And now the Pope will come to bless the tallest tower of the ugliest building in the world. I don't know what I'm complaining about.