Homes also die. Homes filled with joy and tears, dreams and nightmares, hopes and defeats. Homes also grow tired, exhausted, dying. Homes are memory. The safe, the hard drive, the cloud. Homes are the network, the node, the structure of sweat and feelings of a collective. Homes are what lies between yesterday and tomorrow. Between one rewind and one fast forward. The houses are the play of the present continuous. Life is pressing a button daily. Houses are the refuge of the superheroes of normality emerging into the open air from battle and returning to the fire on the floor of love. When our house began to die, everything came out.
Inside the house, death had been an all-you-can-eat buffet. People died of plague, of epidemics, of anonymous and rude chili peppers, from wars when they touched and touched you, from nasty wounds cut by a rusty knife, from falls from a capitomba on the piece, even my quadravian was close to dying of malaria. But over the centuries, the years, the days, no one had ever thought they could die through their mouths. When the house began to die, I saw all that on the floor.
The rubble like the explosion of a nuclear bomb. The scratches of time on the skin of everything that was dead. The corpses of walls, stones, furniture, clothes, things. The bodies on the ground. Because there is no more land. And inside the boxes, the trunks, the worlds. Within more death. Like coffins. Papers are spectators of death. The personal and the impersonal. The near and the distant. A will, a letter, but also a diary, a book. All those papers become family through the years, through contagion, through inescapability. The cellulose is a moan. I always remember that nerdy doll. Both bodies stretched out there: The Communist Manifesto (from 1930) and a catechism (from 1906). Marx and God kissing with their tongues: they were in Catalan. Catalonia is this: between earth and sky. And written Catalan was reduced to an act of faith or a utopia. We are a silent prayer and a revolutionary cry. Knowing that Marx and God could speak Catalan perhaps helped us survive in many homes. But let's be clear. Let's tell the truth. Marx and God have helped us little because the tongue was in our mouths.
The tongue was in the mouths of houses. On the snouts of streets. Air. Landscape. People. An unwritten natural law. My deaths lacked laws. No regulations, no treaties, no statutes, no officiality, no legality. That's why no state in Europe or the world, or creature, or penguin, or sweetie from here or anywhere can tell us that we're not official. If we need officialization, legalization, standardization, recognition, respect, understanding from others, it means we are illegal, illegitimate, abnormal, invented, complementary, irregular, undocumented, immigrants at home and on the planet. Telling us now what we already were, where we were, who we are, who we should be... Unjust, insulting, immoral. Mortal.
What epidemics, wars, dictatorships haven't done... Everything is now being done by democracy, laws, officialdom, regulations, sustainability, the multiplicity of some. They will want to make us die legally, democratically, scientifically. Certainly, languages die because people die. The people who live in houses. That's why the laws will have to enter house by house. Person by person. To make us illegal in our homes. It's called fascism. And it won't happen.
