Tractors, at night, are advancing spaceships. Luminous, dominant giants. These days our terrestrial aliens are sulphating the land. Up and down. If you stop and start an intersidereal dialogue, they don't attack you. From these colossal beasts, worth two hundred, three hundred, four hundred thousand euros, pilots descend with a thousand missions in their hands and on their knees.
This existential elite body has been fighting all its life for the same thing: the worst harvest is not sowing. Always looking at the stars and the mud. Many of these farmers carry pieces of stars inside the cabin: a pennant, a sticker, a keychain… Estelades. A dream on the ground. It's not that farmers are independentists: it's that they are naturally Catalan. A Catalan doesn't need to be an independentist: they already are. To be Catalan is to be Catalan: it is not to be Martian, nor a bit of thyme, nor a burnt incandescent fried egg. To be Catalan is to have your feet on the ground because you only have this land. Those who know that everything turns, that everything goes around, that the land does not lie, that it is necessary to prepare, to sow, to sulphate, to harvest… know that now, as always, this is happening again: pay, because it's a cat.
Yes, meow-meow. Yes, accept that we have lost the bet. To pay, to loosen up, but to laugh again. The phrase was pulled from his pocket by Pitarra. Feline playwright. Thanks to him, we have a language to laugh with. Apparently, the commandos of nocturnal cat-like antics in the 19th century carried a cat in a sack. They would trick people by betting that they would pay for the liquid round to whoever guessed what was inside. Meow! Everyone guessed it, therefore… Pay, because it's a cat.
Many people are already paying for the disappointment, depression, resignation, anger, fury… of these years of the Process. It's noticeable that people want to laugh again. To be cheerful. It's like that. There's an air. Like that of the second tripartit. There is a lot of planted unhappiness that wants to harvest happiness.
Not only are these peasants who sulfat alone and who see in the dark. It will be necessary to endure, to spray, to clean… But there is a desire to return. It is life. Many will have to step aside, backward, and underground. Not just politicians. Professionals from many fields. Old and young. More people than you think want to laugh again. To slim down, to twist, to piss themselves laughing. There is a desire to be happy again. It is felt, it is seen. Those who live locked in bunkers, sects, or plastic bags, neither glimpse it nor smell it. But this is how it is. The country must be trodden. Street by street. Bar by bar. Handkerchief by handkerchief. The shoes of reality will be class and social mobility.
There is a country that goes one way and another goes another. We are not one people. No people is one people. No country is just one single country. But only one sows, reaps, and lifts. This new country that is already visible (always): “What glory that of that April 14! The whole country smelled of flowering thyme, of earth emerging from a long winter; and we, so young and so free, with the feeling that we only had to be born to change it! Who could have put the bridle on us? All the land smelled of thyme, of Easter of Resurrection! It was the glory of an April day and then we did not suspect that it was so uncertain; who could have thought that that exciting joy would end five years later in the most absurd of carnages…”, wrote Joan Sales about that 1931. Catalonia has been a hypothesis for years. Here we always know how everything begins and also how everything ends, so…
