I don’t know if it’s because of the time change or because of the cold, which is already starting to bake. But on Saturday I was having a childish reflection, the kind that take you from one place to another by unsuspecting byways. Realizing how close we are to All Hallows’ Eve, not far from Christmas, and another year around the corner. And how the list of our dead gets longer and longer, and how, as time passes, it grows, until it exceeds the list of living people we know, or have any interest in knowing. Profit and loss balance. Being today the longest-lived person on Earth means realizing that there is no one alive on the entire planet who was there the day you were born. They are all dead. And there are more and more. In a calculation that sooner or later will end in a thrashing to zero for those who survive. Hell years ago they stopped suffering for the sustainability of the system. In the meantime, we are rescuing the gloves from the wardrobe, ordering the panels and walking the rainy days, at a leisurely pace, while the memories of those who were there – and are no longer there – dress the facades of where they lived as we go. As Joan Margarit said in Calculation of Structures: “One, two, three: hit the wall. I no longer care if Death sees me: I turn to smile at those who follow me.” He’s not there either. As another weekend of panels and stories by the fire returns, for those who still remember and tell. Melange dyed with Dickinson’s anarchic verses and capitals and a certain peace to assume that we are not that important, nor is anything as urgent as living.
