Rigid but winding through the
flooded streets of Valentín Alsina
, a dead man floated in the turbulent waters.
The rain intensified and suburban underdevelopment feverishly broke out into that liquid excess of the flood that is a plague.
The dead carried by the dirty current floated through the streets not freed from so much historical demagoguery.
It advanced at the deep rhythm of the innumerable Argentine failures converted in that moment, as in so many others, into a pluvial disaster.
Here the dead move.
They are not hallucinations.
A torrent of inefficiencies and abandonments transports them, and the Argentine drift throws them into the adventure of the extinct nationals, who fall electrocuted.
Here because of the rain, in Rosario because of drug trafficking - not only in Rosario - in the seventies because of the madness and terror, and then because of the Dictatorship and then in the discussion tinged with militant subjectivism about the number of the missing, in the pandemic by the rented politicking that postponed vaccines, and everywhere by the rampant insecurity.
And so, the extinct are monitored by cell phones now, and desecrated in crude and sometimes absurd debates, and beaten by the great misfortune of a country that does not take well at all with this conversion of metropolises into traveling necropolises.
Valentín Alsina's dead man was already very dead, but vivid on the screens.
He was at the same time the object of the rapid liquefaction of the news and will be forgotten like everything else.
Everything happens and everything is.
Here Heraclitus is valid and not valid:
“You will not be able to bathe twice in the same river, because everything changes.”
Everything changes and nothing changes.
There is the same petrified river in retroactive disputes, in the mummified intention to prevent any mutation towards a kinder future, in the vulgarity of empty proclamations, in the nonsense that overwhelms us to the point of anesthesia of a society that sees a dead man passing by moving. in the misfortune of abandonment, and is hardly moved.
But not.
It is like that and it is not like that.
There were neighbors who came to the rescue
(which could not be) of that body like a ghost ship that was rudderless after the hour of its death.
They approached him, they say, they managed to take his pulse, which was no longer beating, and there was an intention to help.
There is solidarity among so much scourge.
But it took hours for firefighters and police to arrive, according to neighbors.
They arrived with a life preserver, which in that case did not save any lives, but rather removed a deceased person from his hazardous final journey.
Here the philosopher Zygmunt Bauman's concept of
Liquid Modernity
does not really apply.
There is no modernity, and nothing liquefies in successive mutations.
Everything remains.
The dead man circulated quickly, yes, over the watery suburban liquidity, but he was no longer existentially circulating anywhere.
It was embalmed in its images in its apparent movement, which was an irrefutable immobility.
There are many causes that determine this perennial social immobility
There are frightening convictions.
A senator described the overwhelming hitman of the beach player who was liquidated in Rosario in a second as a “little guy who walked in slippers.”
Bruno Bussanich, the beachman, also navigates the river of the dead who sail to death victims of the mental darkness of a certain ruling class, of the propagated crime, and of the complicity of ideologies that are condensed in the dogmatic opprobrium enunciated by Senator Marcelo Lewandowski.
Forgetting Bussanich and his family now crossed by blood and infamy, and considering the murderer a victim, the
parliamentary represented once again that inversion of all the values that floods the mournful river of a country so punished by foolishness.
The sky was dismantled with the rains, but the obstinacy of a sector blind to the tragedy remained immobile.
There is a decrepitude entrenched in the ancient docks to which the funeral boats of the encomenderos of fanaticism, corruption, and the political staging of the justification of deadly violence are tied.
“With its small wave and its dead end eddies, it came and went, precisely, a dead monkey, still whole and not decomposed.
The water, before the forest, was
always an invitation to the trip, which he did not take until he was no longer a monkey, but a monkey's corpse.
The water wanted to take him away and it did, but he got tangled between the poles of the decrepit pier and there he was, about to leave and not, and there we were…There we were, about to leave and not”
It is the beginning of “Zama”, that immortal text by Antonio di Benedetto that he dedicated his book “To the victims of waiting”.
We all wait.
The dead monkey that went and came waiting without waiting in vain, "to go and not" is each of us, victims of waiting.
The corpse flaming in the artificial rivers of Valentin Alsina, emerging from clogged sinkholes of indolence, from dirty streets, and from lying proclamations of long-lost revolutions,
He was apparently dressed in dark shades and “sporting” sneakers with white trim.
How did you dress before you died?
What did she think before, when she was unaware of the final destiny of her at the mercy of all the deceitful eddies that are always about to leave and not.
We are here, we are all here.
Hoping to leave for more benevolent horizons, hoping not to die waiting in vain, even with the intention of cleansing the soulless waters that drown us so much of evil.