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The Bases Law and the primitive horde of Congress Square

The Bases Law and the primitive horde of Congress Square
The Bases Law and the primitive horde of Congress Square

The bonfires in Congress Square are still crackling like a flamethrower throughout the country. The ashes of horror of the pyromaniac aggressors hum.

It was an exposed fire to demonstrate what? They turned on the cell phone of a reporter who has been working for 32 years covering daily Argentine shocks.

Orlando Morales, the Cadena 3 journalist whose car was burned He then cried with everyone’s tears.

“I want a country in peace, with work…”

After the loud conflagration against his car, he left the next day to scour public life to turn it into a journalistic broadcast, as always but now, taking means of transportation, subway, buses.

He continued with his task as the majorities that repudiated this attack against all coexistence.

It was an explosion of ecstasy from an irrational, minority, but extremely dangerous patrol. Active saboteurs of democracy.

The fires in the car were rising and everything seemed about to explode, and a guy was dancing on top of the vehicle as if inciting death, as if invoking hell. And other wolves danced around him.

And others burned public bicycles.

And they turned over another car.

And they threw cobblestones, and they threw Molotov cocktails.

Psychically altered.

At the epicenter of the hubbub, a naked man climbed up one of the monuments of the Congress, and there, clinging to the motionless metal, he meditated as if he were Rodin’s thinker, very sad. A day before, as if foreshadowing the absurdities to come, a Pole climbed 30 floors in a building in Retiro without a harness. Surreal, postnormal images. The nudist and the Polish climber, they painted the public space with the splendor of dementia, in the cycle that leads to violence

It was a movie from another time, a phantasmagoria, a nightmare that we already lived.

The violent actors in the square, on that day in which the Bases law was voted in the Senate, embodied grotesque representations, as if they were puppet revolutionaries of 1917 trying to take over the Winter Palace, soulless replicants of those who They came down from Sierra Maestradisastrous and believed to be untimely disciples of Trotsky or Mao in degraded malón, cheap thugs, in love with an Intifada without object and without subject, because they were not real subjectivities.

A subject subjects his behavior in relation to coexistence. A mass gang member, even if those masses are quantitatively small, loses his subjectivity in that jibarization that celebrates the crackling of what catches fire for no reason.

Most society does not tolerate them.

But again there was a certain harmony between some who were in session and the attackers from outside.

As happened in 2017 with the 14 tons of stones from inside the venue, some were clamoring to suspend the session.

In 2017 they were “successful.”

Kirchnerism was still powerful.

The addiction to violence, the chronic delirium of those intoxicated by all the fires, is embedded in the paleontological ideology – it must be said – of the Kirchnerists who built nothing but walls to prevent everything.

The hallucinated people in the square compiled the manual of the ecstatic gang delirium that erupts when a group attacks with the excitement of beasts that smell blood, like prehistoric tribes in fire wars.

What were they proposing? Nothing except prehistory.

Everything that happened was of unfathomable gravity, and a great tragedy did not occur because chance wanted it that way.

The vote was electrifying.

A finale with the primitive hordes swarming outside, throwing objects that were weapons in their hands.

Every government deserves criticism (some more than others) and this government deserves it too.

His propagandists do not help him. They blind him and blind him.

But between criticism and flamethrowers there is an abyss without bridges.

He describes one of Roberto Arlt’s characters in “The Flamethrowers” ​​precisely: “He feels that the spirals of his hatred store flexibility and power. This hatred is like a tension spring. As soon as the catch breaks, “my head will fly to the stars. I will be left with a headless body, my throat pouring out, like a pipe, streams of blood.”

I will be left with the headless body. A metaphor that could well be stated by the gangsters, who once again, encouraged by suburban captains, perhaps rented, wanted once again to break democracy with that hatred, singing with their throats tracheotomized by sloganism, shouting nonsense like high-sounding claws, threatening, violating all values, with their aura of totalitarianism in their precambrian structures. Between these aggressive dinosaurs and the majority, two different universes are constituted, unable to communicate with each other.

Most of them work, strive, study and wait in peaceful anguish while they travel through the territory of overwhelming adjustment.

The least, they attack. They hit. They break up. They tear apart.

Minorities can do a lot of damage.

Sometimes they violently defeat the majorities, and prolong their excesses in policies that are refractory to any change, whatever it may be.

The primitive tribal horde, in the Freudian sense of the term, comes together to war, and only to war, to confront, to stone.

Civilization is sometimes just a thin veil over a seething brutality, which, even if it is in the minority, can bite political civility by the throat, and can liquidate it, or mummify it in the coffins of the Argentine dogmatic pyramids, upright despite the eras that unhooked them from all progress.

The country chooses between the primitive horde or the arduous path of coexistence, still in dissidence. Especially in dissent.

We live a thousand complexities, and the fire that burns does not forgive.

 
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