One afternoon last Christmas, after three Polvorones and a glass of champagne, I heard my mother say, “God, I’m so confused.” His house was in order, his meals turned out to be good, his last clinical tests were more than accurate, and he still maintains excellent enough signs of life that he continues to criticize Aznar with equal or greater fervor two decades later. But that didn’t matter: That afternoon his mind was full of uncertainties, unresolved situations, pending conversations…
There is nothing new under the sun: there is always something or someone that confuses us, upsets us, excites us. Good or bad, up or down. For something to be repositioned it must have been dislodged before. For example, a series like The Messiah by Los Javis takes you by surprise, able to talk about bullying, childhood and religious fanaticism with stratospheric imagination and talent. Or that Vargas Llosa is a writer, yes. But she’s also a columnist, a conversationalist, a fearless puddle-walker, a liberal, a debater, a reader – tell us you don’t write anymore (you’ve really screwed us here, Zavalita). It also surprises us that Carlos Franganillo changed TVE’s side to Telecinco’s side in order to produce a news program with less technical means, less staff and less audience (but something will happen at Mediaset, something will happen…)
A child may also be displaced due to an illness or dismissal. But also by the movements of the clouds or the changes in the wind, by hearing a choir at the right time, by the look of someone you don’t know yet, by a sentence you don’t know where it was stolen from and that doesn’t mean anything to you. don’t go. Rafa Nadal lost his bearings after feeling pain again in Brisbane. Yolanda Díaz’s telegenic smile faded this Wednesday when she saw Belarra’s motionless eyes enter the Senate. And while Pablo Motos still doesn’t know where the gorgeous Sofía Vergara’s cakes come from – more than working late nights in America – he gave her some dialectical slaps that didn’t go in vain in the face of the (mediocre) interviewer’s groundless questions. (How can you imply that a world star of Colombian caliber is dyeing her hair in 2024 and in prime time?)
For all of them, and when it happens to us (in a few hours, maybe yesterday, maybe on any other Sunday, no other) Robe Iniesta’s chorus from his wonderful last album, Se nos Transporte el aire, is useful: «And everything came back together / there was light in hell / and it was all because of the two of us that burned.” Everything that rises, falls and is displaced is displaced in one way or another, depending on the strength of the wind or the tide of the oceans. Calm down, Motos, calm down.