I would write about how blue the skies can be in Valencia and how hard it can be to escape the urge to try to catch its light, but sometimes there are issues that get imposed without one being able to do anything to avoid it. Sometimes they are presented as something harmless so as not to scare us. They stand there, waiting, knowing their importance, until they get tired and knock on the door for us to listen.
Today I should like to write about how blue the sky can be in Valencia, or about blue itself, the first synthetic dye in history, rare and valuable, about the allure of Prussian blue, or about the pleasure of mixing it with a little yellow ocher and linseed oil. But we’ve been dealing with one of those burning issues for some time now that turns the color of childhood summer into a metaphor for something that can be terrible.
For several weeks we endured a torrent of blows, deceived Distortion and fear that suffocated us. A terrible avalanche of uncertainty has damaged each of the goals of the past few days. And they say about us | from living at home | We take less risks, | While fighting with weapons: | What stupid logic! ” Euripides More than two thousand years ago. Not long ago, I read in a newspaper: “Violence is violence and has no gender.”
In addition to these atrocities, many others are beginning to collapse in an avalanche upon us: they Equality councils are abolishedTranssexualism is said to be a disease, rainbow benches are removed from the town square, and two politicians (one convicted of sexual violence) mock a woman in a position of authority who politely asks to be treated with respect. In this political campaign, women are insulted just for being women or for wearing makeup.
In addition to Medea-I’ve been reading infanticide Written by Katrina Alpert, the reality-drenched fantasy set back in another mirror (Albert changed his name to Victor Catalla so he could continue publishing because his story A scandal is born that grows in size when we learn that the author was a woman): when a mother commits the horrific act of murdering her own daughter, the social alarm builds hoaxes to destroy the progress it has taken us centuries to build. All forms of violence are not created equal Vicarious violence It is another form of violence against us.
Who do you know. Perhaps I am delusional because of the droughts, heat waves and fires that we are witnessing and which some have the audacity to deny. Summer always hurts me: it’s hard for me to breathe and I can hardly sleep. I woke up once on the watery floor of the hallway to my mother hitting me in the face and my grandmother and sister crying uncontrollably that I was dead. When I woke up, I joined the chorus of mourners with my tears to weep with them for my loss. Humidity and heat in my land with a blue sky and a beautiful language (by the way, there is more: the new CEO will amend the law on multilingualism adopted in 2018 and will remove the mandatory nature of Valencia as the language of vehicles for students who request it), never suited me. When I moved a little further north, I was grateful for those lower temperatures and less humidity. But the mildest summers of recent years are no longer there, and we are to blame for this.
Now that I think about it, I can write about art despite the danger we’d run if we didn’t leave our homes today to cast our votes at the polls: I am Yinye Wenan (Jennifer Hackshaw, Caracas, 1948, and María Luisa González, Caracas, 1956), and she was just trapped in a large plastic bag filled with water. Now I’m drowning, but maybe, while the artists are looking at them performance, I am closer than ever to revival.
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