The 120 Days of Coronavirus: This is how the pandemic made pornography
Under the pale vault of a now grayened sky, worn out by a few and uncertain clouds, in the silence of a day now normalized by and in its absences, a seagull paws from car to car, munching on the rotting remains of a rat: you see its entrails dribble on the windshield of a vehicle, while the bird stares at you unperturbed, master of the city.
It is not degradation, but the "nature that takes back its own spaces", according to a ridiculous and offensive rhetoric of serial masturbators who from their bedrooms, barricaded and determined to resist against life to the last breath, pontificate and blabber about a pandemic as opportunity.
They have replaced the panzerfaust with messages on social media , while everything around burns and falls and breaks into sinister noises of a defeat of human existence, of its presence, of its own meaning throughout history. The Fuhrerbunker between omens and spells has been translated into the pages of newspapers and into the luminous womb of television studios, raving about Frederick the Great and great virological experts with a past as a Maoist.
"Do you want the total virus?", Howls the virological dog furiously, mobilization of souls and bodies sacrificed and sent to die wave after wave under the rattling fire of common sense and against any form of freedom.
All the desperados with grim lives and frustration elevated to the Cartesian system have gathered, at the center of the pandemic, to dine on the carrion of our society, and give themselves a tone that they never had. We are the dead mouse in the seagull's jaws. This is how the diehards of the virus imagine us.
They swarm in the blind bowels of the city bombarded with messages of death, promising each other iron crosses for every tongue of viral flame and for every pessimism bestowed in profusion.
The cemeteries vomit up their dead, little bodies abandoned and stacked by a bureaucracy that indulging in the bureaucratic language of a millennial Reich dispenses licenses of essentiality, while the bodies, vases, urns, coffins crowd into the macabre dance of a new era, in agony and contempt of any human suffering: in the turned scene, in the soluster of Herzog's "Nosferatu" , the emaciated pestilence that envelops the profile of the town like a shroud, the inhabitants dance and drunk sing and cry madly with joy and pain, and the end, with rats feasting on their own tables, lurks behind the first wall.
It doesn't matter that those dead are dead for something else. In the collective imagination and in the childish justifications of politicians and administrators, it was the pandemic that clogged the mortuaries, ossuaries and crematory ovens.
To legitimize any limitation. The curfew. The sanctions. Criminal trials. Self-mutilation and depression. The meticulous checks. The condominium reports. A state-induced and inoculated autism day after day.
The eddy that annihilates everything and explains everything, the pandemic. The decomposed lamb that amends the sins of mayors and scientists and parliamentarians and people who fear, once the power chair is over, they will have to go back to frying fries at Burger King .
So we are reduced. So they reduced us. A distant echo of promises of healing, of almost metaphysical salvation. The eternal lockdown . Ineluctable. Unsustainable. Lombrosian faces of virologists now turned to fetishism. You see them on television, while the cities become a death camp, as in the gutted heart of Dante Virgili's "The Destruction" , and you imagine them in a dungeon dirty with mold and dried sex, new Marquis de Sade.
The 120 Days of the coronavirus , with masks and gowns instead of latex and whips. But here there is no glacial loneliness of man in the whirling of the Cosmos, as Blanchot wrote, there is only the psychosis of a new political form, the virus as an all-encompassing element, the mantra at the rhythm of which a new nation sets out in march, the viral plebiscite of every day.
See their expressions. And those of their aficionados , the gang of lockdowners whose only social function is to receive the credit of the guaranteed public salary, ticking pornographic sensationalisms on the main social networks , just to bury even more any prospect of recovery and return to normal.
The Ballardiana shows the atrocities of people drowned and passed off as dead for Covid , the unbearable hairy rhetoric of spineless intellectuals who clean their boots instead of fleas in power. With the tongue.
They want to lead us, hand in hand, kick after kick, abuse after abuse, into the scrupulous gulag they are building. While we just want to take a breath, stop this apnea, and get back to normal.
Normality, not the landing they wish for the new, fetid normality that they are about to prepare for us. A dystopian future of social distancing, of more and more variants, of useless vaccines, of sanitized home bunkers as in "A nuclear family" by Mark Laidlaw, of health checks and remediation of languages, of freedom compressed forever, of hysterized people, hydrophobic, crazed, with an economy regressed to a premodern stage and with virological and socially guaranteed castes to embody the new aristocracy of Sangue and Covid .
In the body there is always the ultimate truth, as well as in proxemics, in non-verbal communication. You gaze at them, while in all television broadcasts they promise us suffering and chains, presented as vaguely fatal demiurges, like the severe and just clerics of the new religion of death.
And despite this they would have been unpleasant even to Albert Caraco, because the death they evoke and promise is gloomy, bureaucratic, stupid. It's just a hologram that has none of the glittering cruelty of a Chaos Breviary.
The bib that runs at the corner of the mouth, the fixed, glassy eyes, the gaze of someone who points, like a sniper, the horizon line waiting to shoot some passer-by. They are employees of the cadastre of death.
They have no arguments, but recite litanies and lysergic mantras, as an outdated paragraph would be unveiled only to account for a geological delay in evading a practice: they hide the inherent and ontological sadism under thick blankets of an apparent scientism declined to pandemic nihilism.
Think of that seagull and the roasted pigeon or rat, while the stench of decomposition and garbage not collected for weeks attacks your nostrils: the bus that rattles slowly, overcrowded, welcomes you in its lap, and you know you will not be able to infect you in that carnage, in that poor commuter orgy because the CTS does not have sufficient data to support the idea of contagion in stations and public transport. And if the bureaucracy can't decide a thing, that thing simply doesn't exist.
However, they have enough data, never published, never seriously discussed, that life and freedom must be denied. On the other hand, you cannot get infected or infect others if you are dead.
The virological sadomasochists indicate the chirping birds and the dolphins in the Venice lagoon, the waters apparently purified by the lack of humanity, confused borborygmas of anthropocene and fundamentalist environmentalism, these are people who would have frightened for hypocrisy and inconsistency in evil even at the Abbot Guibourg: because, if they were truly consistent, they would admit they want to see the human race sink into incandescent lava, rattling off the rosary of the 150 Homicidal Passions instead of talking to us about measures to combat the virus.
They do not yearn for healing, only the idea of being able to sing their glories over ruined, fallen and shattered cities.
The post The 120 days of the coronavirus: this is how the pandemic made pornography appeared first on Atlantico Quotidiano .
This is a machine translation from Italian language of a post published on Atlantico Quotidiano at the URL http://www.atlanticoquotidiano.it/quotidiano/le-120-giornate-del-coronavirus-ecco-come-della-pandemia-fecero-pornografia/ on Sat, 24 Apr 2021 03:54:00 +0000.