Sketches of the revolt of Madrid
May 18, 2011
Today, at five o'clock in the morning, the general assembly, which had begun at three-thirty in the morning, was still lively. A thousand people occupied the Plaza de Sol at that time. The scenery was wonderful: people sleeping or dozing, or wrapped in blankets and standing, wandering around putting up posters with generally imaginative slogans, exchanging ideas, masters of their own bodies and dreams. And lovers who loved each others, yes, exactly. A black glove over the cardboards, and a blanket-man standing, taking a self portrait because he had found his own new beauty. Fatigue fraternizes with imagination. The dream lives over the asphalt. Oneirism and wakefulness together: one could almost say that the dream and action have twinned (ah, Baudelaire!). I do not exaggerate anything. What joy! May what lasts last, as one painting says: the world is revolving around the Plaza de Sol.
Now one can only let oneself be carried with this joy, despite the reformists, leftists and other filtrations who want to appropriate the wonderful disarray in which the political class is engulfed. These are nothing but rags before the event itself.
At two o'clock, the rain had clustered people in tents, so that the concentration had also become a ”marketplace” in which a qualitative use of things had taken place. The ebb and flow of plastic objects, blankets, water and food became more obvious. People with shopping carts brought things for sleeping, not objects of merchandise. And inside the tents, the expression of the people remained contemptuous of the difficulties that the weather had created. And the dialogue and the reflection on what is going on created a common language But also outside, as it couldn't be otherwise. In fact, outside the meetings continued. At least the assembly about the course action grouped a significant number of people. It was beautiful to see two of them drew the speaker and microphone from the cart carrying them through the slabs filled with water and soaked cardboard while the holders shouting the meeting place. And off we went to go there who wished so. It is interesting to think about an image that changes the signs: Today people are not running to any shelter but sleep in the open despite the bad weather. And a promising fact: tents started to be raised. At least six could be counted, which gave a new meaning to the camp. A little earlier one succeeded in ”throwing” the police out: they left with their trucks not be seen anymore ... for this night. There is no doubt that the rain contributed a little, which has the salutary effect of removing certain nightmarish elements from the vigil. One sleeps better that way.
I do not forget to recall that a few hours earlier, at nightfall, someone let out a small air balloon with a fire inside thus red-orange colored, which rose above the Plaza de Sol. It was amazing: the sun rose in the night.
May 20 – 21
Seized square, magnetic square. This seems to be the great power that the Plaza de Sol has acquired. It is difficult not to feel it while wandering in it, because when one has decided to leave it, one cannot as something crosses one's path that deviates it from its most probably vague purpose, because it is utterly difficult to leave this community without any confession, fully vocal and eloquent in its rant and its silence. Well, as soon as one leaves, one has to return as new events occur which, no matter how small they may be, are loaded with the force of circumstance, and with their own beauty which, why not say it, is more convulsive than the one that one has read about.
The square is being magnetized by the energy of the bodies, of the screams. The political demand or anger turn physical in this giant vocalization, full of joy and humor. A television network. Its correspondent. They want to broadcast live. People see it and starts hurling a deafening collective scream preventing the correspondent from speaking and the news crew in the studio from hearing anything: ”The sound of desire silences the speakers of the masters”. And the square becomes magnetized by the power of the mind, which lets its imagination sprout because imagination is the other pole of that magnetization. Imagination and humor. Yesterday evening, when there was still sunlight, a scary sofa was seen moving above the heads of people, entering from Preciados street. It disappeared behind a metal structure, but shortly afterwards flew our own heads, literally, disappearing in the background. What a powerful image, live, not deferred! As is a large kettle that someone has placed at one end of a bus shelter. Of course! it is Alice's kettle and we all eat the cookies that convert us into incredible shrinking beings to recognize the latent genius of the events, or into growing beings rising over the impossible, realism and social predestination and fatality.
Since the beginning of this collective civil disobedience, covering the front of a building, a huge panel of a cosmetics multinational is soiling the view of many, many people. But yesterday, as a voice explained, someone began to transform it in the same way as Léo Malet carried out the décollage of publicity posters. First a group of activists climbed to the top of the panel and from there deployed an eloquent home-made poster that showed a torso of a military fascist/nazi with black Mickey Mouse ears, the emblem of the euro in the form of tie skewer and the legend ”They do not represent us”. Alongside this action, perhaps the same group changed two words of the advertising legend which became ”Real democracy” (sic). Below, a series of words such as Paris, Mediterranean skin, 48 h, gave place to the wonderful practice of mental association and its relationship to the history of yesterday's and today's revolts. Momentarily, the culmination of this décollage was performed by a man who teared the panel at the woman's breast and pulled his head out. Then, on our side, a voice shouted: ”It's the nipple of revolution”, a cry that was echoed in unison through the area of that part of the square in which some of us were. Meanwhile, the man kept moving his head in a gesture of tenderness and excitement. Humor, eroticism and imagination celebrate their betrothal here. Poetry has jumped out into the streets.
I said that this square is magnetized and that night – and possibly at small hours a little bit more – makes one even more sensitive to this phenomenon. One can hardly leave it. It is a totally opposite effect than that in ”The Exterminating Angel”. It is not the repressed that returns which is causing fear and preventing from going out, as happens to these miserable bourgeois in Buñuel's movie. Conversely, it is desired encounter with the repressed that returns what makes us go round and round on the square where what happens unexpectedly excites the senses and does not seem to have, so far, any conditions that restrict it. Thus the words of revolt, of dreams and of poetry are being digressed from inside the tents, or dwell in them; or somebody stops to read, to launch and to write them here and there: ”Every heart is a cell of the revolution”, ”Go on sleeping while the pavement is burning and they tell us that it is raining”, ”Utopia or nothing”, ”We want to live forever in this hurricane”, ”Yesterday we ran to the shelter, today we sleep in the open”, ”What will be will glow”, ”The future is intense”.
And groups of people do not only throw themselves under the canvas of the tents, they do so on the asphalt of the streets or on the sidewalks of the square. ”Yesterday we ran to the shelters, today we sleep in the open” And one can read and live and sleep the marvel, yielding with the unknown, man or thing: ”Closed for revolution, enjoy the inconvenience”, said a small sign, and next to it, loafing about, its practitioners.
These days we see what was desired, which had been invoked: The days in red have jumped from the work schedules and for now every day is a party. Indeed, such is poetry... in May 2011.
May 21 – Time
The threat of the Election Board is hanging over Plaza de Sol. It has been so every day so far, but today it is more pronounced. The ending of the occupation of the square and the dismantling of the camp is its obsessive goal. In order to prevent this the word has been passed by all possible means that on this day the unity should be even more steadfast, in addition to inviting all the people of Madrid to come and dance at eight o'clock in the evening as usual, alone, in pairs, in trio, with children, partners, friends, everyone. The occupation has been an example of disobedience to the threat, and every new day and every new night this disobedience is being intensified, relaxes, experience its own joy.
The threat was scheduled to take place at 12 pm. The response was moving, not only did no one leave the square, instead more and more people came during the previous hours. This is no longer the circulation of commodities in a place colonized by temples of consumption; this is the flow of bodies, of acting, thinking and desiring minds that have abolished the time of commodities and, simultaneously, have reinvented the flow of a time on the run. And it is more, I would say, it is nothing less than the abolition of time. For in this place time, as we wished it so much, is being marked by the beat of tens of thousands of hearts that are like cells of the revolution, as one of the many inscriptions reads that have ABSOLUTELY transformed the face of the square. Not surprisingly, this square is now a ”town” within the city constantly renewed, in the sense that it isn't fixed by external boundaries, but extends according to the requirements of material, mental and spiritual necessities in which even here imagination is admirable as well as an organizational ability that demonstrates the falsity of the perpetual present time of the economy. In this regard, one of the ways in which time is being lived is the one without money. Since the rising of the movement of disobedience, the money has been expelled from this city which, how partially you like, is the living embodiment of a concrete utopia that is being realized. Without money – marvelous assertion of the practical truth of poetry. And it is so that assemblary imagination and organization, horizontal, fraternal (how hasn't this word been actualized and how hasn't it become a formidable force that forever seemed to have lost its energy, all its truth!) have achieved, in its turn, to establish the communism of genius – all the creativity for the people and by the people, in their experimental, playful and organized expressions and their practices.
So, of which time are we talking about? About the time of awakening in the midnight of a new era that has been hoped for, emotionally together, in silence for a minute only to launch immediately after the cry of the common lycanthropy, because at that hour we have all become wolves who eat the chronological time of extortion and of threat, inaugurating a mythical time in which a republic of lycanthropy is being established (ah, Petrus Borel, in this midnight your boldness has been fulfilled when you were saying something like ”my republicanism is lycanthropy”!).
And after this common howling, and just after a while, a group of men and women, protesting the lack of decent housing for every one of us, pulled in a spontaneous gesture their keys out of their pockets, shaking them in the air. What a beautiful picture, all those moving keys sounding like a ”wise music”! If we had eaten the grapes of the revolution a moment earlier, now we were joining others to open, who knows, the doors of private property. For private property, as we never had seen it before, had been abolished in the square in which, through the days, a citadel without doors had been built, with its inner streets, libraries, pharmacies, kindergarten, food services... and furniture that belongs to no one because it comes from the whole human community that has been founded here. Beds, sofas, mattresses, blankets, chairs, bulbs, lamps, books and an urban garden built around a fountain... Is not this, with all the modesty you want, one form a any dreamed utopian city, provided with full autonomy, with an ”urban”, ”territorial”, human, ”economic” (remember: no money) organization, etc., admirable? With the difference that the dream has come true, that this city has taken shape, and that in it lives a community without masters. It is necessary to enter it, to tumble in it, to savor its taste, feel its sound, see its landscape, smell its smells, socialize with one or another, or simply watch with eyes wide open this feast of the senses.
The space-time as we knew it has been abolished in this citadel, which is to say in order to avoid any confusion, in the whole square, and from the evening of the 28th to the 29th of May, in all the squares and streets around it.
Words in conflict
Any movement of revolt has its own words, words that shape its varying degrees of intensity. The tension and the energy – or its weakness and demoralization – of the movement is associated with this words. Terms as revolution, anti-capitalism, rebellion, subversion, murderous police, financial capitalism, shylock bankers, etc. are not being used for nothing.
The first week of the May 15 movement experienced with admiration, anger and celebration the words that accused the symbols and the persons belonging to the own and to the global crisis. And not only these: it also reinvented the words in liberty which, along with the refractory slogans, gave the revolt a wonderful brightness. In fact, the appearance of the Puerta del Sol and of its surrounding was transformed by the upwelling of words and phrases that, while diverting from their preconceived meaning, generated a major intensity.
Well, that whole lexicon of the revolt has been diluted and has been being gagged by a false display of respect that demonizes the in this case verbal and oral dissidence. Needless to say, it is sufficient for a few to shout ”the police tortures and murders” in a crowd to immediately hear a hiss of disapproval. It is enough to scream ”from north to south, from east to west, the fight goes on cost what it may cost” for a delator silence to reign. At the height of insult to the essence of the movement we have come to hear that this rebellion is of the right as well as of the left, of capitalism as well as of the anti-capitalists. The fact is that, gradually, from within and from outside, the words that give a revolutionary glow to this movement of civil disobedience and insubordination, the words that generate a subversive tension in the context of an uprising, how modest it may be and that is not only a reformist protest but a blow against the unbearable state of things, a popular revolutionary harangues, have been expulsed.
By this operation of disguised censorship of the language of the revolt, a situation has been reached against which we should act immediately. This situation is the pacification of the rebellion carried out by extirpating the energy from the words. With pacification we mean: sedation of the subversive tension, equalization by an operation of reactionary humanitarism, i.e., standardization of behaviors and ideas, rejecting openly the ones that criticize the manipulation of the movement, ie, the ones that raise a voice of reflective and revolutionary criticism against the desire to act subversively, imposing the dogma of a reformist idea that distorts the nature of the revolt.
The lukewarm words, as we have seen, fit all too well with the language of the system, and are the best way to root out the conflictivity of the rebellion; but conflictivity is still the social war.
Against this situation, we wish to reintroduce all the words and terms that the imagination is capable of in order to restore the revolutionary nature to the movement of its own.
When the night decides to present itself as Aboriginal
(As if it were a collective dérive).
The course of the revolt, in what it has of admirable unpredictability, holds highly unusual moments, a word that in this month in which time has been lived as if we dwelled in a black hole, releases its enormous power.
Under the stalking of a depression caused by the dismantling of the citadel of the Plaza de Sol, when the eradication of this already perennial symbol, of its reality and life is taking shape, so much so that one, several or many are reluctant to attend to the ceremony of deSolation, a new episode of rebellion, of partying, of wonder takes place.
A group of people, of friends, of fellow participants in the assembly of long-term policy, after reaching, despite their current circumstances, a magnetization that the square sustains, and after observing a little of what remains of the citadel, decides to return to the Pontejos square, the usual place of the assembly, just to socialize, to share the night. Soon, one of the comrades receive a call or a message informing that a thousand people have cut off the Gran Via street. We are moving towards it through Preciado street to reach Callao-Gran Vía street. Indeed, the large artery is cut. And here – that there be no misunderstandings – no need to “close your eyes” to see because the eyes are open wide, all the insiders' and outsiders', and we see, and I think that we see.
We do not see any protester. We start, by sheer inertia, the march towards Cibeles street. It generates perplexity to walk through the middle of the the Gran Vía empty of cars that also other bystanders take, some of them lying down in its very center to take pictures: Which authority will prevent them from acting instinctively tonight! The absurd and dream are are at home. What incipient symptoms of an oneirism that surfaces during the night wake and because of a stroll than ten or fifteen minutes later will be entirely collective! That's right. Just after the Red de San Luis.
We can see in the distance people closing the demonstration widthwise and cutting Alcalá street. We rush until joining them. What a joy to feel how we merge with the crowd, to have that physical feeling of entering the body of the ”mass”, the body of the revolt! The thrill of appropriating the street is overwhelming, now calm, now exalted. We are restituting popular sovereignty without notice, without any ”official” call, without any authorization.
The crowd procedes to the City Hall in Cibeles street, as had been done on Saturday 11 when it rioted in Villa square, cutting off the streets where the mayor and council members had to leave.
Everything indicated that there would be a sitting, but no, the leading group moves ahead and starts to turn around on the square, some people thinking that thereby we would take the way back to the Puerta del Sol. However, after completely going around Cibeles, the leading group goes in the direction of the Parliament through the way down the Paseo del Prado. The ease with which we take one street or another, indifferent to impunity, is amazing, as if it had been overcome by the very inertia of the revolt. (1)
Reaching Neptune square, a line of police cordoned off the entrance to the Carrera de San Jerónimo, and therefore to Parliament. But no frustration hangs over the group. The festive, bold, serene, even ”victorious” mood prevails in the mind, the spirit and the bodies. And now, yes, the words at issue are a little louder, and the radical and revolutionary slogans are getting mixed with poetic exhortations and humorous exclamations. And the police gets everything that we utter irredeemably. We do it sitting or standing. It is joyful, it is free, we are unpunished! There we are. And we can ask orselves, perhaps idly, what will happen next or not think about anything, or even not wait for anything because we have it all at this hour.
Time passes and people are starting to rise and one begins to hear voices that spontaneously invite us to go to the campers of the Cuesta de Moyano. Certainly, nothing suggests that these marches were scheduled in advance (even if they do belong to the ”logic” of the protest), and of course not the least this latter one. Once again we liberate another street. It is almost impossible that the following question doesn't struck one and do it while in a state of stupefaction, or better said, of ebriety: What are we doing, about a thousand people, at two o'clock on Monday night marching, down the car lane of the Paseo del Prado? The impossible is possible, the legend is true.
One is tempted to say that we are almost strolling as if it were a collective dérive, perhaps often imagined but entirely unknown, at least as it is occurring here. The buildings on either side of the boulevard, with the Prado museum silhouetting on the left in which the imagination puts sandbags in its holes, in its walls, join the great general estrangement: the asphalt has something of the firmament and catches, at a time, a thousand human shadows; the trees are more trees than ever, and a thousand human heads are shaking and bouncing back and forth. A moment later we show our solidarity with the campers of Moyano with a big applause. Almost simultaneously a part of the crowd forms a human chain and closes the square of Atocha. All this accentuates that air of new life flowing in the early hours of June 13, 2011.
During these days which are changing Madrid, we have reached a higher consciousness regarding the meaning and the power of Rimbaud's words that ”true life is absent”. It is necessary to experience a life of plenitude (I don't want to say: an absolutely full life) like the one that the Madrid revolt is providing to tell us that, in fact, true life was absent. But because of that, of this unique experience, of an intensity despite the unspeakable words, we can also understand its consequence with an almost total accuracy: that real life was not absent.
It is worth stopping for a moment and ask ourselves why the police didn't act during all this time, after the brutal charge of the demonstration on the 15th of May and the evacuation of the campers of Puerta del Sol in the morning of the 17th, and the aggressions in Bailén and Sacramento streets on the 11th of June. It may be argued that the above happenings have strictly prevented the police leadership to act and thus likewise down the chain of command. And is it true, of course. But we can not help thinking that if that has occurred, it has been because of a chilling effect that the revolt has had on all of them, a kind of paralysis of their will due to the singular nature of the movement. In fact – at least so far – the blood has not needed to flow for the police to turn unauthorized. We cannot avoid to see this strange, perhaps new phenomenon, as a victory for the revolt: the obtundation of the action of the agents of physical repression. Of course none of this excludes its undesirable resurgence in a near future. Nor that another outbreak, in between unavoidable and desirable, would completely alter that strange paralysis. There is nothing else to do than to be prepared for it.
Eclipse of the moon
A part of the assembly of long-term policy reaches the Plaza de Sol at ten or quarter past ten p.m., after a meeting. Incredulous they learn that the newspaper El Mundo has installed a tent there where the mutineers of Sol camped until three days ago. It is not easy to contain the rage of this group or the perplexity of a number of people passing through the square. It is a perversion, says one woman. It's a provocation, exclaims another. It is, and an incitement to violence. But spontaneously a woman and a man write “Commission of manipulation, censorship and disinformation” on a white cardboard. It is placed under the words El Mundo, visible in the tent. The people, while showing signs of disapproval and repudiation, stands in front of this place of infamy. When workmen dismantled the tent, the cardboard of denouncement is immediately taken back in order not to be lost and placed below the words El Mundo located on the worktable of the two girls, so that the minute protest against this outrage still can be seen.
Then a fellow approaches the ridiculous ”information stand” for the purpose and clarification as to the rumor that the May 15 movement had dissociated itself from the riot that took place a day earlier against politicians in the Barcelona citadel. The answer is embarrassing: ”There has been some confusion in the statement that will be corrected tomorrow on the website of the Movement”. Why wait until tomorrow, we wonder? The ”informant” of this nefarious stand claims, and not in his own name but in the movement's, to condemn the violence, all forms of violence. Inevitably this leads to a heated argument, which at times reaches a higher pitch and gets more controversial, in which the advocates of non-violence show manifest signs to speak up in a not so peaceful manner.
The case is that suddenly some of us find that a group of bureaucrats assumes the ethics and even the morality to the movement. The important fact remains, however, that such a discussion exceeds the particular as people nearby immediately joined in. There is no point in trying to reproduce here what one and another said. Bu there is one in asserting that it succeeded in inflaming the critical, aroused, claiming and rebellious spirit that one month earlier had given birth to the Madrid revolt. That day (that evening) and today (this evening) we witness a presence of mind and a revolutionary political consciousness that will face all forms of reaction.
Still on the spot where the discussions take place, I received a phone call. My friend Rag Cutre, reminds me with great enthusiasm that a total lunar eclipse is happening during these hours, and urges me to join him and his friends at the crossing of Santa Isabel and Torrecilla del Leal streets. Exalted, I shout it in the middle of one of the discussions so that some friends would know or remember, rushing to our meeting point.
The picture is superb. Up in the sky above Santa Isabel street, at that time already filled into the middle by the sun (or better to said half uncovered), the two heavenly bodies radiate their dominion. The people liberates the street because it is the sign of the times, and lies down on the pavement and the sidewalks. And as werewolves, as the sun retreats and the moon gets back all its splendor, we howl for fifteen minutes and howl again, lost ”sunatics” (1). This happened at the end of the night of the fifteenth and at the beginning of the morning of the sixteenth of June, monthly birthday of the Madrid revolt.
Simple neologism formed by the word lunatic and sun that emerged after the discussion of the plaza de Sol and during the total eclipse of the moon.
The unconsumable sofa
The installation in the plaza de Sol of an infamous ”information stand” regarding the ”activities” of the May 15 Movement, a fact that was hatched on the sly, behind the back of almost the entire movement, in an act of corruption typical of career experts, presupposed at the same time the almost total dismantling of the Plaza de Sol citadel (although a significant number of stands would remain for a week). The professional bureaucrats, the reformists and the well-mannered citizens met at this stand after successively manipulating the general assembly, developing maneuvers of confusion, attrition and demoralization once past the first ten days of camping in order to dissolve the citadel.
What the citadel materialized, at least for many of the participants in the Madrid revolt, has already been said. I remind it summarily: Utopian life, as utopia was revealed in it as the revolutionary realization of the present, abolition of time, abolition of private property, abolition of money, use value versus exchange value, reinvention of brotherhood, re-enchantment of everyday life. All said with some caution, without fanfare. But this settlement displayed in its day to day existence another immense value residing in its use: its precarious appearance which in no case was an obstacle to an internal organization that ranged between impeccable and admirable, overcoming the material difficulties of that apparent provisionality. In fact, the apparent precariousness and provisionality have seldom coalesced so well with a ”political project of poetic life” in which the ”luxury of poverty” has been celebrated with great waste. I do not praise any proletarianization of life here, among other reasons because it has not occurred in this case (a legitimate proletarianization, indeed, for anyone who wants it and become aware of its implications for his or her own life). I mean the ability of the human species to grant itself an inspired life (a luxury of the mind) in a precarious material situation (the modesty and humility of the tents, of the furniture, of electricity, etc. The truth is that this architecture was to be expected, given that what was taking place in the Plaza de Sol was an experiment, initially improvised, of utopian life as never experienced in Madrid, an utopian experiment that occurred in the very framework of the popular revolt of which the citadel of the Plaza de Sol was at that moment the greatest symbol, as enchanted present and as its projection as becoming: its existence has not ended with its dismantling; it is a convening precipitate with a return in latent state.
Such a form of life has been elaborated day by day, so it would be unthinkable to expect another type of architecture and urbanization of space than the one that belongs to this particular life so that it would realize itself daily in a so beautifully (dis)articulated, so thrillingly instinctive form. Thus, it is not the time to wonder whether anyone would want to live in such a precarious state for the rest of one's life (an undoubtedly biased, miserabilist and even laughable approach remote from the deorbit caused by the revolt) but rather to note that this way of life was the consequence of an altered state that does not tolerates that the reasons for a known life and that the parameters of the fetishism of convenience and of commodity prevail.
This is where the unconsumable sofa makes its appearance to the point of transforming itself as I see it into a kind of totem of that way of life and of the resistance that it unfolds against this dual fetishization which has its representative in the sweltering barracks that houses the aforementioned ”information stand”. Designed by an architect (and done surreptitiously apart from any assembly-proposal and consensus), its bare professional origin insults the spirit of the revolt and stands in denial of the citadel, becoming de facto an object of consumption to which the May 15 movement is being dragged. Against this snare that wishes to be the spectacular remains of the citadel, the unconsumable sofa moves from one side to another, from one ”home” to the ”other”, marvellous object that combines the functional and the magic due precisely to an use that shatters the exchange value (and this when it isn't completely isolated, even abandoned, if only briefly, as someone has always been willing to use it).
This sofa first appeared, at least for me in, the evening of May 20, being carried as on wings through Preciados street to the corner f the Plaza de Sol. It disappeared behind an iron structure mounted to hold the ”guns” of the press. And it reappeared after a while unexpectedly next to me (and to many others), from behind, literally passing over our heads, as if not weighting anything, disappearing towards the citadel (not knowing, obviously, that this would be its destination). I saw it days later in the utopian settlement's library. It also passed some time in one of the food stands. When the citadel had been dismantled, I could see how a man, having placed a plant on its seats, dragged it across the Plaza de Sol. Two or three days later I met it again on TV, while being occupied by a sleeper. I must admit that it is this vision that made me aware of the symbolic value that it acquired for me. That is how it occurred to me to go to the Plaza de Sol the next day at noon in order to find it, if it still was there. It caused me great joy to see that one of the last camping groups was using it, that it was part of their ”furniture”. A white pillow was lying in its seats. I approached and could so discover that the sofa was tattooed with phrases of different kinds: beautiful, exciting and humorous.
Has this magic fetish of resistance against architectural bleaching that the barracks embodies disappeared, a magic fetish that also is an anti-fetish of consumption? Surprisingly, until the day I write this, June 30, the sofa is still present in the square. I saw it first with what appeared to be the last group camped there, and the next day in a strange stand that bears the name ”anárkika tavern”.
The unconsumable rest of the Plaza de Sol citadel celebrates its memory, makes the horrible barracks ugly, and reveals itself as the object that, in addition to hosting the sleep and dreams and the rest of the rebels, displays the eloquence of its threatening, insolent, poetic and insurgents words on its body: ”If you cut down our rights we will burn your roofs!”, ”I'm a bitch but I do not play the flute”, ”Sunscreen, we have sun for a long time”, ”It's still dawning... just wait for the sunset”.
And on one end of backrest, the star of the "Great Evening": the black star of rebellion.
(Published in El Rapto #7, January 2012)