Little did I know that this simple walk would become an epic worthy of Homer, full of dangers, odors and situations that challenged the laws of physics
It was just a trip to the pharmacy. Simple. Objective. Just a few minutes and so many steps to come and go. But it was Sunday of, and the streets had become a great psychoanalytic experiment in the open, where Freud would explain a lot, but would hardly justify. Little did I know that this simple walk would become an epic worthy of Homer, full of dangers, odors and situations that challenged the laws of physics and the notion of invasion of interpersonal space.
Just around the corner, the first reality shock where a sound car was shaking as if it were being electrocuted by a loose cable of electricity. That vehicle, worthy of a compulsory hospitalization in some exclusive asylum workshop for the means they have seen and heard everything in their existence, issued sounds that challenged all the laws of harmony. On top of him, a band formed by musicians whose challenged souls ruthlessly destroyed what was once a melody. The singer looked at war with the tuning, while the drummer attacked the instrument as if he needed to crush an imaginary cockroach at a pace that did not reconcile at all with the guitar. As a sound catharsis, the maladjustment of the notes, voices and instruments expressed unconscious desires.
Making ahead became a challenge worthy of a reality show of survival of those we hope that everything works out, at least for those who, like me, chose to leave home. Each step required strategy: dodge cans from, vodka and cooled soda, plus bottles and a sticky trail that had 80% alcohol and 20% pure regret. In one corner, a group of men dressed as cabaret dancers and fans paraded with fluorescent wigs and jumps that challenged the laws of physics beyond the traditional wings. On the right, women dressed at the least necessary so that the police would not take them prey tried to decide if it was easier to dance or avoid sunstroke.
I took a deep breath – classic – and I was hit by a cloud of odors that mixed aged sweat, fermented drinks in the summer sun and something that looked like a barbecue, which gave a lot, very wrong. That was when I realized that my shoe had become an abstract work of art, mixed by the remains of drink, popcorn and a fossilized gum, probably dated from the last century and that remained intact apparently, waiting for my footsteps.
The owner of the house, from bucket to hand, watched the scene with an expression that mixed indignation and a secret desire to test the escape instinct of the offenders. But after a few seconds of contemplation, she sighed deeply, as who accepts that civility at that moment had been temporarily suspended. Resigned, she turned her back and returned into the house, letting the Carnival horde follow her course throughout the democratic public free space. After all, it was Carnival, and even the walls needed to learn to relax-at least until Ash Wednesday.
Before I could recover, I was almost hit by a group of carnival hypomania revelers that, driven by the atmosphere of freedom, high music, dance and permissiveness that carnival provides, dressed as a banana, shouted: “It’s carnival, my plate! Relax! ” To relax? I just wanted to get to the pharmacy and buy a headache medicine that, ironically, was being caused by all that scenario.
Finally, I arrived at my destination. I clung to the counter like a castaway asking for help. In the cashier line, a lady argued with the attendant because the stock of ear bucks had been exhausted.
– “How is it over? It’s carnival, guys! Aren’t you prepared? ”
– “Prepared for what?” I thought. “For the end of times? For the zombie apocalypse? ”
It was the principle of reality confronting the pleasure principle: she wanted silence, but Carnival insisted on being heard. With my much desired tablet in hand, I breathed relieved – nor a classic error – and I prepared for the way back. I decided to follow an alternative street, but soon I regretted it. Another sound car, another unknown band, another attempted musical homicide.
And then, the height of the social experiment materializes with a leopard and blonde lady guy hugged me and said, with an ethyl smile:
– “At Carnival, we are all one!”
What Freud would call the loss of individuality, I would call a nightmare in high definition. I survived until I arrived on my door. The block was still growing, the revelers now more dancing, screamed, howled and the smell of old beer and fermented sweat in the sun was still firm and strong impregnating the air. I came home exhausted, but with the certainty that Carnival is, above all, a large session of collective therapy. And me? Well, I just wanted my headache medicine.
*This text does not necessarily reflect the opinion of the young Pan.
