Check the computer clock. Four-thirty in the afternoon. I look out the window and the sky is not inviting to contemplation. Some ugly clouds (and clouds are rarely ugly) amid a faded blue. On the horizon, too many buildings, not enough araucarias, some cypress trees and birds flying in single file (I swear!). Maybe it rains. Maybe not. Around me, only the intermittent noise of the street, which I sometimes confuse with silence.
Here’s what I realize: I’ve spent practically the entire day discussing the many aspects of the virtual lynching of a podcasterand the dismissal of a commentator on TV Jovem Pan. A friend says that. Another says that. A third provides us with a link to some absurdity that revolts us. We all expressed our indignation, one with words, one with emojis and one with as many exclamation points as possible. The memes start to arrive and, between guilt and embarrassment, I opt for harmless laughter.(This is that moment when the bore, in all the glory of his boringness, sees the scathing and scathing criticism ignited over his head, born of his oh-how-smart!, what insight! And May you die, O season 2022! Satisfied with himself, the Boring, then, allows himself to manifest such intelligence in the form of a question asked with that irritatingly sharp inflection that is the mark of all indignant boring: you mean you laugh at something serious?!).
Harmless, but not harmless, laughter. It is good to know that, outside the reach of the crowds, the word still swarms and speech is free, or rather, it is restricted only to our conscience and our willingness to run the risk of being misunderstanding. A risk calculated according to variables such as the interlocutors’ ability to interpret, the strange relationship of loyalty in virtual and real friendships, as well as the refined (very refined) sense of humor of those who still allow themselves to laugh without having to ask permission from the group that surrounds him. Laughter makes me give weight to things. And what was born as a very palpable nightmare turns into one of those sleepy dreams about something trivial.
I get up. I’ll wash the dishes. There are no dishes to wash. I take some clean glasses and plates from the cupboard, some shiny silverware from the drawer, and start washing them anyway. From up on the table, I hear my phone vibrate several times. Inside the little device, the friends still haven’t exhausted the possibilities of a verdict for what happened. But what happened really? 2022 A said one thing; another made a gesture. How many were killed and wounded in that battle? I wash the dishes and reflect and almost cut myself and wonder if it’s not a case of asking Alexa to play Ella Fitzgerald. And, when I find myself, I’m worried.
“That the culture the cancellation didn’t result in any dead bodies is a miracle,” I say to the empty apartment. I conclude hastily (and perhaps wrongly) that it is a phrase worthy of being used in a text, in this text. I turn off the faucet, dry my hands, look for a pen and paper and… What was the phrase again? Ah yes. That cancel culture didn’t result in any dead bodies is a miracle. It takes thick skin to withstand these lashes of life. Not everyone has. And, as we live in a world that often sees acceptance by the crowd as the only meaning for life, there is no doubt that at one time or another one of those canceled will reach a conclusion not only fateful, but also tragic.
I put down the pen, wondering whether or not I should include a “yet” in the sentence. That’s when I hear noises in the hallway. Does my neighbor, the one with the loud laugh, know who Monark and Adrilles are? Not that she is ignorant; I am, since I don’t even know her name. Neighbors from Curitiba, she knows how it is. At least I say “good morning” if I meet her in the elevator. But asking the name is already an exaggeration. It’s a carioca thing. Coming back: does my neighbor have an opinion on this matter? Has she ever imagined herself in Nazi Germany or the Stalinist Soviet Union? If she knew I spent the day writing, reading, and discussing free speech, cancel culture, and the mental health of canceled celebrities, would she consider me crazy or a dedicated professional?
I find refuge for my madness and/or exacerbated dedication in the rocking chair. The braided straw pricks my skin. The Cat? Glad you asked. I do not know! It’s there. When she wants cookies, she’ll come all bashful and pretend love, the damn thing. Before getting carried away by the detective novel I have in my hands, I allow myself a last look at the simulacrum of life, on social networks where everything seems to happen, but, if you stop to think, nothing actually happens.
Upon realizing that everyone I know and esteem, and even some I do not know or do not esteem, are fine and keep cursing each other as if being right is the most important thing in the Universe, I breathe a sigh of relief. Sometimes to escape the madhouse, you just have to open the door. And take the first step.