squid saint bernard
Former president Lula during the outdoor mass in honor of former first lady Marisa Letícia, held last Saturday (7), in São Bernardo do Campo (SP). Photo: Paulo Pinto / Public Photos

He atomized and imploded everyone. I repeat, to him and to all. The energy was gigantic. Nuclear immanence and immanence. And everything really vibrated, touching and shocking. Nuclear energy. I'm not a mystic, but something very mystical, far beyond Lula, happened in São Bernardo do Campo last Saturday (7th).

Crossed a train in the middle of the city, which crossed every one there. A pau-de-arara coming from the hinterland, which became a locomotive loaded with ore, to later be steel and a car in the body of everyone present. Metallurgical. And it was real. It was a mixture of feelings, a bololo in strong waves, breasts beating and voices that don't come out of the throats. Just don't go out. It was like that, it was like that.

Hence screams, sharp and vigorous screams as of newborns. And, in the end, it was he who was, from the beginning, at the same time calming the mob and calling for a fight, for a fight. From there, from that stage, I would go to jail, within minutes. An inmate talking. I came to understand why some voices didn't come out anymore, they were already stuck. I would go down the ladder of the truck, and, pei, xilindró.

It was death and it was life. And it was there. It had no Greek text. There was no Homer, Shakespeare, Marlowe. I even thought of Leon Hirszman and Gianfrancesco Guarnieri staging the ABC strike drama on stage and in cinema. Nothing mattered. Aside from all the politics and its unspeakable negotiations, something much bigger was either unmasked or staged. A truth was happening. It was the wife being mourned by the worker priest, the homily thought by the brother Gilberto Carvalho and he, Lula, wanting only one song, Asa Branca, song of the couple.

Of the couple??? An anthem of Lula's Brazil. "When the green of your eyes / Spreads in the plantation". I remembered my father, who thinks this stanza is one of the most beautiful and I thought of my grandmother, my father's mother, from Santa Rita de Cássia, who left us 2 years ago. I also remembered that one day we had a Minister of Culture who said he was an orixá, Gilberto Gil. I wanted beer at that time. I found.

It was him going to jail. It was the mediocre, it was the fascists doing it. It was the lie at work. We were all there associated with the scum. I, who was not even baptized when I was born, saw the Cross in the cassock of the worker priest and in the preaching of the Pastor, and I heard the screams of newborns from people asking him to resist, with a fearful look to God. He looked at Suplicy being treated by doctors, he looked at Haddad and the paradoxical scenario of the apocalypse that made him die and, at the same time, give birth to something.

I think they all became Lula even in São Bernardo that Saturday. We are all going to jail, we are all feeling very bad, wronged. Empathy, understanding the suffering of the other, sympathy, suffering with the other. Mass-Worship-Communion. Holding hands.

There is no birth without pain, no life without birth. It was dramatic what labor is like. Blood, placenta, screams and pain. There was risk. It was forceps!

I looked at the headquarters, before the shed. The womb-union was there. From there something was born. From there, many things were born that were inscribed in the Constitution. From there, the I was born of the most powerful man that this Brazil has produced. And he, fragile and strong, ran to the nest, under the wing of his friends, to the pub where he drank with them. Only from the source would come out into darkness. And the police, the rotten executioners, the Pôncio-Moro, there, drooling, in heat.

I start looking at the sky. I'm starting to think Epic is right there. I question my psychosis. I question my individuality. I ask if I'm dissociating. do i let go? Is it even possible for this to be happening like this? Wouldn't it be a Greek stage? A bullfight? Who wrote this plot? If I take it, you'll have to take it! I swear revenge. Blasphemous. Retreat. Forgive me. I begin to understand the process of death and life there. I'm starting to see some time and some transience in this place.

Cut: Domingo, São Paulo.

I remain brainless. Drummond, “Sunday I discovered that God is sad. It is infinite the solitude of God sitting beside….himself”. A totemic father gone, leaving his throne empty, lonely as a broken elevator on a Sunday. There are several lament singers and Mercedes Sosa singing balderram since early. And Gonzaga, assume black - bird in the cage.

A cell in Curitiba and fireworks in Sao Paulo. Fireworks of contempt.

The longing used to bring fireworks, an old song remembers. This is how it was celebrated when someone returned in many places across Brazil. “The noise that the longing had”. Maria Bethânia singing next to her mother. Now it's the noise of lovelessness. Fireworks of contempt.

Cut: back to Saturday, São Bernardo

But yes, yes, there was a trance that Saturday… Lots of fainting. After speaking, saying that it would become an idea, Lula is carried by the newborns to the womb union, making himself meat for the children's banquet. He makes himself food and leaves the throne vacant. Absolute tragedy! Light and terror! I shivered, couldn't focus for the photos I tried on this anthropophagic delight. I worried about feeding myself, I see. Fortunately.

After the feast, a scream comes from within as the union doors close! - DOCTOR! DOCTOR for the President! It was a pressure spike. It was the desperate Merchant. And it was a spike in pressure. My legs didn't hold. I knelt unintentionally, my legs really wobbled. A woman helped me up. She was weak with tears. We hugged a lot orphans. We are Lula. He let himself be devoured.

Aldo Zaiden is a psychoanalyst and is part of the collective We Need to Talk About Fascism. Follow her Facebook group page.

 

3 comments

  1. Perfect translation of the untranslatable lived there. I was there too and I feel represented by this text.

  2. "He let himself be devoured."

    The idea became flesh.

    Someday, in a more beautiful future, someone will write a play from this text.

    Magnificent.

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