THE CURTAIN BEFORE THE SUN

THE CURTAIN BEFORE THE SUN

Chocheras de Vago Viejo

"According to the gospels, Jesus never laughed. The right to laugh without committing sin had to wait until in the city of Assisi was born, on this day in 1182, a baby named Francis."
— Eduardo Galeano, The Children of the Days

1. The Jesus Who Never Laughed

Galeano says it in a note that hurts: Jesus never laughed. The gospels record that he wept, that he was moved, that he was indignant, that he was anguished. But never a laugh. Not a smile. Not a chuckle. Nothing.

And I ask myself: why? Why did a man so just, so friendly to humanity, deprive himself of the most sacred explosion of joy? Why did the one who ate with sinners, who told parables, who touched lepers and spoke with prostitutes, never laugh?

The answer is not in Jesus. It is in those who wrote about him. The Fathers of the Church, like John Chrysostom, built a serious Christ. A grave Christ. A Christ of stone. And from there they drew a conclusion: laughter was dangerous. Laughter shakes the body. Laughter loses control. Laughter brings the human being closer to the instinctive. And a God made man could not allow himself that loss of control.

Laughter, for the early Church, had something diabolical about it. Because it unsettles. And power needs docile bodies, not bodies that shake with laughter.

And so, the Church put a curtain before the sun. It took laughter away from Jesus so that the faithful would not laugh either. So that the faithful would obey with a rigid body, not with a loose body. And it built dark, gloomy, beige temples, where joy had no place. Where laughter was sin. Where silence was holiness.

2. The Church Was the First Religion of the Algorithm

And here is the bone. The Religion of the Algorithm invented nothing. It perfected a mechanism that the Church had already used for centuries. The same method. The same curtain. The same covered sun.

Both ask you for an act of faith: one, to believe in an invisible God; the other, to believe that you choose freely when in reality you consume what they choose for you.

And both put a curtain before the sun. The Church, with dark temples and serious Christs. The Algorithm, with bright screens and beige colors. The same method. The same curtain.

3. Ramón José, the One Who Ran Toward the Sun

And then, in the midst of all that darkness, Ramón José appears. The adorable little madman of my village. The one who did not fit the mold. The one who did not obey. The one who did not swallow whole.

On one occasion, in the midst of his madness, he took it into his head to undress. He grabbed a sack —one of those used in the village to carry coffee, carry corn, carry panela— and waved it like a flag. And he ran up a hillside, with laughter that showed so much joy it seemed like waterfalls falling down the mountain.

And when Colombina, the dog who filled the village with puppies, and his sister-in-law, desperate, carrying a sheet to cover him, ran after him, Ramón José entered into such an ecstasy that from there I drew the conclusion that madmen were happy.

Because Ramón José was not suffering. He was enjoying. He was laughing. He was running toward the sun. And those who ordered him to be quiet, those who brought him the sheet, those who wanted to cover him, were not sane. They were bitter. Bitter because of the norms. Because of the Church. Because of the system. Because of the curtain they had put before the sun.

4. The Sister-in-Law's Sheet

And notice the sister-in-law. She is not bad. She is not perverse. She is the one who already has the curtain on. And she wants to put it on him. Because she cannot bear to see the sun. Because they taught her that nudity is covered. That laughter is silenced. That excess is corrected. That the madman is locked up.

The sister-in-law's sheet is the curtain before the sun. It is the norm. It is modesty. It is the Church. It is the system. It is everything that wants to cover what is left over. And what is left over —laughter, color, nudity, freedom— is what makes us human.

And Colombina, on the other hand, barks, but accompanies. Runs, but does not cover. Is there, but does not judge. Colombina is the village. The one who loves Ramón José even though she does not understand him. The one who does not put the sheet on him. The one who lets him run. The one who knows, without knowing it, that the madman is more alive than the sane. And she becomes his accomplice, accompanying him with her barks that add more happiness to Ramón José.

5. The Refutation of My Doctor Daughter

And here comes my daughter, who is a doctor. And she refutes me. Forcefully. She tells me that madness is illness. That it hurts. That it is a cage. That it is chemical imbalance. That it must be treated. That the one who suffers it must be cared for. That it is not happiness. That it is not freedom. That it is suffering.

And she is right. She is right. Madness hurts. And the one who suffers it did not choose it. And they must be cared for. And they must be treated. And they must be accompanied. But I do keep in mind that those who suffer most from the madness of an individual are those who consider themselves sane.

But the child I was also had a point. Because in that moment, Ramón José was not suffering. He was laughing. He was running. He was naked. He was free. And the one who is free, laughs. Even if he is mad. Even if he is naked. Even if the sane put the curtain on him.

Both gazes are true. My doctor daughter sees the illness. The child sees the happiness. And both complement each other. Because life is not just one thing. And the one who chews does not stay with only one gaze. He chews them all. And chooses. And goes on.

6. The Slow Death of Colors

And now, sixty-some years later, the child who saw Ramón José looks at the world. And sees gray cars. Beige clothing. White houses. Beige Christmas. Monochromatic cities. Everything the same. Everything dull. Everything without laughter.

Colors are dying. And it is not an aesthetic death. It is a death of laughter. Because color, like laughter, is excess. It is not necessary to survive. It is what is left over. It is what celebrates. It is what plays.

And the system does not kill what is necessary. It kills what is left over. Because what is left over is freedom. And freedom, like laughter, like color, like Ramón José, is dangerous.

Beige is the curtain. The sister-in-law's sheet. The forbidden laughter. The serious Jesus. The dark Church. The algorithm that gives you what you want to see so that you do not see what is there.

7. The Stomach Theory as Antidote

And here is the way out. It is not in a political party. It is not in a church. It is not in a new algorithm. The answer is in your brain.

Because the brain is what decides whether to chew or swallow. And if the brain is clouded, there is no mouth that chews, nor stomach that processes. You swallow whole. And the one who swallows whole, obeys.

It is called the Stomach Theory. And it is simple, so simple that for that very reason it is forgotten:

Receive everything. Process. Extract the nutrient. Expel the garbage.

Do not swallow whole. Do not swallow the digital host. Do not swallow the false poison of sleepless nights. Do not swallow the scroll. Do not swallow the notification. Do not swallow fear.

Chew.

The one who chews does not let his brain be washed. Because brainwashing needs an open mouth that swallows without asking. And the one who chews closes his mouth before swallowing. And the one who closes his mouth before swallowing asks what this is. Where it comes from. Who sends it. Why they give it to me.

And if the answer does not serve him, he spits it out. He does not swallow it. He does not obey it. He does not believe it.

The one who chews does not turn beige. Because he receives the color. Processes it. Extracts the nutrient: laughter, joy, freedom. Expels the garbage: the norm, modesty, the curtain.

The one who chews laughs. Even if the world tells him not to. Even if the sister-in-law brings him the sheet. Even if the Church tells him that Jesus never laughed. Even if the system tells him that beige is elegant.

Because the one who chews does not obey. He lives. And the one who lives, laughs. And the one who laughs sees the color. And the one who sees the color does not let the curtain be put on him.

8. The Heresy of Joy

And that is why Ramón José is a heretic. The purest heretic. The heretic of joy. The one who undressed when everyone was dressed. The one who ran toward the sun when everyone looked at the ground. The one who laughed out loud when everyone was silent. The one who waved the sack when everyone wanted to cover him with a sheet.

Ramón José was not a sick man. Or yes he was. But in that moment, on that hillside, with that sack, with that laughter, he was the only one who was truly alive.

And those who ordered him to be quiet, those who brought him the sheet, those who wanted to cover him, were not sane. They were bitter. Bitter because of the norms. Because of the Church. Because of the system. Because of the curtain they had put before the sun.

9. The Closing

Putting a curtain before the sun is not turning off the sun. It is leaving it behind a cloth. The sun is still there. But it does not come in. And the room is left in penumbra. And the one who is in penumbra gets used to it. And the one who gets used to it forgets that there was sun. And the one who forgets does not miss laughter. Nor color. Nor the waterfall. He only sees the curtain. And he believes that the curtain is the world.

But the sun is still there. Behind the cloth. Behind the beige. Behind the scroll. Behind the sister-in-law's sheet. Waiting. For someone to run the curtain. For someone to chew. For someone to laugh. For someone to undress. For someone to wave the sack. For someone to run up the hillside.

And that someone can be you.

Do not swallow whole. Chew.

And laugh. Even if the world puts the curtain on you.

Chocheras de Vago Viejo