In times of war, cold or declared, there are sleeping agents. Its principle is to infiltrate enemy territory as a spy with the requirement to acquire a normal life from the first moment. We already know what that means. Get a job. Be busy. Appear harmless. Like Albrecht Dittrich, an East German who in 1978 announced to his family that he was going to participate in a cosmonaut program in Kazakhstan for five years. He left several letters written for his people, with a sender from the steppe, which would be sent when he was already in his true destination and occupation, New York as a Soviet spy. He fulfilled one of the first commandments by looking for and finding a job as a bicycle delivery man, which allowed him to discover the city, but in reality he was waiting for an order.
All it takes is a signal for an agent, which with others can form sleeper cells, to be launched. Too greedy for any marketing department to disguise itself as a generator of potentially monetizable situations. Now we need to identify a triggeran itch as shared as possible, but someone in a room with a false plaster ceiling always ends up finding it. Love. The love of adventure or the love of the project, the love of sweat with or without in-laws. Universal and elusive. That someone knows how to read that the streets, on any weekday afternoon, seem an enigma. Who goes to or comes back from work, psychologist, gym. At that meeting, someone realized that he owned the other fourth daily space where our money circulates, the supermarket. The next step was to team up with popular wisdom. The Grail of a company, like your friend.
You have to identify a “trigger”, an itch that is as widely shared as possible, but someone in a room with a plaster false ceiling always ends up finding it. love
Seven years ago, on a dating show, a woman let slip that seven or eight o’clock was a good time to flirt in the supermarket. That’s when it’s full of singles. During the dictatorship, in the working-class neighborhoods, you could identify the secret police with which the Franco regime tried to break up the neighborhood movement. Their shoes were clean. “They carry beer and potatoes,” said the contestant about the revealing cart of singles. We will not deny here that there are men who have known two television channels and continue to live their teenage lives. After all, a brand warns with a huge “ideal couple” that its potatoes gourmet they must not be seen Players.
As we take responsibility for everything and we have been going there for a year already scrolling a genocide mixed with skis and paellas on our phones, there is always room for a new viral. This time, go to the supermarket from seven to eight in the afternoon. You have to put a pineapple upside down in the car and crash into it. target in the wine section. The least important thing is that the instructions look like mooring practices. low-fi. The question is where magic, black, pink or whatever color it is, is confined in our daily lives. The problem is that the joke of catching white-label chub tells us a little bit about our lives.
The question is where magic, black, pink or whatever color it is, is confined in our daily lives. The problem is that if the joke of catching chub with a white mark tells us a little about our lives
I have been hearing for years that children no longer play football in the street. How will they do it if it is forbidden by law? Not to this sport – we know that it is the product of a hierarchical gender socialization – but to the most inclusive “ball”. A huge poster even dictates it in squares like the one dedicated in Barcelona to Manuel Vázquez Montalbán, a fervent supporter who avoided being contemporary with the civic ordinances for fear that something unforeseen would happen in the cities. A ball, a riot, an exchange of glances without either eye coming or coming to win or spend part of a payroll that I cannot explain.
We have been reading for a long time that no one flirts in bars anymore. It is one of those nudges that nostalgia hits us with if we are not attentive. If we do not let ourselves be cuddled and enveloped by its veil, we will realize that we do not aspire to the clubs that probably belonged to some businessman of the night (a terrifying concept), but to time. So much time to waste it on someone.
Whether we are convinced of its reasons or fantasize about abandoning it, we are soldiers in the battle for productivity. “Stop” should be a right, at least an option, but right now it feels more like a privilege or an emergency. Meanwhile, those who distribute blame do so with all the intention in the world. The networks, it is said, are conspiring against our times, but no one has had their rent raised or been fired for doing so. catastrophic scrolling in his free time. If we talk about time-wasting, the place where we spend the most hours usually goes well. It is not a screen and it is surely less democratic than any digital space. And yet, love always managed to find a corridor, a moment in front of the filtered water fountain, an extra hour paid for by nerves, glances that belonged only to these four walls.
The game, half serious, half joke, offers the possibility of meeting someone, perhaps important today, or during a night that will last for years, and that one can buy diapers and wine at the same time.
Sleeping agents dreaming of the life sign cannon, we wake up and life is upon us calendar. He connects it with the time of flirting at the supermarket from seven to eight o’clock. Six o’clock is early, nine o’clock is late. Wasn’t love a train? Well, look at the timetables. The clock disciplines us, emotion is predictable, mystery is conventional. The bad reputation of planning was reserved for the gray state socialism of the last century.
The game, half serious, half joke, offers the opportunity to meet a person, perhaps important these days, or a night worth years, who can buy diapers and wine at the same time, while we look at the prices and wonder if sunflower oil is really worse than olive oil. Or if that day, our other half was short of tomatoes but when she got home, she just wanted to make sure she was alone so she could collapse on the cheap sofa of a shared apartment and cry. You will suffer a system failure. No one can stay without doing anything. He will remember when in the middle of lockdown he shouted how much he wanted to go somewhere other than that fucking supermarket. Who will fall in love today while taking a reckless walk, you will ask yourself, while playing random music and singing at the dry cleaners do everything and feel nothing.
