Carnival.

I promised to come back on Bucine Carnival, here I’m.

Bucine has his own carnival. It’s a tradition, since when? Who knows. It’s a nice festival, I agreed, especially for children. It’s small, that’s good for parents, to avoid missing their children.

It’s ECO, since our major stopped chemical sprays.

It’s clean, just after it ends, workers come to leave confetti and streamers laying on the street. An amazing place to visit for families, it is free, no entrance fee. Confetti costs between one to few Euro, depending on their packaging size. In the middle of float parade, floats stops and you and children may buy schiacciata or bomboloni caldi for 1 Euro each. In a couple of hours all ends and you can come back home, or do what you like to do next.

So this is nice, this is a part of paradise?.
It’s close to it, if it’s not too cold you stay well and you may worm yourself following the float where your daughter or your son is in.

But there is something not positive, and like in a thriller it comes at the end.

The king of the carnival as tradition ask, when carnival ends, is burned.
This king, pleasant to me, is going to be killed, burning in a fire and I don’t understand why.
Why we must kill him, burning him.
Why we must kill.
How we can.
How…

OK, OK I cannot be moralist, I’m not that, to live space for some new one, old one has to disappear. To reappear next year to be burned once again.
It’s life cycle, space to youth, I agree, but in reality, old people stay there forever, all stay still there, glued to their chair, to their armchair to their throne and so on.
Probably burning them is the only way.

Anyway I cannot accept to “fire” someone. A pyre is cruel, people looking at flames, hypnotized, is crueler.

Then consider the king, he was created by children, from the kind-garden, just to be burned, at carnival end. Carnival king is in plastic foam, polyurethane, maybe,  not sure, but it burns with onrush, leaving tears of fire dropping down on the asphalt of the street and the smoke, acrid and black fill the upper air.
Some fool of wind try to burn also hairs of the nearest irresponsible heroic watchers.
All finish in a paddle of melt plastic flaming and in liters (hectoliters or more) of black smoke, surely toxic, at least dirty.
It’s that good?
It’s that useful?
Is that instructive?
It’s that OK?
It is the pantomime: kill the symbol of power to maintain the real one.
Let them laugh for one day to cry the rest of the year.
It’s not OK.
Not for me, don’t do it in my name.
Don’t do it.
Free the king, leave him alive. You might not fight him.
Leave him free, leave air fresh.

Giancarlo