Mostrando las entradas con la etiqueta venezuela. Mostrar todas las entradas
Mostrando las entradas con la etiqueta venezuela. Mostrar todas las entradas

martes, 26 de marzo de 2024

Seventh Page

 


This meeting halfway is also halfway lost. Never mind, here we stand. It’s almost time to go. It was a quiet day, a quiet day for noisy times, a quiet self for burning thoughts. I have this in my ears, I have this need to check them all the time. They feel itchy,  specially when I’m stressed out.  I’ve been in the doctor twice already for it: otitis media,  they call it. I’m just burning time, burning time while getting calories. This is the drill. No sugar: how? It is a lot enough quit smoking. Talk show in mute: that’s how I feel when I hang out.  I smile at this words. Night has fallen. Only the led light from the TV is letting us see the living room. Toys and books on the floor. Art can be messy, so words and silences. A pause in air conditioning for breaths to catch. A few kisses to decorate. Fingers want to walk but we just went to sleep. It’s Wednesday now. Cold, but no so much.  The smoke comes and goes as any random post from a social media feed. I wave my hand along with the imaginary melody I’m playing in head. My ears again. The sound of air conditioning is taking its place during this while. Caracas, Caracas again. The Avila and the multiple views.  Message voices upcoming.  See you later!  I was wondering if the times a song is played on the radio has something to do with the money they must be paying for it. Some songs are played so much more than others, I don’t think it obeys to a preference basis. It is hardly unlikely, to be honest.  There is this post repeated so many times, and by different people, assuring that music business has changed, and that nowadays it must be branded through social media: maybe, but I don’t care. I think whoever invests money on social media is who has the say on whatever sort of business gets tried on it. Followers are just that: Followers. The illusion has already been sold and bought by everyone.  It’s simple, we don’t choose, that’s it. Radio plays as told, and any media posts as told, as instructed, along with the trick we are always discovering, or choosing, but not really, and we must accept it. At least they let me still enjoy rock music. Despite of the horrible Reggaeton.

 

Throw back Thursday.   That was yesterday.  Friday, wine out. It’s raining but we’re not walking.  So let’s this flight enchant us with its taste and evocate in silent, as second layers, behind the current talk. Wine in, at home at last. Ghost, always Ghost. What a band! Promises, I think of Cranberries, of Savage Garden. I just can’t keep them. How many times saying “mama-güevo” is enough, by the way? I guess there are not enough times, but at least I can listen to music and regret of the past that is not present, and the present that is not past. What can de we do? As a matter of fact,  doing is a lie, it’s an illusion. All those regrets have brought you here, and here you ate, not there. This world is not made out of if only, but here I am, so here we are… but we can bring up, for pleasure, for stubbornness,  for a need, but in the end it will always be: here I am. I’m kind of drunk. I don’t if I’m just tired. I think I’m just tired. At least I’m not in social media consuming about the princess,  or our prominent contender, who, at the end, has to give up, or pass through, and keep the drama, the anguish, because that’s what politics mean in Venezuela; anguish. Video calls, music is still good. I’m still in charge of it.  I wouldn’t know how to convey this but, when the drums is in its best tempo, guitars are tuned properly,  and the band is just playing at  their best, it is just magical,  and the fact that we can feel it and share it, the fact that technology is also served for such a purpose,  it just makes the world better. I toast to rock music and everything rock music has given us, given me, at least.  Saturday afternoon. Headache is barely gone, it wasn’t a good morning because of it. I’ve been reading a couple of headlines from Venezuela.  The contender has chosen a champion to run as candidate. I may have mentioned that there is this woman who has stood up against the regime for more than twenty years, and finally, the local traditional opposition agreed to let her, not without complaining, be the only contender to represent those who can’t stand the chavismo anymore. This is not a democracy,  so this woman was banned to run in these elections.  For this story, and for so many others too, the magical realism can’t be taken off the narrative; it’s the way we are. The woman, now carrying the hope of practically the entire nation, has named another woman to run in her behalf, this in order to be able to run for the elections, since the government won’t allow her in the first place. Will the mechanism be fair? Of course not. Will this work out? We don’t know, but as a Venezuelan,  I can only hope for the best, and this seems to be our best this year. We have a strategy every year that ends up in failure. This is our new one, so faith is selling at this time, and only time will tell, by the way! Sunday, morning, coffee with hazelnuts creamer after a great cassava arepa with perico. Just great! Traditions, religious ones included, tend to have to do with the place, now that I think about it. In Venezuela,  today is Domingo de Ramos, it is a good day to go to church and bless the handcrafted crosses we make out dried palm leaves. There are no palm leaves here, and the weather at this time is not working out for palm trees. No church and no cross then, I guess. Don’t misunderstand me, that never compromises faith. Faith is here, there, everywhere, in spite of the cynics and the mass information.   There is a happy palm Sunday,  indeed! It’s just me that I haven’t searched enough. It's good to know. So, happy palm Sunday for everyone!

 


jueves, 21 de marzo de 2024

Operaciones básicas como preposiciones.

 



Tenemos este filtro de agua touchless que hace que el dedo se canse incluso mas que con uno común y corriente. Cosas de la modernidad. Modernidad que, en efecto, poco a poco nos ha ido mudando de lugares, lugares para el olvido, ese que se mantiene lleno de memoria, y que el teléfono ahora distorsiona, porque resulta que como se recuerda no fue, si no como se relata, y por quien es relatado, por cierto, y por las redes, con el teclado en inglés, y por supuesto: en spanglish universal. Este por no multiplica, lo sé, fueron muchos, como mucho somos ahora y por lo tanto cada vez menos especiales, mas generales, mas predecibles, entre nosotros, difícilmente entre ellos, para ellos seguimos siendo parte de lo mismo, y lo mismo vamos siendo.  Entre nos, por si acaso, menos somos, pero ya no más. Me encanta como te queda ese vestido verde. Las manos se me van solas. Solas son las acciones que no se conjugan, sin jugo por el azúcar, el edulcorante. El ayuno intermitente de fe; el alma y sus modas sin modales, que sea por la luz para culparla, pero ya es primavera. En mi país le decimos echar carro, y no lo pienso explicar. Me faltan las tildes y muchas cosas más. Tengo música, antes no la tenía, así que estamos en ventaja. Un melómano es mucho mas productivo escuchando lo que le gusta. Me quedo pensando en el vino, sin ir, sin haber llegado. Ya son mas de cuatro años. Salud de día, imaginario, touchless, como el filtro, con agua, durante la hora de receso… más o menos, entre y por

 

Saludos en letras

 

No he vuelto, pero a veces las ganas de escribir brotan.

 


martes, 19 de marzo de 2024

Sixth page VI

 


Wednesday. A month later, a month of drowned thoughts that never learned to swim. Here I am at the shore of my cavitation, waves of advice come and go. There’s too much to pay and too little to earn. I’m kind of addicted to bad times, they’re always close, alongside. Wine, always wine. I’m kind of waiting some help to knock on my door like a relative from Venezuela, who magically managed to get through against all odds and made it here. It’s the way we are; picturesque, that’s the most suitable word for us. We need to go back and across the entire family, neighborhood,  childhood, just to give an excuse of why we’re coming late for work, for example. Caracas, sometimes I think about you. It’s hard. There are a few names I like to evocate, names I wish I could,  names that never meant to be, names that my social media brings up, names, names and moments: I’m smiling right now. I’m smiling at the fact that I’m about to be evicted. Eviction is quite a word. TV is on. My boy, my everything. Something has to happen.  Wine is almost over. Winter is gone too. I reduced my spectrum,  I have even less people to talk to, to vent, to speak my mind. I’m just stacking words, building a train of nonsense going on the railroad of what I’m thinking when I’m sitting on the toilet, and I have to get a shower, by the way. Let’s rest. Worries are getting me and I need ideas, money,  but I don’t have any, and I get paid in two days. Isn’t it ironic, don’t you think.  I’m disregarding of everything I just wrote lately; not because I’m not feeling it but because I don’t remember it, and I don’t want to go ut supra to be in context again. Today, I don’t care. I was thinking what if this is ever published? What sort of story this should be? This is a diary, not dairy, despite my intolerance, which I’m not, I mean, I might be, but I don’t care, I love dairy products,  but this is, in spite my thoughts, a Diary: the Diary of a settlement in the world of an immigrant. An adaptation of a new life, mixed with middle age crisis and first time parenthood; a man in his forties finding out what he left and how to keep going on without it. Nothing really promising,  nor original, but very Venezuelan indeed, and that means, that what’s missing will never matter as long as we get with this comfy place (literal or figurative) available, on hand, to stay there for a while, so we can smile at our sorrows, and fight back again. Wine takes me there, mostly, Cerati too. A Letter to Elise again in my ears: I love it! Thanks God It’s Friday! At work, but my myself. Voices floating, but I’m here… nothing wrong with that! Evening is greeting, a child program on TV, everyone in their own thing. I was thinking about reading a book, I may grab it but it will not work. I might have to cut it, so let’s stay with the phone. Wine time is coming. I wanted to leave here this thought I’ve been dreaming about and, it is that I kind of feel how some pieces of me start parting from myself to my son; it’s quite an honor, actually, to be honest. Will some of me live on in him? Is that how we remain in this world after we die? If so, do we die at all? What if every dead person is just spread out in people who got something from them? Wasn’t something like that this Prince from Oscar Wilde? I tend to think this is also how we talk to God: by writing and letting go whatever flows and burns behind social smiles and focused silences. There is the noise: nothing for me except the glass of wine. Shapes, the time of shapes: circle, every circle seen is declared. My son sees it as a shape, and I see it as a reflection. An answerless reflection,  by the way. I didn’t get to read and I knew it.  Night time. A movie, perhaps. There are some cookies and a bit less than have of a bottle of wine. Silence is here. It suddenly came. I thought it was only in the office but it seems like it cane hiding in one of my pockets.  I really need to figure it out. A rainy Saturday,  inexplicably amusing. Everyone woke up in good mood today. The smell and the taste of coffee has taken over, lips are having somehow a good time. Alright, let’s keep going: pieces of us. Features (rather than skills, but it can be just aspects, I guess) have started to transfer: it’s a wonderful feeling.  It also means that the time to get totally transformed is coming. I just wish to accomplish a few things before that. God, please, let me stay here, healthy, and working for such things. We could say, assuming that I might have a point, that puberty is the time when you start collecting for the next generation; childhood is when we collect for ourselves. Then when adulthood comes up, and it’s more like struggling back and forth with the time left and the expectations still unmet. We’re keeping the good mood. We’re going to have difficult times, again, but here we are, happy, yes, great! Let’s drink to that! Presidential elections are on the schedule: here and there, the clown decided to run again. First, a war threat, then carnivals, and now the anticipation of the elections. That’s Venezuela, and the people keep with the hope, the good mood. Perhaps that’s why I am how I am, I can’t tell. Come undone is sounding, I have two bottles in my system at this time. It’s time to stop, indeed, A view to a kill sounds now: dance into the fire then, or whatever it says… Sunny, early, time change. I noticed that because of the microwave; probably the only device not connected to the network.

 

This is Wednesday.  Evening.  Everyone is angry. Anger is kind of like a rain falling and getting all wet. Despite the umbrella, despite the boots, somehow it gets into your socks… and it’s never selfish.  We always want to share it, to pass it through.  I need to write this before I forget it: fulfillment is a place, a place we build over the years and,  once it has some room, once we fit in, we start understanding that what you didn’t bring is because you never needed it. I hope to be able to show that to my son. I want him to build his place for fulfillment, somewhere he can leave worries out and forget for a while, because obligations will always wait, but a pause is good from time to time, and thus, if he gets hurt, he can use it to feel better again. I will try my best. So Anger, Anger needs to be shared, that’s the only way to transform it. I must go, by the way. I feel like I need to close my eyes and hug my parents, tell them that I love them, pick up my wife and tell her it’s going to be fine, that we need nothing but ourselves. I have to get back to work. I love this job! Napping, trying but anxiety tends to take over. The need to be inside any feed on social media is, let’s say, dumbing me up. Fortunately I believe whatever wisdom I might have collected,  is probably already passed to my son. That’s narcissistic, to be honest. Who isn’t in these days! We need to consider we are presenting our lives as a slide show full of wealth understood as good. We have already talked about this before. Let’s go back to resting. I should get some sleep. It’s not Sunday yet. Saturday evening indeed. Daylight is lasting a bit longer, so we can take a walk before it gets dark. It’s good if we intent to open a bottle of wine. Cheers already! Time is becoming wind and as wind It’s touching my face, making me close my eyes and forget where I step. Music is playing chaperon, then I’m not alone. I open my eyes, and I’m already in my living room; having a glass. I was evocating, as I try to do when I’m alone. Time again, like I just said; it has its power, and now it’s becoming light, indoors light for a indoors contemplation. Cronos is how they call you, right? Well then: thank you, thank you for everything.  I know I’m not grateful most of the time but I do appreciate all, and I actually can tell when it’s you. Night has fallen. There is some discomfort. I wanted to complain,  to make an scene out of it but then I realized; why, what am I complaining about, whatever bothering me has always been there, and it didn’t come out of nothing I haven’t done previously to make it happen. So I just remained quiet, as always; keeping the bitterness to myself to drown it with the wine I’m drinking,  or digest it with all the junk food I have to then feel regretful for it. My belly won’t stop growing with regrets, and time, time won’t do (and there’s no need, actually) won’t do anything to stop it, or delay it. This is all on me.  Tuesday morning. An arepa is put on. I think that could be the most suitable way to say “montar” in the context of cooking for an arepa. So I’m putting on an arepa for my son before leaving.  I have to work. It’s cold. Unnecessarily cold. I write while I wait for the engine to warm up. There are opinions about this but it is already an old habit and this is an old car too. Let’s go. I used to feel kind of like a poser when wearing sunglasses but now, now I just got used to it. I might still look a poser but I just don’t care anymore. The value of the benefit overcomes the shame from the shyness.  Puberty issues, I know. Now let’s get back to work. Not before a coffee,  of course.

 


jueves, 7 de marzo de 2024

Sixth page V

 


Sunday, Foggy. A terrible music has just passed by, fortunately for me, it was a car moving and it’s gone. It’s a shame that, in times of endless access, music get to be that bad. Good music is surviving thanks to Nostalgia but… but I’m holding my second glass of wine and, when second glasses get served,  guilt and remorse just pack their bags and leave. Only anecdotes stay because they can see some way out despite the promises and memories, although made up stories tend to pop up like a unwanted internet publicity; which there’s no choice about it. So They just come, and now I talk, but I meant it then; almost two months ago. All these faces and says went on vacation to nowhere,  and I think they could be back since technology allows it so. We are in the middle of the road. Let’s see what this new year offers us while we keep on our catharsis since we have no friends at all.

 

I kind of like how my mind works. That’s actually why I forced myself to come back to writing. I just can’t think of several things at once. When something worries me, I can’t function at the rest of things, and when I’m writing  I kind of let go that worry for a while, so I need to write a lot for now, and I need to apologize to an audience,  whenever it may be around, for making you people read words that are not trying to convey any message but to calm their author down. What if it came out, kind of like it always does, a new study; only this time revealing that our dead remains are not the ones we buried, but that it turns out there is this discovery: implying that everything we've put under, experiences some phenomenon transformation to a point of exchanging, pretty much everything,  anything: from bones to caskets, and those we pray and praised, are not indeed ours anymore. I was thinking about that because I remember Chávez, along with all his staff, explaining boringly and tirelessly the importance of bringing dead remains from abroad, also the need to practice an exhumation to those resting on national soil. He wanted to unbury Bolívar. He made a whole show about it. To be honest, I’m not sure if they actually did it. I mean, they might have done it, but they have been for too long holding a position from which anything stated doesn’t have to be true. So why bother, I wonder! It might have been sadism, witchcraft: sure but, when it comes to those people: the high leaders of the ruling party – Chávez and some others are dead now – the concept of truth, or righteousness, are not subjected to an actual accountable reality. We don’t even know where Maduro was born. So I was thinking: what if all that waste of resources did actually provoke something; something we may never know. What if God in his own way is punishing us as a nation for all these excesses. There must be some further reasons why, despite of moving out, there are many in pain still. We don’t collect too many stories of success outside the academy or the sport field. Have we ever wondered it? I’m just thinking about it now. Debts make you think a lot…

One sigh, then silence,  then another sigh; this one louder than the previous one. Everyone is covering their cubicles: private little rooms behind curtains, like artists on stage not yet performing, but getting ready to, checking their lines, tuning their instruments,  making a last phone call before the show; this show, showing up and on despite the thoughts. Perhaps that explains the silence. Enjoy the silence with Depeche Mode.

 

Almost noon. Restroom first.  It’s hard to call it restroom after I-don’t-know-how-many-years calling it bathroom.  That is a lot of a second language thing, just like Where have you been. I was asked that question before and I have answered it like: I’ve been in Europe a few times, but that’s not what it was meant to be when it was asked. That’s the thing when we translate first, and it’s fine, I mean, we just have to get used to be a little behind and understand that, to others, we might sound a bit naive sometimes. Mischief, slyness, they come out better suited from the first language, but again: it’s fine. The Sound of Silence is another song, or so I think it is. The thing is that this symphony has more to do with little cough,  a sneeze from time to time, and steps; back and forth, in stereo mode: “surrounding me, going down on me” – now guess what song is that – I see my thoughts in songs, I can’t help it. I think some wine should be taking care of this thirst over my lips, like a kiss right after shutting up a sexy female voice, but neither the kiss nor the wine are dealing with this dryness. I’m writing instead: terrible deal. Another morning. Rainy. Not cold, but rainy. The sky got painted in gray. No sunshine for the moment, no brightness for the words. Dark words instead, more like bored words. Why this need to complain about anything? How do we get annoyed from things that doesn’t happen that often? I want to blame this intolerance on social media: the need for the sudden comes with lack of patience for anything else. Green tea, not like coffee but the virtual agreement places it healthier,  so here I am. It’s quiet, it’s early and Friday, by the way!

 

A statement has come for visit. I’m not sure that I want it to be part of my perception,  but I want to hear it. This is a silent life full of indistinguishable voices; I hear them all the time, when I’m trying to come around, or now where I am sitting on the toilet, which is not figurative,  by the way. I hear them say my words will be only mine and that’s why I remain quiet.  I’m not sure who might want to come to these phrases but the idea I’m giving space is, that our words will define our sense of a world we’re creating for  our own understanding.  In another way, we are islands of thoughts built out of the words we chose to learn, and by those words we’ll get anything that comes further. Time is timing as many times as necessary; and we prioritize based on those words, and that’s who we are. Would you like to change that? We must incorporate more words, so we can get different angles.  Does anyone want that whatsoever? Disposition meets time, but time is no sharing any speed, so the moment is only ours, and my legs want me to get out.


miércoles, 13 de diciembre de 2023

Sixth page IV

 


Thursday. Not sure if it’s the throw back kind. There are plenty of things I should be doing by now and here I am, still serving words to the void. Is it a void? I don’t think so, I just haven’t found a more appropriate word for it. You see, When you post something word-like basis, you don’t get the same chance for randomness that, for instance; a photo, or a video, so it will be hard for a text to catch someone’s attention over a unknown author; the chances are uncertain, but uncertainty can’t be measure for a fact, therefore we only guess in this case, and we tend to guess because we’re giving it a thought,  which also means consideration, and, as we may come around, there’s a chance to consider when we guess, and such a possible path for consideration will surely provide us all with perspective. The blocks of this chain once started out as a guess, could become a perspective when driven by hope, or persistence; and here we have another chain as well. Let’s keep trying until we reach a suitable deconstruction for this blocks we’re moving, and moving, until we get the value we’ve been searching during all this journey.  Saturday evening: adulthood is more about staying home, have some wine, and rest; relaxed. In fact it sounds like a great plan; perhaps watching some TV too. A weird Tuesday: two days before Thanksgiving. I know it’s not our holiday but it is an important one where I live and it will be a tradition for my son. Misery likes company, but that’s not what I want to say. Why do we take the blame when we haven’t done anything? Enjoy the silence is sounding. Wednesday night. Slipknot comes after. I’m alone; unfit for solving any dispute. Man is sometimes placed in situations in which he is only there to hold on and for nothing. This is one of those days. I just wonder why. I mean, what’s the point. Why the impulse? What for? I don’t know. It seems like there is some sort of force beyond my understanding, pushing me to bear situations just because, and not for any specific purpose. That’s the point of existentialism. Do with life whatever life put you to live. I think I get it. Fine. But why? I mean, what a waste of energy and essence. I’m here wondering why. I guess work helps avoid this: I need to go to work, maybe? Perhaps change this life. What about what I feel? Am I allowed to convey my feelings to anywhere? To somewhere? And if so, what would be the point? I just need to figure it out… but it’s hard. It seems like I know what I should do but I don’t want to. Fine, but why I don’t want to? Love is something,  definitely, and I drink to that. Ghost is sounding on TV. Let’s just enjoy it. Music is a shelter in its own way. So let’s find some rest there. There’s nowhere to go right now. We made it to Thursday once more. Wine awaits and so the turkey,  because it’s not done. First bottle while making it, my wife, not me, but before that I’m sticking with my boy: he’s taking a nap. A toddler sleeping is a moment for everyone else to do what they have to do. I’m watching him, by the way. Moody is an interesting word, especially when we understand how far can it cover when talking about someone,  or something. Another sigh with no name, another look up without any answer.  Words don’t want to rain, they chose wind; cold wind, over faces, to make us look down instead. The answer lies within, I guess. It’s a song too, as a matter of fact. Pardon my English,  just in case. Unfinished works, we have plenty, specially during the Chávez era. I heard this joke where, at some point in a far future, such works will be thought as ancient remains from an extinct civilization. Actually that’s how they look like right now. Guarenas, Guatire, what a couple of places. Maracay, Coro, and several others: places we want to call cities and, once we get there, once we share with their people, we start getting the idea of why (and perhaps how) the country took the turn it took, and maybe, where it ended up nowadays. Our immigrant community is full of people from such places. That explains pretty much a lot of things, now we’re building a better version of what we have been, and it is quite challenging, but here we stand: struggling to prosper, for our children mostly, in particular. Sunday, indoors,  it’s cold outside,  sunny, but cold. TV for now. Still indoors, still cold. The sun is wiping some clouds away to give us some blue in spite of the gray; gray is actually feeling a bit cold. We should give more hugs indeed. There’s no milk, I should get some. Rainy Monday. A bitter taste after knowing some about certain expenses. The sound of industry,  once more. Not so sure if it’s the sound of progress anymore.  Actually I started seeing progress as an abstraction, kind of like happiness,  I mean: there is not a specific, countable situation beforehand, in which you can state you’ll be happy once you get there, notwithstanding hope or faith. It is more a promise to keep and a feeling to fulfill, understanding that circumstances are personal, and personal are the insights from any of them. Progress gravitate in that very spectrum as well, in my opinion. And we meet halfway as always. I sent an email several times, and still don’t know if I said what I wanted to say. What if history has some of it? Socrates and Plato, or Christopher Columbus, the very Simon Bolivar; whose good part of his life we’ve told about comes from the what it’s written according to O’Leary. Who said those lives, as we learned them, are not in fact a halfway of different people through the years. The way we find out about history is pretty much the same for fiction: languages trying to become a thought and survive as means of information despite the barriers of time. We get what we want to get from these combinations of letters. Even when it’s recorded, like a public speech, we won’t get it whole unless we know the person and the nature of the message. Only that mostly we tend to cherry pick and fit it in our story, or agenda; whatever that strengthens our position over that we think…. But words don’t obey and thoughts have learned how to remain silent and within.  That’s how the survive, we just borrow them for a while, until we move on and step into our next tribulations.  I always think about the value of this, You have to understand me, I really need the money, but at the same time I know, this is just replacing time spent on social media, I still get tired of them sometimes.  Although there’s always someone,  a picture, something, that keeps me coming back to it, kind of like a vice.  Tomorrow will be an important day for Venezuela,  there will be a referendum to decide whether or not the government should claim The Esequibo as venezuelan territory. If it turns out that they have to, that might mean going to war against Guyana, or at least that’s how the media is putting it. I’m still waiting for what comes after. True intentions will reveal themselves after the results, but we could guess, for instance, will it depend on how many people attend to vote tomorrow? And if so, what if numbers aren’t enough? We’re talking about people in power for more than twenty years, despite the rejection,  despite the sanctions, despite the overwhelming unpopularity; do they see an opportunity here we don’t see? We have to wait. It might be what I want to call their circus delay, meaning that they got us used to any move, specially embarrassing, to keep procrastinating and thus remain in power. This very referendum could be one of those moves. Opposition media and opinioners  have been posting pictures of empty voting centers. Let’s see what the clowns have to declare at the end of the day. 

lunes, 11 de diciembre de 2023

Sixth page III

 


I better go back and check what’s going on with the system.  That was yesterday,  and it’s still so. I came late today, I was doing some business in the morning,  let’s hope it works out. It did, as matter of fact. The sky held this view as though it was going to snow, but we’re still in autumn,  so it was more a painting to my eyes rather than an actual fall of snow. Grass is still green, it is getting more and more leaves on top of it every time. They provide the wind with an extra percussion; they are the cymbals of the landscape. Like a hi-hat during a disco beat: pointing, making you remember, evocate. It’s chilling.  A good time for making love, for remaining naked and in each other’s arms. A good time to reduce the world into a bed…  stay there, stay there until blood pressure does its magic, so we get ready for another round. I’m hungry,  but just a bit thirstier, so I get some water. I sit on the couch in the living room… try to have a sort of balance of past facts, up to the present, all in my head, in silence; looking up with the lights off. Blinking, once, twice, and as many times as anxiety pushes for. It’s not panic, not yet at least. It’s just that, for some irony, worries come right after sex. Sunday, evening, probably the first of the last days for this text. My eighty-thousand words project will have stop at half of it. It was great to try, but I don’t get paid for writing; unfortunately for me. May these words I’m serving here, a bit of reflection, a bit of a story, and a bit of just fiction; a message for my baby boy – I love you too much – and, or, any upcoming eyes who dare spend some time here: welcome! And Thank you! Monday, an expecting morning.  News to be briefed about and decisions to be made because of. It started cold, chilling, and also quiet. Machines have been turned on .  The sound of industry, once again, once more. Question-answer communication: commands.  Yes, No. Here. There. Boxes are coming down to the pack stations. Am I going to miss all this? Who knows! Routines are stronger than passions, or something like that. I’m waiting for an answer,  and not a unpersonal one, by the way. The answer came. I think it’s a good one. Let’s see.

 

There’s a story here. The story of the broken glass. Time, money, both wasted, a lose-lose situation. I came up with this thing that, in order to safe some time, I start the car and let it heat fir a few minutes, so when it comes to leave, it will be ready to go then. Old habits die hard, right? I locked every door because… because that’s what we do back home. There’s no way a car is left open where I am from. I can’t help it, even by being conscious that I must leave it open, I lock it as a reflex. So I did it, as usual, only this time I left the keys inside. It was getting late, and it was cold already. I went upstairs to find something to open it with. I couldn’t. I don’t know anything about these things. The day before I had seen a tree with some branches looking like falling down. I thought I should move the car some spot else, but I didn’t, I just forgot about it. Now the car was on, with the keys inside, and a branch of a tree ready to fall down over it… at least I didn’t break the glass myself. Nature took care of my situation and, as these words take place, (and form of a message) I’m sitting here, several miles away from work, not getting any money while waiting for the glass to be replaced, and not before a whole trip under this chilling weather. All this with the purpose of saving time. I want to go to the bathroom,  but the adrenaline won’t let me. I said that this journey is coming to a stop, to a cut. I think I might have a few moments before that. This one for instance,  despite the bad time, I managed to serve a few words about it. Everyone was mad at home, and they have a point: these times are already pushing us to waste,  why helping them waste more? It is funny, even cute, when I am in situations like this one (more often that I would like to, by the way) and someone from the staff asks If I’m dropping the car off to pick it up later… I mean, sure! Only that I can’t afford it. So waiting, meaning wasting, seems to be unavoidable for people like myself.  There is a guy in front of me working with his laptop, taking advantage of the situation, surely making some money, or at least spending this time wisely (I assume we all have a broken glass here) and I, I am writing, documenting my experience for, for my own amusement,  I guess. Laughing internally at my own expense; what else can I do? I do have a laptop, but it’s at home, and I don’t really work with it. I thought such a day will come soon, but soon seems far from where I stand (or sit) at least I am not just lost in Instagram.  I haven’t even opened it. That’s something,  considering the circumstance I am under. The day didn’t end that bad. I want to believe that this broken glass situation represents a metaphor in my life, symbolizing somehow the break of a past to start over new. Good things happen too and we must embrace them, not with irony, but with hope. Family comes first. I’m going to have some wine, surely.  See you later!

domingo, 10 de diciembre de 2023

Sixth page II

 


Still Sunday. A headache is dancing me around. I blame it to the coffee, so far forty hours without it. I don’t know if it was precisely the coffee,  the one that triggered all this pain I’m dealing with. I have to hold on to it. I came to work. For some reason I believed  I was summit in an attempt of a foreseeable possible promotion,  since I was told, or so I thought, that it was about a very small group for a special drill of the new system. I was wrong. I was wrong. I don’t feel any disappointment because of it. Maybe for the headache,  I don’t know. It’s just that I am a hopeful person, and I pay it really bad. Not for this, please. This is just silly. I pay it bad for a bunch of other things; few of them implied in this confession. I look at the screens while placing my fingers on my forehead, moving them as though they were walking; back and forth. I wonder. Today it was good to cry some. I did it earlier when I was with my boy alone. I looked at him through the review mirror. I was watching his innocence when he smiles. I always thank God for granting me such an honor: the honor of parenting him. A day like today but four years ago, a couple I know too well was walking for the last time on Venezuelan soil. There must be some picture of them right by the Cruz-Diez mural, which became very famous for those who left the country as a tribute for all lived. Some people did it to pose just because it was trendy, but the true is that time is really serous and takes things seriously. We learn that lesson slowly, and we learn it well. Many people thought that it was temporary: temporary for a very few. A lot of us still remain abroad, trying to figure this path out, and not considering any chance to go back at the moment. November: for us, this is the Christmas prelude, and I think I should try to explain it in order to provide some context. To almost every Venezuelan, Christmas is not just a holiday, like perhaps to other nationals, to us it is more like a season, and it starts on November. In our culture, also included in our legislation,  people get up to three months of their salary (some others even more) during this – let’s call it – season, as a figure of something we call utilidades, which are granted by the private sector, and aguinaldos, by the public sector. I can’t say how long this system has worked out for, but I can state that everyone goes crazy on this season because it’s time to celebrate and spend all that money, and of course, forget about all those problems you’ve been having during the year; all those things… for next year! The impact of not having that anymore has grown so big, that people nowadays become resentful, so the once time for celebration became now time for resentments. I was talking to my wife about it, we were thinking of those friends and relatives still there and remembering how their mood changes this time of the year, considering too that to those, now overseas, this season has another type of impact, and a very hard one, by the way, starting by realizing that it is not a season at all, that it is pretty much one day; one night, and that’s it. That all that typical joy, coming out from not having to work hard, or the constant hanging out, has just gone.

 

A Wednesday to remember. We tend to make promises when we feel happy, when things go great at the moment. It’s the illusion of progress embraced by hope: hope is magical. Some people might claim Faith over hope, but faith flirts too much with politics, so it is prone to become demagoguery in several ways. Fascism takes it share too, it makes some people question about it, yes, our faith; these faith of ours, as though it flew outside,  outdoors, out there. Throw back Thursday, once again! Throw away remembrance, in this case! I was checking on this Serial position effect, and specially, its curve, and I thought I might find my answer there. I’m not sure I did, but I thought It was worth to tell why. Why not, right? I went downstairs to start the car, so I can heat it up for five minutes while I go back home to finish getting ready. I went to the car again and drove off to work, it was almost time and, and, right there: at work, I realized I didn’t get my bag with me. It was already too late to go home again and get it, but the thing is that this is the – I don’t know – the thousandth time it's happening. Now it’s more a concern than a joke. That’s why I was trying to please myself by searching some random diagnosis, and keep thinking that it’s just normal, and I’m stating this because I just saw, that there was actually a path between a joke and a concern, and that is back and forth  by the way. Milan Kundera prompted it beautifully on The Joke, indeed. So let’s bring up all those jokes in our lives: first and last ones, because the other, and it makes perfect sense, the other indeed. So let’s bring up all those jokes of our lives: first and last ones, because the others, and it makes perfect sense, the others are just prone to be forgotten,  specially if the amusement won’t pop up the laughter we, the immigrants, as concern entertainers, seem to be looking for. I could also guess that this explains our devotion for sharing how we got away with things we’ve lived; because that’s the prestige of every act’s resolution: telling we got away with it! That tunes up the tone we show when talking about it, even the sort of body language we use with our movements, when it comes to explain it; kind of like a hip hop artist: Yeah, and I got away with it! Part of the process, this is not meant to be resentful… nor mean. We keep on offering these conclusions in order to dig deep, until we reach such a narrative everyone can take advantage of. Specially our soon coming second generation. There will be a lot of things they need to understand,  and don’t get me wrong, this we're reading here it’s not a knowledge source at all, but it certainly aims to offer an idea of search,  from those who, while in first generation still, already questioned about the entire moving out. This is a lot of things, also an adventure; a personal journey for each one of us, and we might find our paths crossed at some point in this culture. We have to place our thoughts of it somewhere. This is my somewhere: Hidden gems is sounding and it is refreshing… I feel like playing it again! Yes, I’m at work but this is my last hour of the day, somewhere is complex…  

Somewhere is

sometimes someone,

and there it goes

something for

nothing but everything;

every time. 

jueves, 7 de diciembre de 2023

Sixth Page

 


Still Thursday.  Still at work. There’s no much time to leave. A friend of mine sent me a picture of our high-school; it was a photo of the entrance. I’m mot sure it looked like that back then but as he commented at the bottom of it: I can even get the smell of new notebooks and sharpened pencils. I had already said it: throw back Thursday for these lines. There are some other kinds of lines I remember, but not for throwing back at all. When it comes to evocate,  I have a preference for dermis, so I can touch my lips with my fingertips and remember. Duty is calling.  I’m almost done.  Home. Time to go to bed. Friday is announced. Two glasses of wine to close the day and check its balance. Hope makes me think everything will work out. Saturday morning.  We were talking about some people we’ve been seeing, and how this sort of friendship went away for no reason. Actually there were reasons indeed,  and that’s what I wanted to break down if I don’t forget it first. The thing when your passion is not on the same page your duties are, is that the time’s equation doesn’t fit right; properly: duties always come first, passion tends to be, at most, and unavoidably, our second best. Sometimes off sense, and not counting when it’s off inspiration. Then passion must conform itself to have a moment upon chance. That’s its best opportunity.  Opportunity is quite a word, specially for immigrants. Back to the friendship, it’s important to bring up that an immigrant is always in a – let’s say – survivor mode on,  thus anything can be potentially prompted for taking advantage of. And that means, or at least it's what I’m trying to express,  that whatever experience at (or with) about  anything worthwhile to tell, it may be heard alongside with this encrypted, and hateful message to me, which sort of states that: if he had it, I must have it too, so we never know actually when we are just heard, if ever at all. It could be a misunderstanding,  I have never discarded it, but intonation; intonation and body language, they hardly get wrongfully understood. 

 

Monday. Not much to do at work. And at this time of the year that’s kind of worrying,  considering that bills don’t go down because of it, and with such thoughts I’ve made it to the next day. A new routine starts today. I was watching some media. I got really nothing from it. I tried to stop between the conflict in Gaza and the political situation of my country: the one true contender has been finally accepted; officially accepted,  by the people. I was reading that it may not be so due to some disagreements that were not taken in consideration,  along with the constant legal repercussions that many people insist to bring up. That is, just for the record,  that the woman in question is not entirely free from the government restrictions, who still insist on an imposed sanction several years ago. The media, the social media, through these influencers, and opinion heroes, are squeezing the topic up to a point I started losing interest. I feel bad for it but I can help it: an issue, a problem, any social matter, should not be brought up for perpetual amusement and constant losing of focus, specially when it comes as news, moreover when it’s about what’s going on back home. That is like a drug, it is making us come back to it over and over without a stable criteria. We love today, we hate tomorrow: the post-truth era at its best. It’s exhausting, really. We have work to do and a life gone distant from it, despite how bad our hearts won’t let it go. A big worry is getting smaller, that means it’s getting close to overcome. I’m not taking it for granted but certainly I have some sort of a plan working on. Thursday,  throw back Thursday once more for this narrative. We made to Saturday.  Heartburn and nausea; an unbeatable couple to keep one up and away from bed. It hasn’t been a night to rest. I can’t stop thinking about my worries, specially while sitting here, and perhaps this is making the pain worse. I don’t know. This life, this routine we end up following (thinking it will get better someday) has this feature I’m listening to quite often: use it or lose it, and of course, it applies to resting as well. Today it won’t be like: well, I haven’t slept enough, let me rest for the day. No. It doesn’t work that way. There are several things that must be done during the day, and their due time is now. I guess I’ll rest tonight if I feel better. Two songs come to my mind: A hard day’s night, and Sunday bloody Sunday. That’s how I summarize the day so far. I’m still having twists in my stomach every time I get sip of water, for example.  Perhaps I should go to the doctor, but I have reached this point in which, if the pain won’t get worse, I will just bear with it. There’s no way I will pay anything for something gone after a couple of days. 

martes, 28 de noviembre de 2023

Fifth page V

 

Sunday morning.  Children programs on TV.  Expectations waiting on a line of service.  What to think about first. Yes, next week. End of month is coming, Halloween along with it. Let’s disguise what we do from what we think, and, go to work without so much complaining.  But today it’s Sunday, and it’s sunny. Not now. It’s Monday already. Not much network for social media.  I’m going to think it is a good thing, despite of the work. Music is here: ABBA for now. Let’s shuffle.  Boxes are coming, kind of dancing this disco I’m playing. The soundtrack of an industrial scene with no other purpose but inoculate the thought, that while music is being played,  the progress keeps going on. Progress is an interesting definition,  and the circumstances we bring it up to talking are even more interesting. How hard is to feel oneself understood! I believe that rather than happiness, the pursuit is for peace. Maybe that’s what happiness means after all: be in peace with the universe you have procured to yourself.  I’ve been climbing through these branches of decisions and consequences,  looking for some peace; self glorification doesn’t seem to be around, and it is hard to keep it, to achieve it. There’s always a misunderstanding I feel the need to clarify.  It is just tiring. Perhaps that’s why any attempt regarding peace is mostly related to afterlife.  Life won’t be peaceful,  seems to be the message. Perhaps afterwards.  Not while living.  So let’s live and hang on. Some people see life as a journey to experience,  some others as a path of obstacles to get through. Here I am, writing when I’m supposed to feel sorry for myself, but why? Just because things don’t work out as expected? They never do, they never have, and they never will, so let’s just celebrate I can kiss my baby boy within two hours, well, three hours, actually. Perfect day from Lou Reed is playing; in our Spanish we would say sounding, instead of playing, playing is tricky for translation.  So my feelings for this confession. Only the good die young from Billy Joel, Regret from The Winery Dogs, right after that. Duties came back, let’s keep the mood, I need to. I wasn’t sure it was going to work, and it did. It did indeed. Now it’s Tuesday. Time is running out for getting early, and, as a matter of fact I came late. One of my supervisors – because I have more than one – sent me a message, stating that my name had showed up multiple times on the attendance report for clocking in late. That’s another cultural difference here: to Venezuelans, five, even ten, moreover; twenty minutes late, it is still considered on time. I came here three minutes after, just three minutes after, and I have to ask for an apology over such sort of abuse.

 

I think it’s time for reading a little bit. I’m kind of watching,  because where I stand allows me so, some of the  women of the warehouse doing their job. It just looks hard from this perspective. I wonder how, also why, such vigor goes for… Is it for paying a hospital bill? Some children education? Perhaps some loved ones back home where they come? Who knows! I wonder because of their faces: that mix of desire hiding behind the weight of the must and the have to do first, along with the blush of the tiredness; add a shy smile on top of it. Sometimes this mix turns into bitterness, and then a come around to hurt each other; to envy, so the smile fades out of tenderness,  to show up over someone else’s sorrow, and all that, in the end, it’s just for nothing really, but how could we step into such stream of sensitivity? I mean; is it something we want to find out, so we can, later, help heal? To get there, I think, we must see this kind of feeling, as something to get over, then we think about healing somehow, but it doesn’t have to be that way, it may not be considered a wrong thing at all. As a matter of fact, such feelings have the same right to stay there just like those we think positive. Maybe that’s what makes guys see these women attractive in the firstplace. Maybe this bitterness works out pretty good in bed. Maybe this has been so for centuries, so we’ve been born from it, and that’s why it seems to be kind of hot, I don’t know, but I like to wonder. Thursday.  Throw back Thursday, as the hashtag goes. In a subtle way, social media has imposed it to a point that many – myself included – just can’t help thinking about a memory to share on whatever platform. So if this works as such, why not using it for that purpose? At least for a day; for today… I close my eyes. I think about all those things that brought me up to this moment, the songs I still listen to, specially now that the chance to work along with them: Invisible touch from Genesis is sounding, playing; whatever you want to call it. This song places me back in Puerto La Cruz; I was around ten. We moved there for some reason I can’t recall, but the thing is that the song took me there and now I smile because of it. A nice throw back. If only I could have a glass of wine here at work; at this very moment,  it would be great. I would cry out my hidden sorrows, I would dance alone. Nobody would even care… The boxes stand alert, they await for the full lanes to get clear, so they can continue their march towards their packing. The music is still on top. I think I have already written: it but, what the fuck! Right?: this band I found out about: – Ghost; – they are good, really good. 

lunes, 27 de noviembre de 2023

Fifth page IV

 

Thursday. Hispanics tend to confuse it with Tuesday. Second language things. Sunny. It’s sunny. We’re all outside for a luncheon. Employees appreciation, they call it. It wasn’t that bad, I’m full, actually.  There’s a cookie in front of me and I feel I can’t eat it. I’ve just had enough for now despite I do like cookies. Well, not really; I love chocolate chips cookies. I’m not interested in any other. Raisins,  for example; I hate them, but  the one here it’s a chocolate chips one, so I think I’m going to eat it and feel regretful later… and so I did, and so I feel. I had’t had such a perfect time before for writing, only that I have nothing to say. I’m wordless, and worthless I feel too, because now I regret from having that extra cookie. Mind what we eat it’s perhaps a prominent metaphor for understanding our impulse over other things. We know we shouldn’t have this much sugar in a day. We’ve learned and studied a lot about it, and yet, we fall in temptation and feel remorse after that. So remorse is our thing here. I could also say we like remorse. Specially immigrants, immigrants’ stories are nothing but an exhibition of remorse in a thousand forms. There must be a lot of it in this very text indeed. Sorrows. Sorrows too. As I may have mentioned ut supra, in some way we learn how to live in constant grief, perhaps remorse is an ingredient that our grief sometimes asks for; then we cry, we think, we pray, and keep going. I was making my breakfast. I have to go to work. Bas news. Someone back home is in great pain. Doctors already said to expect the unavoidable, so here we stand, far from a hug, far from holding each other and feel the warmth that, only someone who cares about you can give you. That’s another burden we have to carry: all those goodbyes we never thought we should have said since we might not have another chance. Only that hope doesn’t work that way. Hope, hope keeps us believing, despite any adversity, that someday, and somehow, we'll meet again with our loved ones; those deeply missed because of the circumstances. We've become good at hiding it from the outside by choosing these sort of poses, specially those that makes us, to a certain point, and from a very certain perspective, look cool and nice people. I wonder how the nationals see us. I don’t,  really.  I don’t care. It is what it is: a process in  development.  We must be patient to ourselves. Let’s all hold on and go back to work. Back in the balcony.  Not for too long. In fact I just sat and went away. Wine is back, also the balcony at night. It’s cold. It’s a bit disappointing,  but that’s the way it is. Social media is coming first. There is this sort of club of prominent Venezuelans, which seem to – from what I see – dictate the path we all should choose, if we want to be seen as cool guys. This group is composed by, more or less, actors who came late when national television was worthy, middle-high-class guys, who found themselves out as comedians, personal trainers, and some allegedly artists, whose art is known precisely because of their social media impact. These are our mentors. Not knowing them places you aside from the coolness, which is where I stand, by the way. So I’m doubly lost here: I’ve lost touch and interest. These mentors are also called influencers. I know this is happening all over the world, but I’m talking about those from Venezuela, they have gone to a point where even their routines, since this is all public access, have become in pretty much the main topic of conversation for so many; let’s add Reggaeton as music taste to that. Wow! What a combination! That’s why I feel so lonely in my island of uncoolness and Rock music, and I’m not going anywhere, but on the other hand, everyone is welcome to it.

 

Saturday. There’s something beneath one of the heaters of the stove. I could tell for the smoke when I was trying to boil some water. Smoke saying good morning,  I guess. I was writing about our influencers; the cool ones, on one side. There are also the politicians, on the other side, and the analysts of whatever happens in our country. This is pretty much how our social media is fed. I think that, for those abroad, following these people, despite the pursuit of the nice and cool, in a way it could be also a sign of wishing they were there, and perhaps in order to evolve, this is one of the necessary steps. I guess I’m not a part of it because I don’t want to, but at least I have the pleasure to write about it. Who knows! Maybe someone different than me will need these impressions in the future. I just feel the need for saying it now. I’m always confused but I’m working on it, or at least I tell myself so.  Saturday morning still. A boring voice from a testimony is filling my hearing space with a personal life I don’t know. What amazes me is that such a story get to be interesting to someone, to a point that I have to listen to it just because I insist to be in the wrong place. I guess it’s part of life. I have this void, again. It comes and goes. It’s not like I manage to fill it up and gets empty again. It’s more like rain: when it shows up, I fall into it and feel lost for a while. That while is now. There was an interesting posture over Open Source when it comes to news, but I just forgot it. It went more or less as some sort of reactive, kind of like in blood tests, to see how the news behave and what sort of opinions pops up because of it. In some way that’s the thing with the news, but the article was trying to make a point regarding printed newspapers and distribution rights, along with intellectual property. Who do we answer to, anyway? More than one would claim no one, but it’s not true, I mean someone, or something owns us, why do we feel the impulse to belong? Maybe because some entity made a campaign for it. At least that’s what I need to believe, if I want to understand that anybody’s private life, just because whatever he does, or whoever he sleeps with is uploaded (by him, by the way) on social media, get to have several people somewhat interested – and eager – in knowing further details. It occurs to me, now that I’m writing about it, that this could be part of the nostalgic wave it is now in vogue. We used to be that eager for gossips back in schools era. Somehow this kind of information evocates it so. Being an immigrant, among a lot of things, is about longing and remembering other times, perhaps more than others, and we get so immersed in it, that our world of impressions is reduced to a cell phone screen. 

viernes, 24 de noviembre de 2023

Fifth page III

 

Friday.  The black mirror in front of me. I don’t get to see me. I’m below its reflection.  I can see the painting on the wall and the lamp. A mirror is always good for putting thoughts in perspective.  You see, the painting and the lamp are actually on my back, but I can see them on the screen of the TV set now that is off. In a way, this might tell us that there could be anything behind us, either by chance, or by choice, and make it reflected right in our front, so we can take a look at it, stand up (and for, or against, why not) and see ourselves in it as well. Thus we can think again,  think again but not overthink, overthink is more like a condition,  and it triggers our neurosis,  which it’s already there, I know, specially on people used to the chaos, used to crisis, shortages, or whatever not-good-at-all sudden thing out of our foresight. I’m relaxed now. I have to go to work but I’m still on time for it. My neurosis levels are low for the moment,  unlike my hope; which is up high and I’m smiling while writing it down. First break. Everyone on their screens. To be honest, what else can we do? We kind of feel some pressure on being more social but there’s this endless carrousel of media material that keeps us looking nowhere else. Today, there’s no point on debating it. It is what it is. Break time has ended. We’re leaving early today. No payment for those hours. Let’s go back. A little something about our neurosis: we have this urge for an answer every time we send a message. It’s this tiny emperor-like pose we tend to adopt on waiting. We just can’t wait anymore. This has flourish in some way, I guess, because of the constant scrolling. For instance, I usually leave at 3:00 PM, not today, but the rest of the days I do so. Right at 3:0l PM I’m sending my wife the first message asking her how close she is from picking me up. That’s how we work on waiting these days. However,  when it comes to answer, that’s a whole different story: we want to be understood,  we want that the fact we might be busy stays implicit over the waiting time. Only that we feel impaired for switching roles, therefore no sympathy for anyone, on anything,  specially when scrolling on the screen of the phone. This is the society model nowadays. Many of our memories will just be left to an app feed, and some of them will just fade as the thump moves down, all that in no more than two, three seconds. I’m getting used to watching people looking at their screens.  It’s a terrible feeling: knowing you’re alone among people.  Loneliness has changed. Saturday afternoon.  Sunny after a rainy morning.  A few airplanes have gone by. I could tell for their sound. Long naps are plan killers. Don’t ever plan anything before taking a nap. There’s the balcony, for myself, but there’s a stronger force having me indoors: the power of the hesitation. I could grab something and prepare it for dinner, but I guess I rather hesitate and let time burn over the uncertainty.  Everyone else is still sleeping.  That’s why. The TV is on but there’s actually nothing running since it is an app for streaming.  There are just some figures moving back and forth and that’s it. Hangover: interesting word when it comes to translation. I mean, hang, as in hanging,  and over, as in entirely, it is like floating on your own after being drunk.  It’s an interesting way to see it. In my country we call it mouse, like Mickey,  and everyone understands it. It is actually a verb, so to make it somewhat possible in English, it would go like I am enmoused, or I have mouse, like I have fever. I don’t know where it may come from. The thing is I feel like I am enmoused still, or I’m still having this hangover, and I have to go to work. As a matter of fact,  I’m ready to be taken there, carrying all this bad disposition and headache, Wine was on Saturday,  it’s Monday but  I just had too much. Let’s say I had enough to spend the whole Sunday on recovery, but Sunday didn’t last enough for it. I had my first break already. I still feel a bit bad. I would say I won’t drink like that again but we never know, at least I can tell myself I hope not to since I’m wasting beautiful time. Let’s take out the garbage and take a shower. I’m home. It’s fine now, and cold too. I read a good article about the decay of the so called Venezuela se arregló. In order to bring up some context, it was a slogan promoted from the government, through its network of allegedly social media influencers and presumably famous people, who still live (and work, doing I don’t know what) there. The government,  let’s say, understood that whatever illusion we may fall into, must come from social media. Thus they made a whole world inside of it, and they made it so deep, that people abroad, specially young people, including people of my generation too, have started to believe it. Nostalgia pays great deal, I have no doubt about it, and,  added to Hope  both combined, it’s more a kind of strong drug, a drug many Venezuelans are getting addicted to. And just like that, there are many spellbound through their phones getting the latest news of this cool Venezuela nobody got to see back in the day.

 

Don’t get me wrong, we’ve seen and had a lot great things; great times, things that, obviously,  trigger our Nostalgia,  otherwise resentment would have swept it all, and I thought it did. I mean, when I was still there, there were a lot who ran away already, and the common grounds for most of them used to be hatred.  An annoying hatred,  to be honest. At that time, I felt more like: go live your life and leave us alone. Now I kind of understand it. I still have my doubts, but certainly it is a process of several and diverse steps. After a while, I became part of those who left as well, and I deal with the pain that what, and who, I missed and left constantly cause me, but also the joy, the joy of being away, of starting over, of a another chance; because there’s joy after those complaints, and a new life ahead too. Only that there’s also a lot of sensitivity, sensitivity born out of such runaways. New resentments have been coming up towards this make believe the government managed to establish… only for a while, That’s what the article was about: that the illusion is fading, like the smoke. Yes. Nevertheless, there must be something going on. It is too much coincidence that this kind of news were brought up in a moment of important political decisions, but on the other hand,  we’ve been fed up for more than twenty years with important political decisions, and here we are, still waiting, with our smoke faith with nothing but disappointment to recall. Third  break, ninety more minutes, and that’s it for the day. There’s a lot going on these days. Some voices are blurring me, and I can’t focus on these words I’m writing about. The room got quiet again. I can think and evocate, close my eyes a little bit and pretend I’m resting wonderfully.  I let my hand go over my neck in an attempt to get some relief but I can’t just let myself go since I may fall asleep and we’re here to work. The vision, my vision, gets blurry. Voices are rising loud again. I want to go home. I hope I can get some rest when I get there. I’m going to need it. Big day tomorrow. Several duties only for a day. I’m still at work, half of an hour to go but it is not now yet. I should use this time more wisely,  but I can’t.  Inspiration doesn’t work that way but at least it will find me working. I believe Picasso said that. We need to keep breaking down our process until we get to that point where we can state, once and for all, that from here – the place once found, whenever that may be – it’s where we can start over, thus help each other, and grow strong as a community. Sometimes I think it won’t be something from our generation. So let’s just help the next ones. I hope this sort written confession statement diary fiction story helps someday, sometimes, at some point. Meanwhile,  let’s keep on letting it go. Time to get a broom and sweep, not fly,  I’m not a witch. I’m home now. I hope I can get some rest right now. 

jueves, 23 de noviembre de 2023

Fifth page II

 

Time for bed. Not really sleepy, but old enough to get some sleep just by laying down on the bed. That’s kind of like a superpower; the working class superpower: postpone the tiredness until reaching bed time. See you soon, maybe tomorrow. It rained. It looks like it rained last night. Not when I was writing, but it definitely rained. The sunshine is making its way through the clouds. The yellow  and the light blue are trying to put the gray behind,  the white is helping. We could say the sky is dancing, the sky is dancing the song of the birds. Saturday morning. The balcony,  the coffee, this time a little sweet because of the other creamer. I love it, and I can’t help it. Time for a couple of duties. Somehow the sun touches in a gently way the window when it’s shining. Now I can see it. I hadn’t seen it before. Actually I can’t remember myself at home in the living room at this time to acknowledge it. I could say it is something new for me. Led lights are like, making us forget the yellow times; television included. Most of the lights now tend to be white. Late. When we’re late, everything falls apart. What we have left is to make it up for the rest of the day. That’s some sort of a lifestyle. Elvis has left the building. Making it up for rest of the day. A constant improvisation. Monday, Monday. Dark and cold. Autumn is here. Balcony times will be left for memories,  or some other moments during daylight.  Not now. I don’t see it like a spot for writing at this hour, so I’m back to the living room. Indoors,  carpeted, among the mix between some yellow and the white lights. This month is working out, November doesn’t seem too cruel either.  I guess hope is doing its job, at least emotionally, and that’s fine for now. War news are back again. I used to read and think much more about these themes back in Venezuela.  I felt something like: a man of my standards, should know about these things. Geopolitics,  some people call it. Now my standards are others, so I just think about it and smile, not at the war; that’s terrible, at that ten years ago me who’s should be gone by now, or perhaps confided to my memories, and for evocation purposes only. This could work out as some interesting story title: for evocation purposes only. It could actually be an immigrant slogan. At the end of the day, at the end of the shift, that’s what we normally bring up to a conversation: our past life, for evocation purposes indeed. Sighs after that as needed. There’s some irony, and it's kind of like a metaphor came true, the fact that these words take place while I’m about to wipe myself up, I mean, I have to stop talking (writing) about evocation and sighs to clean my ass. This is a very loud and clear message from Life and it’s time to go to work too, by the way. Here I am, enjoying my horizontal projection; that means: same salary, different work. I’m back to that where I can listen to music out loud but there’s no signal for losing myself over social media. Maybe I will be able to write more, I may even try to read some. I have a book in my bag, we’ll see. I’m a little over the thirty thousand words; a bit more, surely.  I went public. Nothing happened,  as I expected. Why would anyone read it? Reading is a very selective thing to do. Those who normally do it, don’t read just anything. There must have been some recommendations beforehand  at least. This is just left to chance, I guess. If something happens to me, the story won’t be complete. It’s a  bit of a dilemma. A no worth dilemma,  but a dilemma whatsoever and after all. A delusion. A delusion I intend to keep, to embrace. There are much more words to add. So let’s keep going.  I just had a great lunch. I love when my wife cooks for me. Now I’m here, listening to Corazón Delator, and getting a nice vibe when he says Los vestigios de una hoguera, because there was fire in that passion, and there they are: the vestiges, denouncing a heart aching, burning, for a love gone. I don’t think a love gone would be a subject during this story. I don’t know.  This immigration wave pours some spice tragedy-comedy sense on it. I was talking to my wife about it. We do suffer, we’re all genuinely in pain for what we left and who we left. It’s just this south-american way of ours, that we must make up a joke out of any disgrace, and therefore get a laughter instead of sympathy. Nevertheless, I don’t think it is sympathy what we’re trying to get from the rest, so maybe the this humor of ours, is not just part of the way we are but more, more than that.

 

Indoors. Bathroom. Weather doesn’t seem to be as cold as yesterday but our mood seems to be bitter nevertheless. This is the kind of town, and routine,  where you need a car for everything,  for anything.  This is not the kind of town where you can take a walk to the bus stop and wait for a few minutes, and perhaps coincide with someone a few times during the month, so you’re able to start a conversation and eventually, get to know each other and finally, stop feeling alone. This is not that place. This is the place where you enter in a seemingly endless loop, by doing the same thing over and over to a point of losing track,  any sort of track. Whichever that may come first. For instance, losing track of memories: ask the same question every time, because you just forgot about it, for an unknown reason, by following this loop I’m talking, of course, you just forgot any of the answers, so you ask and ask like an ever repeated song. Track of time, lost too, prompted to lose it at first, by the way. As it happens, it turns out that you remember what you asked, only not when you did it, so the same words come and go throughout your head; your being, and we start using the same, even for opposite things, and laugh or yell because,  just as toddlers do, we don’t know other words. I heard something about the brain and its condition of use it or lose it, and, we might be losing it. A rolling belt, in a way, very much like those in airports that carry people’s baggage from one place to another. An old rolling belt and its continuous sound. A sound of movement and going nowhere. A sound that comes back where it starts. A cycling sound, a cycling song for the bored and the tired. I’m hidden among the boxes; watching, listening. It’s break time but I’m not hungry. Let’s go down and see the others eat. The day just went by. Wine checked. Good news on one side and some hesitation on the other. That’s how life is. Bed time. Not sleepy. Let’s see. There’s a promise. A promise of progress,  of commitment. Hope finding its way but trust is losing its track. What’s the track of trust, anyway? We get used accept.  But there’s the promise, the wonder. Elvis would say The wonder of you. Who is that you? Is it really you? You may be someone else. Wonder has several approaches. Let’s wonder why. Let’s be wondered by. Now in bed, I want to evocate, I want to imagine, to imagine and touch.  Is it true? Are you for real? Will you wait? Will you miss me? Who knows. Delusion has several faces. Wine is gone by now. Noises. Noises from silence, from the night. From my will for sex. Sex is absorbed by wine sips. Several  glasses for reflection. Am I going to be touched? Good night if not. The garbage truck and its solo under a rainy day. Still dark. Obviously indoors. Only hearing and having this sort of hangover. Things seem to work out. Two love stories came to my understanding. The first one is about a couple, that in order to remain legal, they must join a third party, so to speak. I guess it is the real life version of Sandra Bullock’s romantic comedy: in this case certainly not romantic, nor funny, but a comedy hereinafter. Again, we’re looking for laughter rather than sympathy. The second one, the second couple. This couple got together again in Venezuela after being away from each other for a little while. Only that they went through different things after that while abroad.  Now they are back when they started, surely with a way different mind. This is more a tragedy but it won’t be taken seriously,  so it will become a comedy,  for the amusement of who they left behind at least. Home. Shining afternoon.  Let’s take a nap and get good vibes. We did. We ate out.