Changes and Chances

Since I know I should be leaving a few words written before I go, here it is. I’m trying to come up with something while typing these letters, but I don´t know, nothing comes and I probably won´t have any other chance until tomorrow perhaps, perhaps not even; let’s see… 

Three days ago we’ve heard about some changes at the economic scenario (in Venezuela there’s always an important and vital change that will decide our fate – this time – for good) Changes lately turn into more waiting lines to  be standing and less chances for people’s achievements of any kind. Now something has just come up, in English, which is good I guess. We’ve been forced to establish a sort of cruel relation between Changes and Chances. It is only a letter you substitute, but it’s a whole different thought and this is when the cruelty arises: every change the government ordains actually kills somebody’s chance. So food and toilette paper are not the only thing we’re lacking (I know you’ve heard some about it) we’re running out of chances by executive orders. I know these previous words look foolishly tragic and it’s not the point. The fact the chances get less pushes everyone do something (I’m writing to you, for example) A new concept of hope is now going along with people’s doings. A pretty girls tries harder to look prettier because now she knows pretty won’t be enough anymore, and something similar happens with a robber too, he also tries harder, especially with the problem of the bills. I hope myself too. That’s why this blog exists…

I’m running out of time, by the way. Thank you, for every time, for everything…

cathartic

I’ve read not so long ago that we all should do some writing every day. It is cathartic, especially in times like these, which ways out look so blurry that we just see other people’s problems because we can’t even understand ours. I’m constantly wondering, check on twitter and see some political impressions, read some opinions, and yet I wonder still. 

There is a very interesting writing from Umberto Eco called Ur-Fascism, and it showed me while reading that the power of the administration is also a power of social control. In other words: the president needs a law to regulate a behavior caused by some other law promoted just before, thus we are managed through executive orders (in Venezuela the parliament don´t promote laws anymore) 

Let’s bring up an example: the current one hundred bolívares bill will be out of circulation in seventy two hours, just a few days later POS machines were not working out due to some platform updates, or as the president said: an orchestrated cyber-attack from the empire of United States. Just before that ATM machines reduced the amount of cash daily, and just before that minimum salary got raised at fifty percent; fifty percent more against a three numbers inflation, and so on. There´s a change almost weekly, almost daily, announced on TV or worse; on social networks. Let’s see what happens next seventy two hours…

yous

There comes a time in which you’ve finally accepted it. The thing is start living with it. I’m not sure if it’s my case yet, I believe, in spite of my acceptance, there’s more to learn still, but I´m trying, and that’s what moves these words to be part of a message; this message: I’ve said more than once there’re several yous inside every person you interact with, and that those yous are not entirely made by yourself but the impression of – let’s call them – ‘carriers’ may have about you: friends, spouses, family, whoever you interact. A sense of uncomforting shows up before your feelings when you try really hard to look cool to the carriers; you role play a funny, tough, cool, burnout, wealthy, and whatever archetypes you come up with to establish some sort of connection with those people you care. I’m writing it again: those yous are not entirely made by yourself, maybe not made by you at all. Time goes by, fast and slowly and you start feeling dumb, mocked, lied, and don´t know exactly why because you try different, but then you begin to understand. You’re not that funny, nor tough, nor burnout at all; wealth is a political matter, at least here in Venezuela, therefore it’s not up to you, and definitely: you’re not that cool. I’m not writing this to make anyone feel bad about it. This is not a manifesto for rejected, no, it is not. This is a simple exercise of consciousness with a simple affirmation: caring is a one way street. When you care, or love, do it as you do have faith: with no expectations. Feel free to embrace senses and enjoy them; not because of someone, but because of yourself instead.  Value grows high when you realize there’s nothing to prove, and if it’s about improving, let it be as an inner command, because inner commands make you better despite carriers’ images of you. It seems to be impossible, and it is probably so. The concept of value tends to be built, in part, according to the influence of the people around; again: friends, spouses, family; carriers. I call them like that because they carry inside an image of every person they know individually, just like you and me do. We’re carriers ourselves, but not of ourselves, if you know what I mean; and I think you do. Let’s picture a mirror, you see your reflex, but we’re talking about the reflex according to image of yourself; I might not be seeing you the same way regardless we both stand in front of the same mirror. The same happens to you, and now I am easy at it: I don´t know how do I look from your eyes facing the mirror, but I know for sure that’s not entirely me; therefore, If you’re sure your are not those carriers’ yous, You start focusing and begin to identify inner commands. The ones that tell you it is fine to have a blog and post how you feel and what you may learn from it…

A tiny tale for a big tale…

There’s an interesting perspective when you see how some expectations work; for instance at alcoholic anonymous meeting: those who don´t have full sordid story, don´t feel right with themselves; such a thing seems to be the goal at being there. A musician is participating in a festival and instead of feeling like going to do the best, feels wrong at the fact of not being shown off enough. A married girl, happily married girl, feels like she need to find herself attractive by getting flirts from someone who’s not her husband; let’s say the husband is an already conquered land and, at least in a way, she feels she needs the chance of expansion, and expansion is also an issue, a teenage issue; vestiges of the unsolved. I toke this from Douglas Coupland: “It's not healthy to live life as a succession of isolated little cool moments. [Either our lives become stories, or there's just no way to get through them.]” and this is probably what the issue is about: we have not yet gotten through our little stories and there’s a big tale nowadays which involves us all. We, the Venezuelans, must deal with the fact that after almost twenty years gathering cool moments, there is indeed a bigger scenario and it demands everyone do something for the country… Yes, but what’s it? I mean, there can be a common thought; a collective idea of it, but just that and it’s obviously not enough. Who’s going to step forward? Stand? Lead? There are many, there are some, but that’s just potential and this is what we should be debating in order to get through it: Postmodernism is gone, little cool memories are no longer defining us, there’s more, there’s something wider, for instance more important, and when such a thing finally gets inside us all, we’ll make changes happen. But for now, let’s hope, expect, wait, support, and stand for…

chauffeur with a car

Bridge in construction, that’s what I read from the banner every time I go to Animus. I sleep for some dreaming and just then start the path, flying low until finally I get to a cave: an entrance says Thoughts, and due to its size, not so high to me at least, I’ve got to stop flying.

I take a walk: my steps don´t settle enough because the soil is soft, like sand or mud, I can´t notice. I feel myself willing to keep up; there’s no rush, time in dreaming is patient, so I just wonder with my hands and sense some texture, grab a little of it and try to see, to take a closer look: it was gray but out of my knowledge. I could imagine that’s how moon sand might look like but it is because what I’m carrying in my bag (I forgot to say I carry a bag every time I dream) I usually fill this backpack with names: I like to think I dream with real people but really I ignore, or maybe I’m the ignored one, I haven´t figured it out the scope of my desires. For now, let’s move on over this soft and gray (neutral) soil. Yes, because it is free from any judgment.

I keep walking; see some questions spread and several answers hanging: doubts of my reality, of my certain future. Future is not uncertain, uncertain are facts when they’re sudden and it depends, because sometimes Present leaves pieces as a warning that a bit of a whole will be completed and that the time for awakens is more sensed than in dreams’; therefore, impatience might come from outside, unlike this patience, that comes within.

I read When, Why, Because as well, but the rest are just ellipsis.

I open the bag and grab some pronouns; the first clue for the questions spread. Doubt is like opportunity; both have issues with people just like the names I bring onto my dreams. It’s not necessary to say them loud, the voice of the dreams has its own language, anyone who sees someone sleeping knows it when this asleep talks; it is some kind of no translatable dialect.

I start wondering inside the cave: why she? When you? Why we? The wind blows and pushes the answers, I assume a You towards me is an I, so the answers lies on me but I don´t know what to say. I check the bag again but get sort of nervous; I’m afraid not to pick the right name (yes, random and chance are strange while you dream on) I finally prefer the doubt and wake up…

Nothing special, just a day full whys and whens, for example: why so much traffic, so many critics, so stupid fundaments? There’s not a single because for any of my whys but, well, let´s wait until tonight…

It is said (better than known) Love reflects itself in many ways, for instance: a metaphor related with time, about love I’m talking, might be how long the beloved one takes to reach your eyes at knowing you’re waiting at the entrance to her home. If it’s the same home for both, well, I’m not sure (I guess there’s more than a why) Reasons varies and love (as I just said it) reflects in many ways.

I was a lucky; I could fly a little more before going back to the cave, before running away from widow questions and orphan answers. I go on, open the bag; Animus is a bridge, a bridge inside a cave: this big is this cave, these many are my doubts. I wake up…

I forgot to say I’m a chauffeur with a car of his own: take me there, pick me up, and yes, just when I was about to pick her up, Boom! I crashed the car. Another day with whys…

Moon sand got wet but hands were no longer my path, I’m barefoot, one doesn´t know how’s looking while dreaming. I sense a shore, a silvered sea with some few waves. I stepped on from answers to windows, windows without transparency, like frames, like a gallery, a gallery which frames look like stars and as stars enlighten. I see some like my face, yes, through these windows. I didn’t just see my face through it, for example: I saw myself stroking the legs of an important name I always carry in my bag; it is the name of my present, a present which will be future, for now. Through other window I saw me as a child; as an animal through another, an unknown animal. There’s a windows, old, blurred; the texture of the weather is strange but I figured it out by a pair words written with a finger on it, just like someone else would have been here before, someone who got bored, tired. The words were: Silence and Oblivion. This, along with the questions, looks like an afterthought. Since there’s some antagonisms in the bag, I may do some conjectures: why don´t I forget? (For oblivion) Or when this silence? Because I remember you, and from the noise I… I wake up…   

There is a certain feeding for waking up on a bad mood when sleeping with doubts; some people dream with things they can’t have, some others with things they can’t understand. That explains the reflects in the morning, those moments in front of the mirror trying to accept ourselves, to accept that there’s just a shaving machine, a makeup set. The day promises to be the same, but today I don´t work, I’m without the car, so I’m just taking a walk…

Curiously doubts fade away with the steps, and unlike dreams, there’s sort of a comprehension while keeping up on the sidewalks. Perhaps it’s just oblivion and silence, and next dream remember…

It was a beach at night, a beach inside a cave with moon sand and a bridge, and the windows, the words, the memories, everything making noise while I go on, and I’m again in the same dream. Probably pronouns are no longer needed because the only one here is me, it means I am: I’m who walks and doubts due to sensations and uncertainties of everyday and there’s no more sand, nor sea for my steps. There’s just a banner at the end of this path: Bridge in construction.

Versión en español: aquí