Third page IV

 

An indoors contemplation.  No balcony today. Unappreciated comes to my mind. What is appreciation anyway? Until what point do we expect appreciation when we do something? Is it something we start expecting or is it expected when we start  something? I wonder because I would like to point out, if possible,  what could it be when you stop doing something out of your own personal motivation, rather than for external appreciation, or acknowledgement purposes.  Can we? Or is it all implied? I woke up thinking about it, but moreover; I woke up trying to leave it written in English words. I’m trying here: a guy goes to work. Let’s say he’s not the smartest kind. Actually he has – I could tell – this sort of thing I want to call Lack of attention. The guy seems he can’t focus, so he makes a lot of mistakes while doing his job, which is pick a certain number of packages by request and drop them on a belt for shipping. There was a jam on the belt. It was not his fault. We tend to have some predisposition towards him because he miscounts too often, but with the jam I can say it was not on him. He got hurt in the attempt of clearing it. He got hurt because he tried hard. Where shall we meet appreciation here? Shall his boss acknowledge of his effort? Did he actually do it pursuing such a thing? I wonder. I’m wondering about it. I want to say that what happened to him meant something… to anyone,  or anything, but it didn’t. If we take his case as an example, his effort was not in search of recognition.  He just felt like he could, maybe, that he had to, and if someone appreciated it, that was by chance, not as an acknowledgement of his attempt. In conclusion; appreciation comes out of chance. Prove me wrong! Let’s bring another word: resentment.  Are we resentful? It comes and go, to be honest. Of course,  I’m taking about myself. It comes from time to time because it’s hard to unlearn values you were taught since childhood and for long periods as well. I am too immersed in believing that merit is something we deserve by nature, and that it is actually derived from our efforts. That’s my culture talking. Even now that I know it was made up by politicians of my region, but still, it’s a bad habit,  like smoking, like finding cheap dopamine on my cell phone. I can’t help it. I think I deserve better. Sorry but not sorry!

 

It feels weird not to be working right now. It’s Sunday afternoon, why would I? Because of the bills. Yes, the bills… and the loans! Guilt is something special but why do I feel guilty? I’m supposed to feel relaxed. I’m trying. Actually I’m holding a glass of wine and seeing if the truth of the enlightenment comes in through a sip. You know: in vino veritas. But so far nothing has arrived yet. And after a while, the only thing that has come is the perception.  The perception is, according to something I’ve read,  a projection our eyes take to our brain, so this one can give it a meaning. Therefore what we see may not be exactly the same thing in each head, and that is because, let’s say,  the way we interpret is unique. Unless,  of course, we were one of those into social media, which means zero discernment, and with that being said, written in this case, we may have an idea of where social media is heading us, and what we might be at the end of this story. What’s your story about anyway? Do we have a story in the first place? Of course we do. Is it important? It might be to some, and those some could see us, so let’s be seen through words and be read instead. We would become words, and words can be used in any message. We’ll be messages at the end of any attempt.  Let’s be one of hope, of faith,  and not one that fades into smoke. Let’s be hard to drag but nice to digest. Let’s be more like a dessert. Why? We must be what we want to be. Are we sure of that? Not me. But wine made its work and now I need to sleep. 

 

A new week. Dark still. Machine noise-like. Some air conditioning,  perhaps.  I can’t see the words I’m writing.  It might be the stress. There’s always something failing. Who might we be giving our energy? Our vitality? Someone must get fed on it. We get tired for those people. A life full of must and shouldn’t definitely has to be out of someone else’s need and such need… on us. I want to go to bed, for an hour at least but I have to go back to work. I’m back to my old job, by the way. I just miss the music but for the rest of the things, I’m better here now. I have another job: typical. I belong – not sure if proudly, but I do, I am one of those – to this sort of group of men, who were raised with this belief, that man should do what he must because he’s a man. A sort of burden-carrier-type with no complaints, and only silence and hard work. Am I comfortable at it? Hardly ever. Am I going to change? Not likely.  Writing is pretty much my therapy. I’m trying. I’ve said it before. The thing is that, giving the nature of my being, I have a second job. It’s not hard at all. If I place anything against it, it would be just drama for this comedy. What I want to say is that I am poorly rated at that job, and I think it affects my chances for getting good deals. I do deliveries. The other bad thing is having less time to spend with my son. It is what it is, people say here. I always try to find some minutes to hold him, to tell him that I love him. To let him know he is my world. And someday soon, I expect to find much more time to be with him. I cry of joy when he  laughs. I know what being in love really is because of him. Dark again in the balcony.  A car passes by and some other apartment’s engine has just turned on.  The beginning of a song led by the garbage compactor. The sound I make with every sip of coffee add some too, probably. No butterflies. Break time. A few voices kind of like a bass line. I’m sitting with two fellow countrymen as these words are taking place. I can tell one of them wants to talk. I can see him looking at me but he stays quiet and go back to his phone, pretty often, but not for long. That’s how we are nowadays: choosing worlds; in or out of the screen. I’m on the screen now right after finishing my second job. Again, not a good day. I already wrote a little bit about it, but it came to my mind again: burden-carrier-type… what should I do? How could I embrace it? I’m not making enough on my own, so what am I supposed to do? Now I’m just complaining but tomorrow it will be a new day and due dates are coming: they don’t ask how am I doing. They just come and take whatever we’ve worked hard for, including  the metaphorically speaking: plans, dreams, peace, will; mostly will. 

Third page III

 

Friday afternoon.  That used to mean something but not now, not anymore. There’s work tomorrow so Friday could be any Monday. I’m trying to bring up a time where days of week mattered for doing any specific thing. I don’t. I can’t.  I believe I’m jut going to take my son for a little walk. Let’s see If I can gather a couple of sentences to serve after that. See you then. Then is now. Not much to write about. Daylight is still painting the sky with its typical blue. Colors. 10 hours shift. Mosquitoes. The balcony is not welcoming as expected. I got wine, I guess I just need add some to my mind,  so I can at least forget for a while and bear the news stoically, which is the most accurate way to face it. I was watching a guy exposing that we should stop complaining immediately. Complaining is a bad habit kind of like smoking. You just get addicted to it. If you don’t like something,  change it, if you can’t change it, discard it, if you can’t discard it, start any sort of movement against it; a campaign, a counterstrike, but please stop complaining.  I was thinking about it. This is pretty much a complaining, and I’m doing it through written words because I feel I don’t have the voice up for it. I’m sticking with this guy’s speech about complaining because I saw it convenient for me. I just quit complaining. Yes. Yes, but. Yes, but what about these words? This is my therapy,  hoping to get a least a faster English writing, or a less mistaken one, if possible.  It is still dark. There’s a little light on the back announcing a new day comes. It is quiet. No birds singing,  no wind melodies, maybe a few bugs making their way. An intro, an overture. Some vestiges from last night wine. Yeah. More for worse than for better but it sort of put a smile on my face. Face is a fine word. In our Spanish, most of the meanings derived from facing goes on the forehead. We forehead the truth rather than face it. Let’s forehead this life. Beer in hand. Saturday evening.  Nothing to write about. I was thinking about the disappointment. Why will it be that we hold on hope when we know we’re going to be laid down? I’ll stop smoking.  I will stop smoking next Sunday.  Next Sunday is tomorrow.  Why do we believe? We only get the chance to love our children as they see us great, and that is pretty much it. The rest will only keep disappointing us. We are going to let someone down too. This world is, in the end, a result of some mixture from all those things done out of a chain of disappointments. Whatever we can make up from it. Wherever we can go on from it.

 

Dark blue Monday. Dark because it’s early. Blue because sunrise is coming in a hour. Stars are still floating in the sky. I can see many, actually. I’ve never been a star reader. I don’t know what do they mean or if they do mean something at all. I see them more like little windows that let pass a bigger light from the other side. Of course, that is nonsense, right? Supposing that these surroundings were not as infinite as science claims they are. The thing is how science is so convincing on showing the magnitude of the untouchable, but when it comes to human soul, everything is reduced to superstition.  I haven’t found anything about it yet but the truth is I’m not really looking for it either. It is just that there are  people, specially these coffee shop pseudo-intellectuals, that claim, assure and deny, with this confidence so derived from a total absent corroboration, that precision is met only through science, and superstition, which means everything else, is typical of ignorants, and by ignorants they often mean the people who didn’t go to college. Going to college in my country is seen as some sort of important, and significant, step towards self realization.  Understanding self realization as an elevated social state (or status) of the person itself.

 

It is hard for a society to grow surrounded by people who claim that bare knowledge holds a market value for which the government,  by any means, must pay, and I say government because who else will pay for hiring someone whose expertise is not required? I won’t hire a lawyer to fix my pipes, right? And If it happens that the piper is a lawyer, because he went to law school, I would be hiring him as piper, not as a lawyer. It seems obvious but obvious stands by the culture who proclaims it so. That is one of the things we learn when we leave home. We come with this,  I've read it’s called: Cultural baggage, and it’s hard to unpack it and let it get along with the soil that is holding you now. Besides that,  there are these daily basis little undoings, which add a bit of frustration to any attempt of conviction I try to build. Another day comes. It's darker than yesterday. There are these butterflies trying to remind me of something.  We are in the afternoon now, inside the company’s property, feeling the heat, the sweat; the sticky sensation when taking the pants off and on, the march of the equipment; machines keeping up the beat of the must, of the duty, of the programmed schedule to meet the goals. Not my goals, of course. Not anyone sweating or lifting weight either.  Chaplin’s Modern Times pops up in my head. Block chain technology,  only the human type. Dark again, darker, also earlier and no butterflies. It’s is now when I can write. It is not now when I would like to put a thought into words. I hear a car passing by. Another person going to work, I presume. I feel tired already but at least I can listen to music I actually choose. It is strange how the things I enjoy find, and hide from myself; depending on the case, a certain path for not being completely absent in this very case. Despite of everything,  here a I am listening to music. Boxes are coming up: “Dame tu amor, sólo tu amor, sólo dame tu amor”. Let’s see if good news come in too. Let’s see if good news come in too. “You get what you deserve”; what do I deserve? Do we really live under a system of deserving anything at all? That works for music songs, yes, but music songs move you, move me, move us. We bear big things thanks to music songs. Thanks to art in general. Lunch time. A cat. I used to see cats and dogs on the streets of Caracas all the time. Not here. Not common. I may write something about it, but I understand every place has its own procedures when it comes to animals. I’ve seen some deer here, they are just cute. They make my day every time. There’s a red window in the apartment across the street. We’re pretty close. It’s more like a red reflex from what is inside. I guess it is because of the curtain, it must be red. The color and the light, along with this darkness, makes it special, makes me wonder; imagine, think of the shape of a woman’s body taking her clothes on. She got up naked, I think, and naked is why I can sense the details from where I stand. My coffee gets cold, my attention is on my eyes, but it’s not my eyes really. It’s more what I’m thinking of. The woman dances, yes, dances while getting dress, I become her audience: this is a show. Is she aware of me? Who knows! I take my imagination inside my house. It’s time to get ready for work. It was a rough day. I have this sense of satisfaction because I was up the task even though I tend to see myself kind of old for things like that. I thought about a glass of wine but I decided to postpone it until tomorrow.  I am going to see Sum 41 and The Offspring. The first one has a song named We’re all to Blame. I hope to get the chance to listen to it. Tomorrow will be a day not to think about debts or worries. I’ll see my sorrows on Saturday. Hopefully I may have some time to let myself go and worry back again. It was good. I had a great time. I went back to teen years. I was unavoidably comparing the difference. It was great. 

Third page II

 

Sunrise got from a red paint to a blueish yellow. It’s time to go but here I am: sitting in this balcony and contemplating along with my thoughts.  I haven’t enjoyed it enough, I often  tell myself. There’s always something, someone, which I’m supposed to share it with. Share is a nice thing to write about. Moments to share, for evocation, as needed, of reflection,  with you, without them, under this sky, above the hardest times, inside each other, and moments we just don’t want to share. A few changes inside the house, some magic act on TV. There is this novel about a guy who fights his TV and goes crazy systematically as the novel passes. It is a Venezuelan writer. The name of the book is The Wizard of the Glass Face. A nice souvenir if ever want a piece of my country.  I believe that if you want to, let’s say,  know about some place’s culture, a fine way to do so could be through their voices; writers tend to be the most prominent ones at it. Musicians and moviemakers too, but there is this personal statement that writers know best, specially when it comes to send a message or tell something. For instance I don’t think any Reggaeton artist will ever define the culture wherever they come from. I don’t see them as musicians at all. Unfortunately, I have to acknowledge that their impact over our society is solid, to a point that any friend or relative may easily know, and like, some of them. There’s this paradox: they call themselves urban artists, so many of us unavoidably think of them when bringing up such a definition. As urban artists, and along with a massive market strategy,  they’ve been placed side by side with actual musicians, which meant with time that regardless my denial and many others’ who feel me, because what they do is not music, they’ve come to establish that as a new genre, making themselves a room in the music industry. This urban style have made a perfect fit to a generation now used to phone apps and social media for stimulation. That occurs because of the growing rejection of long-term processes.

 

How about my generation on long-term processes? Many of us couldn’t finish a book anymore. Sunrise starts getting late. There are no color combinations I can taste from where I stand.  I sense fog instead. Not the kind that won’t let see what’s next but the kind that makes the sky looks blurry. What I do sense and taste is the coffee on my side. I made it strong; bold, I believe is the appropriate word to describe it. In our perception,  we would use thick to replace bold for this strong coffee. As I understand it, in our case, the metaphor goes more on the texture, despite we’re talking about a liquid. And that is something we could highlight to understand our culture. We may say we kind of need to touch, or have a sense of the matter at least, over the majority of the things we talk, or think about. That could explain why we need our hands to talk. We talk about the sky, and the impulse of putting our hand up high to draw a figure, somehow related to the talking, comes out immediately.  So my commas, now that see. Long-term endeavors. Yes. Isn’t my generation as affected as millennial, or even as the younger ones? Everything looks like a big interest reprise: the same joke over and over on each platform.  Countless hours with the eyes lost on cell screens. Myself included. I don’t even know where I’m going with this. Sorry, I remembered.  It works for practicing, after all. 

 

It's not blurry today. I also hear a bird trying to give orders through its singing,  or at least that’s how it feels like from where I’m sitting. I can’t take my rejection off the cigarettes. I go to bed and wake up almost everyday with the same thought. I’m putting it in perspective to see if I can figure it out, but I can’t,  I haven’t been able to, I still wonder why smoking is so disappointing to me. That’s everyone’s life. It’s not my problem.  It shouldn’t be, but it does; it does bother me. I hope someday soon I manage to get over it, otherwise I’m going to start having problems at home. Anyway,  there are good things to think about. Music songs, for example. I wish I could live from this. Real writers have a place, a moment,  a routine, a Cábala; which is a word we sometimes use for special rituals,  when it comes to do something out of our inspiration. I only have the times when I go to the toilet and the few minutes of morning I grant myself in the balcony. Franco de Vita has a song; Louis. It’s about a Taxi driver who wants to be a rock star. I’m bringing it up because there is a moment in the song it says: “y sueña con escenarios, mientras le cambia la luz. Del rojo al verde no hay mucho tiempo para soñar”. I feel this part so deep because I live my life dreaming, using the same metaphor, from red light to green, and it is just like the song goes: there’s not much time for dreaming. I look into the mirror and I realize how easily my once achievements can be forgotten, or replaced, or put aside pursuing a near future that never comes present. The one true thing I can rescue,  and pick from the rest of this present, is fatherhood:  that’s an incredible journey; the only one that keeps me going. My faith vanishes in the air just as an exhalation from smoking a cigarette. A faith that smells, that stays in your clothes, in your mouth, in your yellow teeth and yellow fingers… a faith hard to gather, to get it all together. It's there, it’s here, you feel it but you just can’t hold on to it. We’re talking about a nominal faith, it only works for words to give, to serve on a page and read it, perhaps smile while reading it. That’s it. Let see if I can enjoy the afternoon. Rosé wine for me. It kind of match with the sky before evening.  Tough moves. Tough news. A weekend to come and see. I thought of a path, a path with obstacles. I was bear foot but I wasn’t getting hurt. I was just going on my own pace. I saw sentences hiding behind the ads. Yes, I saw some ads. Ads are even in my thoughts. The government of my country tried to get rid of them. To make it happen, they had to burn the whole country to the ground,  and even so they couldn’t wipe them up entirely.  Ads resisted. More than people. I saw words coming up, leaving messages.  Is there anyone behind them? Probably not. It is just this algorithm that takes whatever interest I’ve been navigating around, and link it with some advertising something, to then put it on every feed from any app; and search, and gives you this sensation of being watched. I took that to my oneiric world, it’s unavoidable. I took that to my thoughts. It is the consequence of using these apps too often.  I heard someone claim it is world we live in but the world we live in still has the other things. What are those other things, anyway? It has more to do with time and distance than any other repercussion. The fact that we have it all on the palm of our hand, makes this carelessness for the outside very much present. But it is a selfish approach,  what about those places not into technology at all? There are a lot of places where people can’t afford a smart phone. Having a smartphone in my land is a social matter. It is not something for everyone. You could get robbed if you’re seen walking around with your eyes on the screen of the phone. People there just can’t do as I’ve seen it here; that you go to a public garden and you see a group  of people gathering where they can focus on their devices. 

Third Page

 

Pain. Pain is something we use when we need to learn, and along with Art, they both embrace suffering as some sort of vehicle. There has to be pain so I can feel what needs to be done to achieve it. What? Whatever you want the pain to get you for. This is a hot afternoon,  full of commitment. A promise I need to keep, to suffer, to let the pain walk me through.  I am tired but I have my motivation.  Time is not so friendly but it never was, to be honest.  God’s time is perfect; many people state. I want to take some advantage of the language and propose instead: God’s tempo is perfect. Tempo rules the rhythm,  the speed you do what you do. So tempo, as it is interpreted in English, sounds to me more like something it may happen when, let’s say, the right time comes. When is that? God only knows. That’s the point and that is what The Say wants to imply. Another morning. I can be a witness. I can join the audience for whom this show we call sunrise is being performed. I see. I feel. I close my eyes and think: there might be a chance. We might make it. This could be a hard step we had to take. The reward is the fact that we know why we are doing it. I think not everyone knows. That’s why the need for distraction on the phone comes out so often. Slow cook. Baby steps. My stomach is talking. A few hours later, I’m finally home. A beer in my hand. It was a productive day. Empanadas for dinner. Nowadays homemade ones. I wish I could explain it better, but I’m not so sure if You can feel me when I’m saying how great is having Empanadas as meal. The texture on the first bite, the flavor as is being swallowed. It is just something else. Else, else is not well defined in Spanish. I mean “else” tends to play as “more”, so there is no big difference when saying: something more or something else. The way I see it, that places a desire in a different state of intensity, of deepness, of abstraction. Then abstraction can fluctuate depending on the language, thus our capability to picture a scenario, is, in a certain way, affected by the syntax of the language we speak. These very words I have just written, the commas I have just placed. They came out from a Spanish mind thinking,  pretending to send a message in English. I said it before: we meet halfway, so halfway will be good after all.

 

I believe the word is steam. The steam comes out from a hot mug of coffee; always a strong one. That steam comes out making shapes, shapes for my mind, for my thoughts. Those shapes shows up following a rhythm,  maybe from the birds, from the morning. It is a slow movement, anyway. The thing is that it seems like it also has its own language, a kind of language that dances with my silence. Debts invades, always invades. This search for balance is tiring.  I feel tired already. No money for anything when getting paid. That certainty overwhelms harder than any other existential crisis. For this era, money is the one true catalyst for almost every form of thought, idea, wish, whatever comes to mind. Sometimes I dream and think that these words somehow might become any sort of money, and that I could finally get the basic decent life I’ve been working so hard for. I had thought about it already: when I get to a certain number of words, I will go public, posted, published, the method that serves better for any money collect. Then I think twice, I think of a song, and then of a debt, debt invades, always. Debts are the noise of any form of silence. I think again,  like I said, and realize that it is a nice dream, a noble sort of hope, but it is not likely.  Now likely is a nice word, a polite kind to me. It is not likely that I can get a better income anytime soon by only showing my curriculum, and  hoping that somebody out there, in fact give me any chance because he saw something like potential to join me in whatever he is recruiting for. Not likely at all. I was collecting some extra money by working with my car and, today, my car is down. There is Say from my country stating  that when the poor do the laundry,  it rains. It is raining over my hope, over my will, over my self esteem. So I grab a beer from the fridge and stop thinking. They were more than one, indeed. I would like to confess that I’m not sure where this writing is going. I don’t even know if it’s going somewhere. I’m just placing words as a pointless attempt to see myself in them, so I can actually figure out what’s going on with me, and start solving it.

 

Up to this point, everything lies on money I can’t get, despite this sort of double shift I’m having. I want to cry. Cry feels good when I’m like this, but I want to do it alone. I don’t want to explain anything, I’m writing it precisely because of it. One more morning. A cold one. A summer August chill morning. I don’t remember it like that last year at least. I woke up with the same problem I went to bed: the car. It’s very cloudy. It may start raining at some point of the day. I often think about this Guns and Roses song; Estranged.  I tend to see my life as a movie.  I even think about songs at inappropriate situations; in this case, I was just remembering that the song starts by saying: “When you’re talking to yourself and nobody is home”.  I talk to myself pretty often. More often than I want to admit. In a couple of times, someone has asked me something like: who are you talking to? Or You’re getting old, you’re speaking alone already! And that tells me I can’t even control it. So my need for reflection is stronger than my will to appear before others. I can simplify it by confessing I am just getting crazy, but it’s not true, I mean, I am alone. I feel lonely.  I have no one I can try these thoughts and not coming up with those types of answers, the kind I’d rather not listen to such as: don’t worry! It’s not big deal! Like we say in my land (this is the worst) “You are drowning in a glass of water”. I prefer to speak alone then, and I don’t think it makes me a crazy person. Have you ever listened to this Foo Fighters song: I should have known?  It is something else. I never get tired of it. Anyway. Work time went by with a tiny victory.  Let’s see what’s next. Next is now, and now was yesterday, indeed. Today is the tomorrow of that time, a past tomorrow then. A past tomorrow that  tastes some bitter despite the short nice time we had. Time to get ready to go to work.  I’ve been thinking about Deserve, and the impact it has on my people; many of then, or many of us, go around assuming that we deserve better. Why? I mean: why are we still thinking our efforts should be compensated  by some high power, just because we’ve been working hard? We’ve been working hard to get the payment we previously agreed to, and with such payment, we should make ends meet, or stay tight and bear it. Only we don’t want that. We want, like a Say we have; “to shit upper than the ass” (or higher; not sure which one suits better) 

Second page VII

 

I’m escaping. I’m lost in the music I’m playing, not trying to forget, don’t get me wrong; I want my pain right where it is. It’s just a little eyes-closed trip to nowhere, to the sound of the music, to the vibes I never sense but at some point I would like to, perhaps not too much. Not too often, of that I’m sure. But it’s true, I would like to. I’m getting so used to this negativity that I feel guilt when I imagine that. What is that? Wonder on. Evocate. Picture it to see if it becomes true. I was thinking about those people; that couple who came four years ago. I thought of some others too. How their stories start looking the same. Social media does that. The impulse of being part pushes, and pushes hard on everyone to have them addicted. It is amazing how people take their time for granted over the futility of fake news, or trends, that will soon pass, and won’t give them back their time. Time is the currency of life. There is no a single form of achievement, or memory, not linked to time, either as chronology, or as number of iterations. There is time and times, in English. Spanish is different in that perception.  Perception is also a valuable asset in life. We are losing sharpness on it, every time we leave; this virtual consensus, the capability of figuring something out. Another aspect we are taking for granted. Contemplation needs space. Contemplation needs us for time and perception, and we are giving them away for the comfort of a cherry pick pleasure. A cherry pick pleasure indeed may cause long-term consequences. Every time we grant a moment of our own, just to spend more minutes on scrolling down,  brain loses something,  anything. It is just not the same anymore.

 

Have you ever felt like saying something but you can’t just find the right words? Can’t you at least come up with any right word at all? Have you felt this way? It might be that something was taken from you. You lost it that time you spent so much short laughing on the screen; short smiling. Now the void makes you sad. Confused. I know some about that confusion. I was talking to someone and, during the conversation,  every example I made for, let’s say,  explain myself better, it was all about an Instagram joke, or a trend, something always according to some media. There is this clip from the nineties: Something’s Always Wrong. Back then,  it was about TV and Marketing calls. It was so innocent,  now that I see. They were trying to expose, in a way, how the market embraces every corner of interest, to a point that there is, in this case; was, nothing unavailable for purchase. That was then. That was before. Consumption has escalated to further and higher levels. It’s not just what I want to buy, and how do I get debts for it. It is the change of perception. The new reality.  The post-truth era. One day, I was talking to a sort of friend, and he told me something like: New Media; that’s how he calls it, New Media found its way in by bringing up our adolescent era and appeal to a nostalgic sense of a better moment. As adults, we are supposed to be up to the new challenges that come with the age. In the new media, those challenges are reduced to debts. That way, people could think it’s more worth it a spectrum of memories rather than present with future projects.  So they make room for it, and such room is fed with a massive wave of content and trivia, also with all these invitations and interactions, so people can not only boost images from the past, but also ask others to do it as well.

 

I’ve finally found a few minutes early in the morning for a coffee and some contemplation. The sound of the birds and the trees feels as the wind is directing this orchestra; definitely a different kind from the one at work. There is this picture in which you can see the clouds getting ready for their amusement: the passing of light and the sunrise dress. Fauna can tell. Not so sure that we can too but we try, and try, either here, or anywhere else; anytime, all the time, is the important thing to consider. I have time. I have time today, at least now. I pour myself as words into this paragraph, in an attempt to become a message, an idea, a wish I can make happen eventually. Words of hope: I would like to be that, although my sensitivity pushes, always pushes, for words of desire. Desire. Where do you hide it? What are we going to do with this? We see, we want to touch with our eyes. We want to place a sigh right where our minds ask us to be. We must be but, always but, we must be but we don’t know how. That’s why we wish and lie, lie behind our serious gestures, lie through our politeness, lie through our tough attitude… and confess in silence when we are alone. Some people claim they do as will: complain when they should, be gentle when they think they should, argue when they think they should, and touch when they feel like they should. I have a mix of feelings over that. I’m not sure if I admire or despise that. I can’t tell what would I be projecting exactly by experience it,  if it is projecting indeed, or it is just some misdirection to my own disorders. I’m not a lazy person but it is hard for me to maintain an argument,  I mean, I tend to let it go despite I may be right at it. The thing is that I get tired of needing to prove it. Sometimes I keep quiet because I sort of foresee that the other person won’t matter going further with whatever argument he wants to fight for. That need to prevail is exhausting to me, so I give up and accept it even when I know I’m right. What’s being right, anyway? In Spanish, being right has more to do with holding a reason; kind of like carrying some weight, it’s more a possession than a declaration of existence. When someone is right in Spanish,  that person has, or holds, the reason. Actually  Have absorbs Hold in this case, but for translation purposes,  let’s put it as Hold. Something similar occurs with Falling in Love. In Spanish you don’t fall, you, let’s say, enlove, to come up with a word for it. So being right and falling in love, have another taste when changing de language,  for example.

Second page VI

 

The night came. It brought its band with it. Crickets, light bugs, frogs, the wind and the clouds. All moving around, watching the airplanes arrive and leave. Which airplane will give me this I am needing? At least  my kid enjoys them passing by, not now, of course, he sleeps. I go downstairs and take a walk. The moon is announced. Glow. I think again, look up and try to find an answer, but I got some other questions instead.  For instance, why are we looking for answers? Why this impulse for explanations? I always hear this expression: make sense. What if not? Is waking up early, spending ten hours everyday in a warehouse, the kind of things we state as make sense? It doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t matter because the sense making can turn into merchandise, to then pose at any sort of exhibition and  go available for purchase, and thus grant us the sense, a sense of any need now fulfilled.  That’s why we want, need, wish for and even have to,  pretty often indeed; go shopping. So it is something serious to feel like going shopping and not having money for it. How do we code that? How do we link such a feeling to any of our memories? Buying power might stand for as one of the fewest things you have to counter strike the sadness you can’t take out. Perhaps that’s why politicians love to sell the idea that poverty can be solved from the government, as long as real power gets confided through the illusion of choosing, mostly by an election campaign. We still talk about choosing,  about freedom. Free is an interesting word. The way I get it is a little different in its intention from the word we have in Spanish.  I tend to think it has more to do with the, let’s say,  bypass of an obligation: duty free, free ticket, rather than free life, free time. Even writing it is strange. We all sat in the break room while having lunch, telling us again, these never ending past glories. There is not much to tell about our present life. We look into this symbolic suitcase, where we store those precious moments we show through the talking.  I often remain quiet. I mean, my present is my son, which is my world.

 

There comes another sunset. A few bubbles for my lips. Some kids playing while these words take place. It is the soundtrack of the moment. A moment to look, to remember. Specially a moment to wonder. Am I getting any raise? Will I? The beer gets hot pretty fast. Faster than my ideas, indeed. The way the woman treated me today. Yes. Is it true that such rejection is actually over racist purposes? Will my children have to deal with it? I can’t tell. I was a tourist once. Now I’m a resident. Hope travels and expectations grows like any other tree. We become the gardeners of our beliefs.  Perhaps that’s why we should not take drags of our faith into smoke.  Our faith has traveled too. The smell. The decadence. A couple of what ifs with some why nots around. I’m not that old, you know. My hands never stops following patterns of imaginary beats. My mind is constantly evocating: songs, names, skins I would like to taste, glances I would love to catch; for myself, for my own amusement.  For my fingers to walk by, for my eyes to marble by looking closely. I have to take my glasses off to do that. I am officially stepping into that age when presbyopia and prostate testing are becoming part of any conversation I may have. Nevertheless I allow myself to draw this picture in my mind. I closed my eyes. I look up, and then I start placing these ifs and woulds, then I smile. All these while the notes of a great song is playing through my earbud. Yes, just one, and carefully. Boss may not like it. This is how I’ve found this bearable.  Too many days doing the same thing. Purpose must be solid. Mine actually is. This is just a let go moment. Break is over. Another moment for a few words. Anyone can guess where I am writing and why I have to put it on hold while I get back to work. A mix of scents some of them of good food. Meal time. Few voices saying something; anything. Several quiet glances, glasses off.  I wait. Some smiles over their phones. What could I girl be talking about that a smile is drawn on her face as she writes? Maybe it’s not about what but who, and who suggests somebody,  and somebody suggests that the person is not unknown, on the contrary, it must be someone special. We can affirm that such a smile takes place out of a compliment,  or a funny tale, an invitation, or a proposal. Is the smile a form of consent? We lost the baby, by the way. The one who was coming. I want to believe that he just didn’t want to be in this world. He brought me hope, he brought me faith. He was going to be a beautiful little brother, or sister. God bless you. Please tell God we were here eager to take care of you, to love you as we always will, to do the best for you as we do it for your big brother. Tell God we are sad. Tell God we’ll be waiting.  Another morning. I must have everything done. I woke up a little late. I’m going to be late for work. Grieve. I haven’t had time for it. Perhaps this is why I’ve been writing with this sad vibe so far: I need to grieve. I don’t blame you. You decided to stay with God.  Maybe someday we’ll meet and you will let me know. First break. I got this blurry vision. People are quieter. I guess it is early for them. The sounds of the machines once more: a beat popping up my concerns; what should I do with them? Procrastinate. Money is the only one resource it takes to sweep them away. What about the sadness? I’m keeping it. I want to grieve properly. I want to cry and wonder; to then wish I had, or wish you were,  but specially wish you hadn’t gone. I want to think, if possible, you’re still there, as the little soul I imagine you must be, giving us the chance to make you a new body, so you can join us. 

Second page V

 

A warm afternoon is going by from where I stand. The break room is quiet. I should try this talking feature. Not now, of course, but thus I can see if my pronunciation in English is going somewhat acceptable.  Perhaps that’s why I haven’t got a better a job. What is a better job, anyway? A higher pay? I often compare what I think I deserve to earn with the kind of jobs that actually pay it so, and realize why anyone should give me a chance. I mean, I know I have potential  but how can anyone tell? Actually, how do you prove nowadays such skills?  Scrolling. Scrolling life. Time goes by as I blink. An eight millimeters view, sight. We see the stripes as we live, as we breathe, an interruption that is constantly conquering our focus. Like a light bulb about to go down. Flashes. Flashes of wisdom.  We blink. It’s blurry. We blink again. Characters are others. Is this a film? Is it happening over again? Accents. Words we pick from an attitude. This attitude I kind of hate. We’re all tired. Words turn into sentences but they are not really telling. They are making you remember instead. We want to forget; to pretend, to put our culture over this one. We want to take these memories out so everyone can see them; hear them. What for? For a time to consume. Memories are drags we smoke from Time, and time takes us back to long, to long and miss, so we let sadness out, or anger. At the end, there’s something available, and affordable if split the total amount,  to purchase in the market. Thus we allow ourselves to mitigate unwanted feelings. A trend on social media will work out. At least to trade what we’ve got with what they think we should get, or how, or when. “When” plays impressive roles. Specially in this post-truth era.

Heat. Hot. It’s hard on pants to go off and on. The sound of the machines got this point of synchronicity that it feels like it was a rhythm, a rhythm I accompany by blowing my horn. And with this sort of parade music, I smile at the day. Accents again. Diversity.  A few hours more and that’s it. Many people have come during the last 3 years. Hope is cruel sometimes. Faith fading, or spacing around with every breath. When to expect? What are we trying to accomplish? If we go home, what would we take with us? Children.  Children are the answer.  Children are hope, faith, faith that grows,  faith that gives power, strength.  So we bear this for them. I do, I am, and I always will. For them, for my children. I love when I'm at home and see a toy car in the living room, or a little ball in the corner. That presence is the best decoration, without mentioning all those tiny clothes that just make my day better.

Where should I start? Is it our story something we feel like telling? I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to tell mine,  despite of whatever I may have written earlier, but what I think I’m going to do is giving some examples of several stories. Lines back, I tried to explain what made us move. Now, let’s try to summarize what’s going on once here. Before that, two words popped up in mind: cartoon and plastic; for people, both of them. The first one stands, as I get it, for unproportioned gestures and reactions when it comes to self expression. The second one, to me, is more intriguing.  The second one goes by insincerity, fake. I’ve come to think that being plastic, and being cartoon, have some to do with posing, pretending, have something to do with the pursuit of an archetype. I am a plastic person because plastic people do these kinds of things I want to be involved in. I force myself to it whatsoever. I push myself  hard, and for long,  because the need to belong is stronger than the self understanding. My story has to fit in. I have to fit in. Too many unique people looking like too many more. Perhaps that’s why it gets difficult when bringing a story filled up with some plastic and cartoon to bear. I’m involved as well, why deny it? It is because of my own search that I’ve come to see it this way. So let’s see: two people have just come from Venezuela. This was four years ago. They had to sell all personal belongings: jewelry,  cars, collectibles that were once a sign of pride, since these things were (or used to be) the kind of hobby nice people did for years. Years that went to the void, to the sad section ever made for memories.  A section nowadays so full that they must borrow space from joy. Maybe that’s why every time I bring a good memory,  I feel like I want to cry, who knows! These two people had to sell almost everything because there was no way they could afford an airplane ticket with the money they made. They asked for help. Only few replied. They came to a room. They got help of another kind at first. They felt like they were kids again: so needed for guidance, so lonely. They were supported,  not for much, but they were indeed; to settle, let’s say. I tend to believe many stories begin with the same situation. They got jobs they didn’t like and this is when the process of adaptation starts: what to expect from jobs when you are new arrived in town? These people came from a culture where college is a must. Parents do all kinds of things to have their children graduated.  Venezuela has a very high index of college population.  It is hard for any of them to, let’s say, break the bubble and come out to a world, where such a culture won’t be embraced as a big endeavor, or as an achievement of something to acknowledge, specially when there are a lot of people who don’t even know that Venezuela is not a part of México. But let’s be honest.  Why would they have to, right? The fact that we are making a cultural encounter implies understanding these things and learn to live with them. The challenge here is how to get through it. How to find the best way for it. Most fellow countrymen complain about this. We must understand, like one famous man said, one thing is tourism,  and another one is immigration. We were used to come as tourists; the impact is big. The things we did, and the things we do now,  to get money in our bank accounts,  states a wide difference between them. We’re teaching our brain and heart how to move things from one place to another. When we move out, it’s not just physically.  Back to the couple, they kept working. Started paying back all that money they had to borrow to come. A couple who came from living with each of their parents, to try to build a home which was partial, given the conditions of their country back then. They came with the hope of building it now and, we may say they made it, but it wasn’t easy. They started by renting a room. They started by putting themselves behind the other couple, the one who was renting the room. Good months and bad months went by, So Covid, alongside with all the ignorance that erupted from social media. Mask off, mask on, 6 feet, glasses to divide work stations, curfew, and all that wave of theories and recommendations. We survived it. They survived it too. They made it to their own rented apartment. No more bully, no more critics from a position of power. A new home in progress. A baby who came a year later. Hope. Thick faith that doesn’t fade. Not a drag, not a smoke. 

Second page IV

 

A busy Monday morning. How much from habits we convey to what we feel? To what we claim we feel? How strong is this we’re hoping that we don’t take it as just routine? Can we tell the difference? I confuse them more often that I admit it. It just occurs to me that one must follow the other one: I came here hoping, and  eventually I keep pushing as habit. I guess I remain a believer as a habit too. Evidence places my thoughts inside a void and I navigate from there, wondering, and understanding,  or getting, getting that this sadness could be some sort of Stop corner, from where you start over after trying to assimilate why you did what you’ve done. What have I done? How do we talk nowadays? Someone comes in during a Venezuelans' reunion. Who do you meet there? There will be always that political enthusiast who sees himself as a chairman if there were no dictatorship in the country. Obviously,  that person belongs to the ones who claim never voted for Chávez, and of course, he wouldn't let go unnoticed his pride at it in the same way that his judgmental attitude towards those who did.  You'll meet all kinds of college people, which is an interesting thing to bring up (and break down if possible) they will talk to you about how life was from their profession in a country allegedly prosperous in so many ways.

So many ways indeed. I listen to some of the music bands from Venezuela and you can find great pieces; great artists. If we take a closer look at the past, it wasn't so bad, after all.  We could say everything started to fall apart with the rise of he first government that came with the internet revolution.  I want to call it that way because it was with the use of internet that came this need for access in the palm of  the hand. Cell phone existed before that, so the Walkman and the palm computer, but they were not so eager to put them all in one device then. I believe that it didn't happen because creators then didn't feel like usurping moments proper from each activity.  I mean, who would want to interrupt the guitar solo of Comfortably numb to attend a phone call, or read a text message? The other thing that evolved in a very interesting way is the picture shut. I mean, this impulse for taking selfies and post them like it was something people needed to see, which it seems in fact that people do, and on top of that, the need for commenting about them as a significant duty. Even with the digital cameras on the market,  people tried more to capture a memory than showing a routine. I wonder if it has something to do with how people are interacting nowadays. The younger ones have developed this skill of being (being is so interesting in English language) on the screen of the phone, and at the same time, in a actual conversation beyond the phone,  switching from one to the other at their convenience. We, the ones in our forties, have been trying it in an attempt, I think, to still be cool, but it looks rude, awful. It doesn’t matter how hard and often we try that. The best we can do is put down the phone and look each other’s eyes when talking. 

Being. Spanish language breaks it in two different momentums: for a Spanish native speaker, to be something for a instance, for short period, or for lifetime, not always come with the same verb; to be loyal and to be tired don’t use the same “to be”. In other words; being where and being what are two different verbs in Spanish. The presence determines the existence. How do we understand presence? College people.  Does it mean the same everywhere we go? I know its worth varies from place to place. I found out that your worth as professional tends go rated by the potential connections you  may carry with when you get to be in the field. You can tell it when you have already spent years of study and time working as an apprentice. You realize you are not going to be as wealthy as you imagined when you have already given your best years of youth, and those years won't pay back. To some, it might happen that they fall in love during the process, so they graduate actually loving what they are going to do in their career.  Others were just raised believing that a major degree will change their income. To those, it is hard, and to this point, all that people want their revenge. Everyone is bitter up enough to star wondering of other people's life. Social Media creators got the perfect audience; the perfect population of content consumers: People who  relate jobs with failure because they don't love what they do as it were something everyone gets. But it can be worse, there are people who lie themselves by the affirmation of loving a job they don't only because of the trends that rule the mediaverse. Thinking is also deconstructed. The block chain of thoughts. Back to college. In my country, having a degree it's not only something for salary expectations. It is more like a status. In public administration, people call each other by the degree they have but it's not just something to point out: You sort of feel distinguished from those who don't have it. If you go to what it’s called "the country", meaning, not in the city, which it's funny, and pertinent, at the same time when joking about it, because despite of what I may be trying here, Venezuela kind of have just one city, which is Caracas. And yes, sorry for the rest but Caracas is the only metropolis. The other cities are more like towns that have grown with the years. Some of them great thanks to tourism or industry, but when you get to talk to someone who's not from Caracas,  you will definitely get what I say with this attempt. Of course that those people kind of get offended for this type of distinction, and yet, what can I say? I am from Caracas and spent a couple of years in El Tigre. I could say I know what I'm talking about. 

Second page III

Resentment is something very tight to our society over these years. The kind I'm bringing it up is the immigrant kind. Those who left the country are in its majority resentful on anything related somehow to the government and, based on what it's missing in them, they do have point. We’re here because we lost something. I just wonder if there might be a chance that some of such resentment may have been taken from the media's deconstruction, and I wonder about it because it is a bit hard for me to be convinced that a huge group of people can have the same opinion over the same thing embracing the same feeling. I mean, a way for that, it occurs to me, such a thing get to happen; is through indoctrination, but the point is that most people feel it is spontaneous, and with that inside your head, it is hard to break it down. Every argument that is swallowed entirely leads to a conviction that takes you to a fanatic state. I was thinking about those famous "two minutes of hate". I see  this resentment of ours  to a certain point, that way. I mean, media brought these thesis to, let's say, justify, in a way, that what took the country to the crisis, and what forced so many people to leave, might hold several people accountable. Media needs to sell a narrative convincing enough to their consumers, that they can understand it as a political problem, and, very important,  that it could have been prevented by choosing different when it came to vote. Politicians need believers and, a way to preserve them, is through blame. Whatever happened must be someone’s fault. Social media brought up these theories then: one of those was, that people then got tired of the political establishment before Chavez's era; and therefore pushed for this change that ended up in a disaster, phrasing it in a way, that those who once believed in the dictator, couldn't see what was coming with such political turn. The other one was more like a segregate type. The other one went on stating that ignorant people,  and by ignorant they meant the poor and the uneducated; and by uneducated they mean those who did not go to college; blinded by their alleged resentment (not the same resentment from the present days, and that is interesting too) instead of keeping up with the political establishment,  went and voted for Chávez. Both theories shows a reality where regular people had some power, indeed, of setting the path for the future of the country, and by choosing wrong (understanding wrong as Chavez's movement) such a promising future allegedly heading with the former political crew, lost its chance of achievement.
 
Many people bought those theories at their own  convenience.  Those who once believed in Chávez support this argument in which they were promised something it did not become true. It is more like they were scammed. If we think about it, it is so interesting and intriguing realizing that there are in fact people out there convinced that they could have done it otherwise but they were fooled by the political power, or worse; by a politician. I suppose that those are the same people who think that taking basic English classes will make recruiters consider them for high position roles. Now the others are something else. First, we can't know that for sure, but assuming they stand from a position of truth,  these ones have always claimed they never voted for Chávez; and that they never believed in him, which is something that, judging by how everything ended up, they were right from their angle,  so they have been taking pride ever since to a point that they see themselves elevated, or distinguished, from the ignorant kind (which means everyone else) and of course; those were mostly who started leaving the country. That sort of dichotomy was well sold. Some people feel regret from what I think it is an induced guilt, and some others stick with their anger as pride.
 
As time went by those arguments became pretty much the only logical explanation for understanding the disaster.  The deconstruction was total. But what if we take a few more glances, I mean. We can allow ourselves to wonder, for instance, who paid for Chávez appearances on national TV? Who paid for all those trips to Cuba? He started campaigning not so long after he was discharged from prison. All the media who interviewed him when he was in jail, I mean. Do you guys really think that voting had something to do with it? Do you think it ever mattered whether you believed in him or not?  Chávez held meetings with almost every single important ruler of his time: from Bill Clinton to Saddam Hussein. From the Queen of England to Fidel Castro and so on. Was it there any important protest from the media, or those who didn't believe in him then, when he reformed the constitution? Chávez arose because Real Power wanted him there. Wherever such real power comes from, which is not my intention to talk about. Power is power, Cercei would say. The thing is that these arguments won't cover all the doubts but people agreed with them only because of the social media rephrase, and while one group points out at the other for their self glorification, the obvious consensus should be that we're all to blame but not for any choosing, but for thinking that it has been an actual cause of it. It seems only a minority is willing to accept it. In the meantime,  every new immigrant must adapt his story to one of these thesis. Every immigrant who might have agreed with any project of Chávez, regardless how quickly that person stopped it,  or came around, must, either deny it like he never did it, or carry with such a burden and acknowledge his regret. We are going to hear a lot about it until the deconstruction turns these conceptions into a new gate of perception. Just like they've been doing within the music business. 

Second page II

 

A thought as a puzzle, as a piece of a puzzle. It doesn't need to be. However, it could be for further intentions. What about those thoughts linked to a feeling. such as Nostalgia? Saudade, like the Portuguese. What about them? They could turn into data as well and therefore they can get deconstructed.  Get, yes, always get. Interesting word. We might guess then that if any of the feelings we have linked to a thought can rephrase its essence, Morality itself can be turned as wanted. These are times when Morality can be reshaped, so do beliefs. And I'm still trying to inhale my smoke Faith and exhale my smoke will with this breath I can't catch but I never stop chasing, because I know that despite of the smoke, my faith and my will somehow flow within.

 

Four years have gone by. We decided it after the big power outage in March of 2019. We should have done it earlier but that's never been us; Venezuelans were used to stay together with their families but even family can be broken down from the power. The government,  the Venezuelan government. It's hard to explain it given the differences with other countries'. In 1999 the constitution was changed; a new way of democracy has risen. A democracy where the president has more power than any other institution.  Of course: how could such a thing have been done? By elections.  Elections are the weapon that threatens free will. Ironic,  right? One of the first thing that the new constitution brought was the new distribution of Power. The election office was, let's say, elevated to a State Power. You see. I read once that in some other countries this division is not called power but administration,  or public administration. In Venezuela the word it was always used is Power, so the Power, formerly divided in three, got then divided by five, and the elections office was named then The Electoral Power. I'm not going to say that this was the cause of the crisis. It had something to do, of course, but a lot of things happened and there are a lot of information better exposed  and explained about it. I just want to show this as an example of deconstruction. Elections are worldwide known (or shown) as one pillar of democracy, or so we thought before the disaster.  Now Venezuelans have a different approach.  The opposition and government acolytes started breaking down several definitions so people's perception could  rephrase their understanding, all these through Social media; forth generation war, they called it. There were intense moments, along with a waterfall of decisions made in order to undermine whatever concept of freedom we had, and always in the name of democracy. One of the most important TV  Channels was shut down from national broadcasting. On one side we talked about a shut down and on the other they claimed it was a no renewal of the contract.  You see: concepts and broken down definitions.

 

Years before that, the government released this plan called Exchange Control, in which every foreign currency exchange must be done through the government's administration.  People got used to two exchange rates: the official one and the black market one. This economic plan took the country to one of the biggest depression ever, forcing people to rethink their lives. Politicians from both sides took advantage of this, of course. An advantage that went for a division. They got what they wanted: thousands of people fighting each other over their political beliefs. Yes, this big rephrase made people see this as a political belief! Society got divided in Chavistas and Opositores. The first ones supported the government and the second ones, the opposition.  As the crisis rises, people started moving out. For those who stayed, they stood for smoke faith and smoke will on politicians, I presume.  A lot has been said about everyone but the thing is that those who left, have left something that social media hasn't yet defined but that I’m thinking about it, it may not go by any sort of definition. Perhaps it’s more like a cheap trick of misdirection. We, specially the Generation X ones, got, with the assistance of time, and so many personal problems, that beliefs has more to do with power than culture. Social media has set several paths, I want to mention two: the path of the resentment and the path of the new hope. From the resentment, the idea that has been sold is that every single men from the government must pay back, and with that wave of anger, poor people too. Anyone who ever supported the dictator must pay debt somehow because of the suffering of the now immigrants.  From the new hope path, there is this other side trying to sell that people are struggling so hard to get through, and they deserve appreciation.  One side celebrates any sort of punishment,  and the other  celebrates any attempt of support for those who stay and work hard in the country. Working hard has been deconstructed too, from the way I see it. For instance when is Working not hard, I wonder?  

Second Page

A first break. A break that goes  fast and only with coffee. No food. This is the moment in which I should contemplate and place some thoughts. I kind of feel inspired by some of my workmates.  The way they keep joy and enthusiasm despite the routine is admirable.  I'm not like them but the truth is that somehow they make me forget about my situation for a while. I came up with this because I kind of forgot what I was going to write about. People need to deal with problems everyday; I believe that half of those problems come as a consequence from pretending, to a  certain point, something we are not. The other half tend to be more about knowledge or experience on certain situations.  For example,  many people confuse arrogance with honesty, claiming that they act like that because they are too honest and therefore they can’t lie. This, let’s say, type of  honesty, is hypocrisy. When someone approaches claiming that those hard words he said were meant to be out of honesty, it's not. It's just an ignorant ego stealing space and time with a poor justification, the thing is the conviction,  the one making you stick with that idea of some righteousness learned from an old movie, the kind of movie in which the main character can take a whole city to the ground just to prove that the villain is wrong. I guess the mind works kind of like: when something is missing, a word, a concept, a place, even a feeling, the brain takes whatever closest it can get. Pretend, yes. There is always something we take for granted based on those things we ignore. However what I want to bring up is if we ignore it accidentally or we choose to ignore it.  What in us might determine it? I guess it's our will... But what if I say that those drags of smoke might be what brings faith and will to the same thought,  to the same reflection?  We should acknowledge it: every promise falls into our convictions and we carry it through the smoke. Maybe that's why it fades; because of the anxiety.  Yellow teeth resembles so many promises that couldn't be kept. So the fingers. Specially our hands. How far has this metaphor changed from its meaning. In my hands, in my arms.

 
We keep the faith, and the will, somewhere in the air, in this room, and at this time.  How about health? Health seems to be more like a concept rather than a name. It varies over the years and the places. Covid-19 has clarified that pretty well. In fact, Covid-19 has shown the world that religions don't have the exclusive on closed-minded fanatics. We have always put science in a higher place over any other form of thinking, so these times have brought more angles and perspectives on that. Due to my age, I have had the chance to see the establishment of the cell phone in our society.  I remember when SMS messages came up for the first time and how was, from my angle, their impact back then. I remember it started out kind of like Twitter did: with a limited number of characters and no symbols such as emoticons or gif files at all. It was about the plane text. Sometimes I think about it and wonder whether inventors (tech inventors, I mean) hoped that society would get communicated by the establishment of the text message. Did any of them ever consider the grammatical implications? There is this uncomfortable thing with the information as well: I mean, first, this sort of no-grammatical-considerations veil to cover indeed this another veil which is the veracity of the information. I believe it started with the email, sure,  but when I try to set my own block of thoughts, I might see a pattern,  a route, a path for the information to get deconstructed in data, so thoughts may lose purpose afterward being conducted on a wave of post-truth.  What are thoughts without grammar? Words, words served for multiple puzzles. Do you know the puzzle you’re solving through your words? 

First page VI

Another toilet morning. A holiday’s next day has begun. Today It’s a holiday in Venezuela. Some noises come through the walls as they had their own language. It’s like If there was a kid playing with his blocks and they were the building we live in. Building is a fine word for describing these type of structures. A few days have gone by. I saw something good on social media: the four missing kids in Colombia were found alive. The reported was about to cry while giving the news and I just cried myself while watching. That was a couple of weeks ago. A month, perhaps. Good news to bring up. It's like the reporter then said: this is full of hope, and I agree with her. God bless those children! I wanted to phrase a little bit about faith again; Smoke Faith, as I've named it. It occurs to me that if I'm going public with these words I should go back with this idea and deal with it over and over until I have pleased myself out of explanation. Supposing it makes any sense at all. So here it goes: I kind of forgot what I've written so far about it, but I'm pretty sure I'm not getting far from the idea. Smoke Faith: I hate the smell of the smoke. I used to love it. I mean, there was a time in which I related that smell with having a good time in so many ways. Now I feel different about it. It's not that I really hate it. It's just that it now recalls worries and I think I’m some fed up with that. Push. Someone pushes for whatever reason his ego demands, and when such a push comes dressed up as faith, it could be hard to get a better perspective. The thing is that it normally fades but does not fade away. Something remains and it can grow again, like the smoke. After all, we're made out of dust. Dust. Dusty. What is the substance of my beliefs? Time is sand in my hands, Cerati sings in my head. I'm not even listening to the music I used to. I used to be this kind of person who recorded tapes from a selection of different albums. That implied, if you guys can recall, taking the time for each and every song and listening to them completely while being recorded. I guess that's why listening to such self selections hasn't been something that people who work a lot could do. I guess that's how the remote control got its reign, a reign now conquered by social media. I guess that's why I've become one those. I've been conquered too.

Now it's the time for short answers: now the self selection is more like; a bunch of yes and noes along with this frustration that comes from not choosing properly when to accept or refuse. Overtime. Overtime? Yes. Sundays? Yes. Night shift? Yes. Do you actually get some rest in the morning? No. Mail. Letters. Letters asking for payments you didn't know you had. Dates due, of course. You must call, and then rest. Can you? And yet you just keep thinking about that song, the one that makes you remember and evoke. Technology paid back al least with that. By letting us Nostalgia. Close your eyes. There's no time to listen to it entirely; live version has this solo but you just get interrupted: some message, something you forgot besides the debt. Now they are two calls and your English is not good enough to complain properly, so it will be more of short answers, and in the end you couldn’t get any rest. Is that too often? To my taste, yes!

Thus a new day comes and go by immersed in the routine. A bath, a shower, a sunset without a view. The worries that visit and don’t want to go. I've managed to listen to a couple of songs, awesomely, and by accident; I listened to them both entirely. Now I feel guilty about it. Why? Why sometimes giving yourself a little pleasure feels like you're doing something you shouldn't? Time to clock in. “When the doves cry” from Prince is playing in my earbuds. Let's walk. Music down. We're not allowed to play music on equipment nor using the cell phone. Breaks: one and two. What is this tiredness? Is it something mind-over-body thing?? It could be the smoke; the faith fading into a smell all over our clothes. We breathe it, so we feel it even when we are naked. Naked we want to be. Naked of prejudices to obey peacefully and get through with this we have. What do we have, I wonder? We have debts for balance, but we never get Naked from it. That's why the faith is just smoke. Let's drag us out. I was in this endless wondering every time it comes to talk about our life in Venezuela: this bittersweet taste for memories. What we're longing; feeling nostalgic for, and immediately after, the reasons that made us move out. I guess this is what being an immigrant is about: never stop missing and never stop resenting. Will my kids get this in the future? Who knows!

About Get. Get is an interesting word. Spanish language doesn't have it like that. For Hispanics the word get is expressed through several different words that, taking them closely, they may not mean get as it is English. So when you say: 'I got you' in so many talks, that is not exactly something we use in Spanish language. With that being said (written) I may not be getting this and you may be getting it different. However we meet halfway, and it turns out that it actually works pretty decent for both sides of the tale. So in my halfway message and your halfway eyes, I want to serve these words as a claim to this life we wonder if we ever chose but we now have to deal with. I'm not going to lie, I feel very lonely. This life as an immigrant has made me see through angles I would have liked not to meet. Sometimes the body may learn from theory and not by living the actual experience but I need to keep going. My son needs it, the upcoming one needs it. So let's face it. Let's fight another day. I am constantly wondering what is this thing that sort of controls me? I am sure that there is something out there that holds you back and make you refrain from letting yourself go and do what you know it's best for you: I think twice to check if what I'm about to say may be offensive to someone. I mean, why? Why am I programed this way? Who planted this need of considering everything? Am I someone's pet? If so, that person don't like me that much. During moments like this, my mind works on an attempt of putting pieces together: blocks of thoughts, parts o a certain memory; pieces from a past time or doubts born from the hesitation, from a blurry pictured future; pieces that I can switch when I come around, moving pieces from one place to another, in some way: decorating, something I remember I would have liked to do along with a short list of things I have to buy tomorrow, which is when I get paid: get, bringing back to an eyes closed vision that time in Paris, in Lisbon, and smile. I want to take my children there. Drums, drums playing. Everything comes with grooves and beats. I can’t function otherwise. I miss playing the drums, by the way.