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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

Fifth Page

 

October. Another morning.  Indoors for now.  I haven’t gotten up early enough during this week yet. I still haven’t been able to serve few words for this text. I have carried enough weight. I have done it for quite a long time, I think.  I haven’t paid any attention to the sunrises, or the sunsets lately. I haven’t even placed my thoughts on a chain to at least understand them. I talked to a friend; that I did. I was trying to share my worries with him; he’s still in Caracas, with all that it could mean for us; for them, and for everyone somewhat attached to it. I was trying to get some perspective, and I think I did it after all. He made this point that the fact that I was one of those out of the country, for the ones who remain there, there wouldn’t be any sympathy towards us – at all, from what I see – on any of our concerns. Somehow leaving the country breaks something to a point in which we start sounding strange to them and the other way around as well. During that strangeness, we found out about  feelings we prefer we hadn’t had, now we see different,  we see each other different, and now that I’m writing it, I wonder if it’s something that just came out and burst because of the distance, or if it was always there; if it was there held by the courtesy of the hangouts, and the good times together. Third break. It’s late already. Low season, they call it. Time to go back. I got something to write and thus link a little bit all this. I hope not forgetting about it. Alright. I was talking to a guy from work. We were comparing our countries, the bad things, such as government,  culture,  underdevelopment things, third world things and, we got to a point in which we realized that, aside from certain places in Europe; where else in the american continent you live in a place in which more than three languages, all from different places, share the same neighborhood,  and actually can greet each other as neighbors, if not here, and moreover,  if such  diversity is well understood, and somehow accepted,  how come this government wouldn’t interfere in other countries’ affairs? We got this conclusion that mostly left-wing-like and halfway-informed people, tend to be the ones who despise this country over public opinion matters. Most of their claims are based on opinions and perspectives from centuries ago. It’s a petty that those are the kind of people who rule our countries, and convey such a resentful angle on schools. We become adults hating a system we haven’t yet understood.  So there’s this pride, born out of the failure, compelling us that our sorrows are not on us. And it could get more serious as we take it further. I mean, we develop hate as a feeling that can be indoctrinated, from politicians in power, through the educational system, and that embraces (or implies)  love as the logical immediate opposite, therefore it might be indoctrinated as well. This make the love-hate path a place that we can transit back and forth,  and back and forth we let our faith – and idiosyncrasy – grow. We become back and forth believers with back and forth foundations and thus our confidence, and thus our Morality. Unless you're one of those who had high class education, which I don’t know since it's not my area. Never was indeed. Friday afternoon.  Home. Indoors. I’m going to see if I can take a nap. It was great. Now I would like to come back to bed but my boy is like, so very awake. I guess I’m going to have to wait. Let’s see. Friday night. Wine is gone already. I got some complain about it. I just thought one bottle was enough. I still think so. But I accepted it. What else can I do! It’s coffee time now. I think it’s good after the wine. There’s no work tomorrow.  I need to do a lot of things but I keep procrastinating them. I’m glad I could talk with another friend; one who left Caracas too. I guess we are unavoidably picking sides over this undeclared feud. When I started this story, I was so convinced otherwise, now I feel like I have to take back on several things. The life abroad is affecting me, changing me, as these words take place over this sort of story. Our story. Our version, and conversion. I’m sure I have mentioned it before, but this is a cycle, a spiral through which we’ll have to step on the same thing over and over; kind of like Nietzsche’s eternal return, so let’s bring it on again: once you decide, by force or by choice, to become an immigrant,  you have to start from scratch; everyone knows that, but it also implies, and I want to emphasize it, for some narcissistic reason perhaps, but I feel this need to place it in words, that it implies start over being poor, even if you never were, a new immigrant is a new poor, and as a new poor you have to learn things from there. I have learned some, and I’m fine as poor until I get to talk to another Venezuelan; specially anyone who decided to stay.  

Fourth page V

Waiting is the hardest part. Meanwhile Instagram is firing me with all these debt relief programs. I am tempted,  I’m really tempted. Sometimes I fill out the whole application and then I regret and take it back. The cost of living is the cost of life. I’m overwhelmed by my thoughts; the things I could do if, if only, but just only if, but no, not so far at least.  I need to figure out why I have this sense of remorse for things I didn’t mean to. It is so tiring to explain myself over the intentions of whatever I’ve done. It weakens me. Explain my intentions feels like I did something wrong or bad and I must justify it. If it’s bad, it’s fine, someone needs an explanation,  but what about those things beyond control. I came to pick up someone and that someone is not ready yet, do I have to feel bad for this time I’m waiting? I know I don’t, but I do, and I need to understand this impulse for explanation. Nobody cares, it doesn’t matter. I have to put this in different perspectives.  Meanwhile I remain regretful for not knowing how I should have done this or that. I can’t have a problem everyday,  please. There’s wine waiting. I just wish to be at home already. Why wine forces people to say things they can’t keep as true statements. It gets boring. Annoying. I gave it all. It is amazing. I am sure, completely sure, I gave it all, and I gave it all for nothing.  It’s hard to accept it. It was for nothing, but let’s leave that for later. Now I’m just waiting to get some sleep, to find hope elsewhere, perhaps focus on my boy’s voice; my boy’s smile, and stick with it. Nothing else matters, I guess, and I remain poor; that’s important to bring up; when you are poor, daily things become a drama. Rich people convey their art through higher states and dimensions, the poor, on the contrary, they play like they reach such a high level by exposing their miseries. We feel this need to tell everyone how bad we want to feel understood, ad we want to do that in a world where nobody cares. A whole drama. What are we going to do about it? Drink and bear. Next day tends to be next in several ways. Who knows? It could be my lucky day. Saturday morning. Gray like rain is coming anytime. A bit chilly but nothing unboreable with a sweater on. Coffee, balcony and birds singing; louder than other days, by the way. I can hear a few steps around. I was given another chance, that’s how God works. I must honor such a trust vow somehow, and I need to find the wisdom for it. My thoughts are not wise, and my ideas are not profitable in any sense. These very words won’t give me nothing to bring to my table, and yet I still come here and write some for my own realization. I wonder where this impulse; the insistence, comes from, given the fact that I am not the pushing kind. I’m more like introvert, I have this sort of condition that hits me every time which is called – I looked at it – over-explaining, and it is actually a trauma. Apparently we develop this when we are constantly made feel a fault. So we grow up always in search for approval. I’m not totally sure if that’s my case, but now I know it is an issue, and as such, I must take a look at it at least. Nevertheless I just go on with my things and it seems that today (and tonight) there will be wine and eat out. And I will get sad again for sure: what a cycle! But we are not there just yet. Let’s rise ad shine despite the gray.

 

Still loving you is just an amazing song, just like Comfortably numb. The solos, both solos, accompanied with a glass of wine, to listen then Stairway to heaven, the live version from The Song remains the same; watching my boy playing with my mom’s phone. This is my hallmark. My wife is coming to add some love to this scene. Now it’s time for thoughts to fly across the oneiric world I may create for them to flourish, thrive, or burst, depending on the dream. Tomorrow will be another day. Another Sunday. Let’s see. Let’s see indeed. Sunny, a bit chilly and quiet, except of course for the birds, and an airplane, which is coming right away, followed by the sound of a car running slowly: this is the song for those already awake at this time. I’m starting to get the sound of the elliptical machine too, I think I have mentioned at some point. I have a coffee, creamy but not sweet. Not sweetener for the first one I’m trying to state, and it has worked out pretty well so far since I started it. These sort of rituals, now presented as routines, help me – us, I believe – understand a bit more every time about my space-time relation with the environment I’m surrounded by. Birds’ singing is fading, for example,  that means more people are coming out, and that the morning is on for everyone. Indoors time, coffee is not over yet. I got this cool Star Wars mug with light sabers design, which shows the sabers on while the liquid inside remains hot. It’s a pretty nice thing to have. It was a gift from a good friend last summer,  not the summer just over but the one from last year.  I met him during a trip. We had a great time. Back in the balcony. Quiet, as I’m not used to. Another coffee, same mug, it became my everyday mug at home ever since. The weather can’t be nicer: sunny but not hot. I think I’m just giving myself this time for contemplation, I actually have nothing to write about, I mean, I’m always wondering why and how on several things floating inside my head. Some of them I just don’t know how to let out, but it’s not something I want to write about just now, maybe later. Later is not just yet. Later could be now, but I remain wordless for my ideas to become Text. Farewells are hard. I’m still trying to serve something about it, but not just yet I think. I’m still in the process of understanding some moves from certain people. In the meantime I would like to wonder why the exchange of own time over work done has this tendency for unjust? How do people actually realize they are doing more than what they get paid for? What is that thing that triggers our perception and takes us there? Because once there, there’s no turning back. It is kind of cruel in its own way. But now wine has done some damage, to the point of dizziness  and will for confessing. There’s coffee, decaf, because of the hour, but enough to withhold this impulse on over talking. We call it ultra petita, in law school. Everyone is in their room, so there’s no audience for uncomfortable confessions based on wine. Let’s get quiet, tomorrow it will hard and we have to work too. The air conditioning is going crazy with this weather.  So I am. Let’s just go to bed. No balcony, too early, early Monday. A farewell is coming. We must be on time to stop by and keep going.  Things look slow at work. A tense calm followed by the uncertainty of what will happen in the next few days. Supervisors don’t say a word. There is this sound I can hear and, I might guess, it is someone mopping the floor, there is a bucket falling down from some stairs, or so I hear. Two guys laughing and telling each other a story, a story I don’t care, but I have to listen to it. We should close our  ears the way we close our eyes. Some things are just worthless to listen to and yet we have no choice for it.  It’s not like when we don’t want to see something. The Power, wearing any of its faces, takes advantage of that. Power tends to find the way to get to our ears and makes us listen to those things we don’t want, and does it as many times as necessary, until we assimilate it, and then be pushed to believe and accept,  because, eventually,  we all accept it. There are plenty of examples throughout history. It happens with music too. What people call music nowadays is incredible. Most of the music I like comes from a joint effort of minds working together in an attempt of expression, and that doesn’t mean they must say something in a song. Sometimes it has more to do with the way they play the instrument,  or that, plus the musician put in a specific part of the song. Having that, getting that, it’s just sublime, provocative,  

Fourth page IV

 

Read a book, listen to a whole record, go on and watch a movie. Go ahead a pick one by chance, something,  someone you’ve never heard before. Give it a chance, give yourself a chance to go on something you never saw on social media, and then sense it. Make your own impression about it: a terrible movie, a boring record, a very bad novel, place, time, picture, exhibition,  it won’t matter because, each and every single one, will grant you with a piece of space for your thoughts and perception to float, to flow, so be it. Afterwards you pick a place and sit, talk to yourself and smile (or cry) alone. Then get your shit together and get a job, or go to work if you have one. It doesn’t sound like a plan to you? You can always go back to your scrolling, just give it a try. I try. I read some today. It felt great. It felt like a trip when you pay nothing ad you can get anything. O want some delusion here: there is this girl gone crazy for a guy. I haven’t seen that before, I mean, I have lived a life where women always have the say; watching that is really impressive to me. Sunday night. To some, we are in autumn already. Yesterday it rained the whole day. It was kind of like an entrance for the pumpkin season, but today, tonight, summer says goodbye on some fresh air despite of the dark. Tomorrow we’ll see. I feel like I want some coffee. And I had it, as I’m having one right now. It’s cold, the weather,  not the coffee, but a cold summer-like, which means there’s no need for any sort of coat. Friday and Saturday were colder. Almost no stars in sky, I can’t even see the moon. It’s thick, I don’t know, not Foggy, but dark blue gets me this thick sense. If I could get a piece of it, – a piece of sky – at least  a piece from the one I’m starring at now, it would be thick. Lamps on the streets are on. Lamps of the apartments across; not. Is it too early? I don’t think so.

Light bulb of the balcony needs to be replaced.  Dark and cold became friends. I could join them by wearing some coat but I guess I’m opting stay indoors out of my lack of mood. Why?  I guess – again – because bad news tend to hit harder lately,  not because of their impact; their impact is something different to place in thoughts: that requires a different angle.  I’m talking about how often, or how many, depending on my will to count them, or pay attention to them. I tried counting first, it’s just not working,  I mean, I get tired of it. There’s some weight to carry while thinking about them, and, during this traffic jam of thoughts, the effort of counting them, let the others vanish too soon, so there’s a little spot for reflection; and I need to come around. Light bulb replaced. This one is white, it gives you this sense of office now. I think I like it better in yellow. The yellow light gets me, I don’t know, warm, takes me back in time, takes me to Caracas,  on 1985, or 86, when I was in our elementary school. This one, on the other hand, takes me to an office, and I just realized I miss them both. Break time. Breakfast time but since fasting, the break’s got to wait a little longer. A little longer I must wait indeed for some news to come. And they will. I just need to give myself to delusion meanwhile: I see you see me, I see you see me behind that I-don’t-care-about-you gesture in your face. I know anger can be a mask sometimes,  a suit we feel like we need to dress due to the this fear of exposure.  Feelings must be kept in the mouths of silence. In the steam that comes out and rests around the glass right after a sip of wine. That moment, that look up trying to find it, and not getting it yet… that look down trying to let it go, and carrying with it still. At home. Quiet. Walls speak: a TV on, at some other apartment, a video on the phone perhaps. I feel like I need to shave but I tend to drop it right before the bath. It’s like this nutrition program: I just had an Ice cream that I shouldn’t have had.  Let’s play Depeche Mode for this moment and enjoy the silence. There’s plenty of time for whining in words (written thoughts) specially during this story, a story nobody cares, to be honest. 

 

It was just the perfect opportunity, and I just wasted it. Why? Well, here I am: the car won’t start. It was like that since yesterday evening.  I made here to pick up my mom and then it didn’t start anymore. Two people came for help. The first one tried to start it. He really wanted to help and I just felt and feel graceful for it. If you hesitate of God’s existence,  think again. Unfortunately,  it didn’t work out. I joined one of these car companies that provides roadside assistance. They never came. I got a call from them at 1:00 AM. I saw it at 5:00 AM. I was already at home thanks to the second man who stopped by and tried to help as well. Since he could not get the car started, he offered himself to take us – Mom and I – home. Like I just said. God is there. I’m in the workshop now, but let’s go back a few hours. I texted my boss to let him know I was going to be late today (which I’m still, and I guess I will be for the rest of the day) He didn’t answer but I assume he got the message. I got to the parking load where I left my car, right where I picked up my mom yesterday. I tried again, maybe 20 times more, and nothing happened. I called for a tow service. The second one was the one who took me to the workshop I’m used to take my car. The guy there refused to check the car, he claimed they don’t do that, so he suggested another workshop, and we went, and there was no one there. I told my tow driver: I’m lost, I’m not from here, I don’t know what to do, Do you know some place where I can take the car? He made a call, got a number. I called, and here I am, writing while waiting. Unfortunately I didn’t bring any boo and it was actually the best chance for it. I’m going to leave my whole salary here. Taking care of a problem means delaying another, that’s how life works for me, for us, I took my boy in my arms yesterday. I took a bath with him, I started to cry, he started to laugh and that made me think about God again. I have one of his angels right in my arms, so hope came back again. Today I feel broke – I am broke – but this story is not over. For now, let’s just state that I wasted the perfect opportunity for a good read, but on the other hand, I got a good one for writing. I don’t think I’m going to have one like this for a long time, but who knows! I’ve written a lot so far, despite the fact that no one is going to read it, my son will, I know, so it will worth at the end. Let’s still wait and do what most people do in cases like this one: scrolling up and down on social media. 

Fourth page III

 

My little man is still sleeping. I’m loading myself up of hope thanks to him. And it’s real, you know! Today it wasn’t that bad with the deliveries. I had it in a good pace. Still cloudy, and raining. It’s a bit chill too. I’m on the floor, on the carpet. This type of apartment has a carpet all over the floor. So here I am, with my little man, which is climbing the sofa over and over while I watch him and smile. I feel like I want a glass of wine but my wife and I decided to take a break (it’s Sunday) but who knows, she just went to the supermarket. Let’s see. She came back empty handed. It's time for a shower. The walls of this apartment sound like there were someone else taking a shower behind them. They talk, from what I can hear. We never feel alone. Actually feeling alone is more prompted towards being with people who don’t care about you, rather than being by yourself though. Chill. Bad mood around. It’s Monday but that doesn’t make any different from whatever day. That has more sense back home. Tuesday: dark, chill, black coffee on hand. There was a store in my dreams. I don’t remember what it was it about. Still early. I thought I could have a bit more of something to state, or wonder about and writing it here, but I just remain silent in every way. I don’t know what to do. There is this strategic move I should be smart enough to make it, but it overwhelms me. It’s like it is further from my capabilities. I hate it. I hate hesitation from myself. I feel bad enough already when realizing I’m repeating the classic pattern of not being with my boy, only because I have to work. That’s enough from a punishment. Sometimes I think that if something ever happens to me, these words won’t go public. I’m halfway from whatever goal I set up in my head, but I’m not sure how long will it take me that other half. I guess I have to honor my roots, go public incomplete, and keep going with the flow. Going with the flow is actually what I’ve been doing so far. The flow has taken me to work more and more. The flow has me worried about the car and the debts.

 

Yesterday,  I just felt tired for delivering. I forfeited it. I felt more like going published and so I did: I started posting this tale. I thought at first that I was going to slow down this impulse I’m having for writing, once I get to post the first page, – or chapter, whatever suits best – but it turns out that I’m still on it. I want to keep placing our thoughts as part of this narrative. Dark; We better get used to it. From now on, every morning is going to look as it looks now, only colder with time, and it will remain so until next summer; not even next spring, I think. More black coffee then, and more clothes for having some time here in balcony: yes, the balcony.  In order to keep ourselves writing, light must be on. That makes us one of these yellow ships floating in the dark. Like the one I’m in front of, like the one whose silhouette I have wondered about. Two more I can see at the back. Two little ones I see coming closer; it’s a car, and then another one: people going to their jobs, or just parking outside, until the school bus picks up their kids. This is the type of complex with gate bars at the entrance, we get a special magnetic key to enter, and there is a sensor that opens it when coming out. It has its timing, I guess for safety purposes; it takes a few seconds to open up, that means we have to wait to go out. If it’s not six thirty yet, you will have a few cars on your way out from those parents waiting for the school bus. It’s better to wait until six thirty five. Anxiety doesn’t like that. Anxiety is always interesting. It is always good to bring up. Clear, it’s clear: dark, but clear, the lead voice is on the engines. We get this sense of factory, of production lines, while having a coffee. I guess working is always in our heads. I was talking about that yesterday: working is so present on songs’ lyrics, not like in my culture, that there are songs for not working actually. On the other hand, it came to my mind these guys from On The Road; I think they don’t work in the story. I don’t remember it well. That’s why I tend to refrain from quoting, since I may mix references. We better stick with each other here and leave the wise ones alone in their pages. Again, dark and clear with machine sounds. A Slipknot song we could evocate out of this sensing. The coffee is a plus, weather is not warm at all. Evening at last. Nothing special to bring up, maybe a couple of things to break down. Illusions pops as wine fades, my mouth tastes the last one while my mind plays with the first one. Let’s declare: better times are coming, despite the desperation. My boy plays with his pacifier. I wonder and realize in the meantime. Hope has its own language, then I smile. I forgot if I’ve ever mentioned it, but we live near the airport,  so every few minutes we get to see (and hear) the airplanes. When it’s dark, kind of like now, airplanes look more a bit like spaceships, or so I see them, and they add some momentum to this sort of symphony I whiteness every time I sit by myself in the balcony. If this were a rock song, the airplane passing sound would be the epic drum fill, like the one in Tom Sawyer. It doesn’t look that dark today. It’s a bit cold, but enjoyable. First break with no eating yet. I was thinking about the word break: it is so not our culture, just like this combination: go by. I don’t go by the standards you break down for me. I have my own way, and expectations will met in both. This would be the kind of sentence a machine translator might not help you with. I just checked it on Google, and it turns out that it actually works pretty well. I’m heading to the obsolete. Let’s get there in good mood then, it will be unavoidable,  so why worrying or getting mad, right? A gray rainy Saturday. It doesn’t seem to be a joyful day. Let’s see. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t, but real life tends to be less dramatic. I had a bit of wine. I didn’t feel like having more, not even as usual. One glass, one glass was fine yesterday. Today looks better out there. It looks more for a nice walk. It’s Sunday. Again, let’s see. Now that I live in an English speaking country, I’ve been getting more than I used to from songs and movies. I’m not going to lie, remember,  we meet halfway, but what I’m trying to say is, that although I don’t get to understand fully like a native speaker,  I get more every time, and that more is putting me in a position of – I guess – realizing that there are quite a lot of songs whose message is leant to express the feeling while high, or on something stronger. I have nothing against it, but it makes me smile from time to time when getting it. By the way,  there’s something I need to leave here. I don’t remember if I already had done it, but just in case, here I go: we need to work more on our capability to give space to our thoughts to flow. Thoughts need to flow. They need space. A good way to make that space bigger might be by reading more fiction, so we train our head to create platforms on which we can develop our stories, or whatever we may be getting from a lecture: the more, the better. A bigger space helps us get how tiny things can be and therefore realize that not everything, in fact; almost nothing, is about us. Two people whispering around, for example.  They might be talking about anything, not exclusively about us. That is important.  We tend to spend too much energy on others, on things we think they are about us, and that’s because our platform (if I can call it so) is not big enough to let those thoughts vanish on the oblivion. It’s like smoking in a closed bedroom. We’ll get intoxicated, and so will happen with thoughts. Let’s make them a bigger room, a bigger space. That might work as an antidote for the excessive scrolling – and depressing vibe – on social media. I made an experiment on myself.  Too many people having the greatest time everyday and every time… honestly,  that is just sad. Imagine the pressure we get to be under, that we have to share only good things. Imagine spending your day, looking for something great, something that may last no more than ten seconds, most of the times, in an attempt to marvel  several people’s eyes who just don’t give a fuck about you. And on top of that, living with the anxiety that comes out when others post nicer things. The never ending comparison match. 

Fourth page II

 

Breakfast for lunch. An hour of exercise earlier. It’s been a cool Saturday so far. Now it’s time to work. And it was fine too. I’m holding a glass of wine thinking that I’m going to take a bath with my son in a few minutes. I haven’t taken it yet, I’m about to, but I haven’t though. Sunday morning. Cloudy.  It looks like it’s going to rain. I think I’ve missed a couple of details: you see, with this obsessive-compulsive habit of scrolling the phone screen – because we just can’t (and don’t want to) stop doing it – it is very common for anyone to fall onto a monothematic stage, to a point of self limitation,  which is actually moved by the trends of social media. We don’t choose our topics, we remain inside a loop that keeps us repeating the two or three variants of that subject we probably were not thinking about, and perhaps, if having something to say of it, it wouldn’t fit with the previously established variants I was referring to. In fact this very writing is a proof of that. Then, back to the never-ending topic, I wanted to add, based on my opinion, that the change of the establishment, talking about the factors of power, brought up what we’ve been calling dictatorship. Why? And here’s my guess: a left-wing-like system will always be less democratic due to its essence,  which in my understanding, goes by the increment of rules from The State, to seize more control over the nation (and by nation I mean everybody else) The democratic appearance was given by the allegedly free speech from the media,  and the size of the industrial park. The new regime changed that. They reduced the industrial park by setting up a bunch of economic measures and procedures, forcing several owners to find abroad a place to work under more suitable circumstances. They promoted a series of new laws that made payrolls simply unsustainable for the private sector. In order to keep the nation going, the government had to sponsor pretty much everything in every aspect. That’s what they wanted, they wanted to be above the private sector. As an employer you weren’t able to let an employee go unless you had a reason that fit the criteria of the law. Such a thing is going get different angles, I know. But there is the undeniable fact that owners prerogatives were undermined,  making it subjected to question the worth of having a property, where sovereignty is not fully so. And I’m just cherry picking here. They wanted to control the currency exchange: a terrible mistake. It takes a lot professional analysis to make the world understand that phenomenon. I don’t have the words. I was just a victim like every single nor high range officials, or friend of those, in Venezuela. And those are the ones I wanted to mention in the first place: those people have found the best money and power match at the cost of the nation. In other words, we lost the country to make those people rich. Now what we have left is our disposition for a job in another country and make ends meet with it. The morning is almost over.  It's raining.  It’s been raining for a couple of hours,  maybe.  Schedule is set. I’ll be on duty in the afternoon.  Let’s hope the rain to stop then. In the meantime,  I’m having my son here with me. He’s sleeping right over my chest. I remember when he fitted whole,  that was barely two years ago. Now his legs are out, his arms are out, and eventually, I’m not going to be big enough to have him this way, so I just enjoy it while I can. There is a kind of synchronicity between the fan spinning and his breathing.  I’m always getting those type of sounds like they were the music of the world, perhaps not the world; that sounds like too big. Let’s say that’s the music of the environment, the environment I’m surrounded by. There is a beat and I usually tend to get it. Sometimes I think that we are driven by it and the fact that we can listen to it is a proof we’re not entirely on our own, and that there might be a chance that someone is setting that up to make us function somehow. Some other times I think that it is just my obsession to find songs anywhere and everywhere. There are times in which I think it is a useless capability, but once in while I think it is going to be part of brighter future. Once in a while I think I’m not going to remain poor, and that the things I’ve learned and thought may be worth to pay for, so I can teach my son a sensitivity to understand the world from there, and not only from social media standards. The sound brings words, words that acquire a shape to become a message,  a message that comes up to share it, because we are here not only to do as told, but to create and explore, explore the untouchable and make up our own language out of it. Only that it is not happening now. I mean, it is happening, but in my head, and it says there; there and in these words. Most of the time I’ve got to go to work. In fact I’ll be working in two hours from now, so I’m helping my crazy thoughts not to vanish in the oblivion, by keeping them here and whoever decides to give them shelter while reading them if ever get to it. Thus I have space to worry about my situation and work hard to get through it. 

Fourth Page

 

Fog. Foggy dawn. It’s curious to me that fog excels the light while blurring it. Lamps cover more but in a less clear way. Sun is not shining yet at all. Somebody got an exercise machine. I can hear the cycling sound beating. There’s a shape walking by, and by the light that comes out of his cigarette,  I could see it was a man taking a drag. Crickets, I hear some. The rhythm is led by the exercise machine. Now I’m inside the apartment, hearing the sound of the water flowing through the pipes. Somebody is taking a shower, I guess. Voices. Voices behind the wall, two female voices. It’s still early. Monday: a new week of expectations. Is there a word in English language for the opposite? Let’s say I do not want any expectations. It’s not unexpected, it’s more like, for this case; dis-expected. I would like to dis-expect some of my worries, at least the upcoming ones, those not yet turned into actual problems. Please, don’t come! First job, checked. Second job, about to start. The day is fine. Sky looks nice, everything seems good for a Monday afternoon. It should be easy. Good music is making me company. Let’s enjoy it. At the end, it wasn’t that good but I can say it was fine, I mean, regardless of the distance, I did it in a good pace. Black dawn. No fog today, just darkness and engines running. I dreamed about some people, people I know. People whose ultimate decisions got me thinking. I thought of this great book: The unbearable lightness of being. I don’t know.  It’s not something we feel like we want to state, but there is some certainty on such an angle: determination is often thriven at random; by chance. Planning looks great on companies’ meetings and self-help books, but our true will grows stronger, in so many ways, and at so many times, by the appetite of the sudden. Let’s go, let’s do it. Tomorrow we’ll see! And tomorrow passes, over and over, to a point that I need to see it as a plan: a plan I never made, but it makes sense using it as the storyboard of this life I’ve chosen… In other words: I never got to the how of such a what, therefore I better work on my why. But when why is what with no how, or how is why with no what; how does what matter without why? I’m wondering. It rained. It rained during the second job. Tiring. Incomplete.  Let’s see what comes from oneiric. Actually it was a weird dream: there was a young guy; a janitor, on duty, who I asked for something in the pool to fix. He gave me that look you give when someone is wrong, saying something wrong, you think he’s stupid, or didn’t go to school, or perhaps that look immigrants get from a gringo when we try to express ourselves in English. In my country we say, if translated: the guy wrinkled his face. In Venezuela you wrinkle your face before a situation is not common to you and it sort of bothers you. Like the beggar on the street, who approaches with a story of misfortunes just to ask for money at the end of it. I wrinkle my face right away. Well. That’s the look the guy gave me,  or so I thought, because,  to be honest, we never see actual faces; what we see is more like what we interpret. And yes,  I got mad in the dream, I got mad, and for some reason,  I was bigger than him, so I stepped on, pretty close, and intimidated him. I don’t intimidate anybody in the awake world. I guess that happens because it’s my dream. So I did it, and he felt miserable by my claim. The next scenario, I remember it as myself trespassing somebody’s property to get, I guess it was a toy, for my son. The owner of the property: some shape with no face, came close and the janitor guy from the previous scene, talked to him on by my behalf and explained the owner whatever reason I may have had, and which I have no idea of. I remember we all shook hands, then I woke up before the alarm. That was two days ago. Now I’m waiting for the clock to reach eleven thirty five to approach myself to the break room. I have pasta. I love pasta. I think Venezuelans love pasta in general.  Last night I had a great time. It was my mother’s birthday.  Having hear around gives me hope. When we study in English we learn this expression: make ends meet. Let’s see how it goes. I don’t see it at the moment. In Venezuela, when people have hope, despite of some overwhelming scenario, we say: cualquier culo echa sangre, and it works like a mantra. Cold morning. Not Foggy. Actually it’s not that cold, it’s just colder than all these days before. Summer is coming to end. Perhaps it’s already over, and sunny afternoons are just a prelude for a see you next year. How positive do we get to be, to state that we’ll do this or that, or see whoever we say we’ll see, in a future time? Where does that confidence come from? From routines,  maybe? And what about when it’s not a routine? It might be a farewell.  Farewell is there, like and entity. An uninvited entity for some, but not for all, and moreover,  not for both; assuming that this is about a matter of two. A guy who works with me asked me, I was telling him some story from a past time and, now that I’m writing it, it occurs to me that a past time is in way a past life, another life, a life gone. I’ve come to think that those past life memories we tend to hesitate believe in, they might be in fact about  immigrants; immigrants’ lives, an immigrant telling something where he came from. Different languages meet halfway and I’m not even sure if what I’m writing here is actually what I want to say but, I’ll be more than pleased with our halfway encounter. So the guy asked me, right after finishing my story, what happened to Venezuela? I didn’t tell him this much, but I feel like telling a bit more here, not without pointing out,  that this is what I think, and that everyone has the right to agree or not, in fact, it might be better if there are disagreements.  Disagreements will take us to a better understanding.  So here I go: I want to call them factors of power; they are primarily two: The Clergy and The Oligarchy. The first one is formed by the church, which is an important political arm there, and the second one, by the aristocracy. I believe those factors have been in control since we were part of Spain. With time,  those factors came up with a third one: The Military force, and with such, it came the republic. As a republic, it was ruled for many years by the three factors. In my perception, it remained as it until half of the twentieth century, more or less; after that, when the democracy was established, and so the unions, this last one, as I see it, became the fourth factor of power. Everyone else was, in a way, a servant of the power structure. Every single chairman-like official in the government was promoted by any of the factors through political parties. That worked for a while. Of course, there were riots, laws, media influence, but in general, it worked out for many. Until bankers, media owners, and some other rich people who were not part of the aristocracy, decided to seize a place in structure of power. The first step was the division of the unions: teachers, police men, nurses, and a lot of workers, started feeling unrepresented.  The next move was… a hero, an outsider, and, to me, that’s how Chávez became famous.  He was the hero that this emerging power needed. So they made him a politician, and on top of that, they made him the alternative of the unionized. I believe some, let’s call them, deserters from the former factors, joint this new movement, knowing there was a lot of money and left wing agenda behind it. So everything got set, and Chávez became president and got all the support he needed to promote a new constitution, and therefore a new structure of power. Former factors got their share still. It was a transition. We never got the chance to choose. We never had it, actually. And the purge began… new ministries, laws, exchange control, expropriations, and all the things that made six million people leave their homes and lives, to start over where nothing previously done seems to be considered. There are millions of stories to pick: hunger, crime, threats, brutality,  nepotism,  corruption, everybody has something to say. I have my story, our story, we all have it: at the hospital, in the neighborhood,  while driving. There are too many. Too many voices silenced by routines in warehouses and social media feeds. Too many stories hidden behind smiles and cool poses. A transcultural era, for many, and still in disguise. 

Third page VIII

 

Another night, another deception . Get used to it. I take a shower with my boy. I have to take advantage of it because he will grow faster than my thoughts. I enjoy it. It's kind of like our moment. I hope he remembers it as I do. Now I’m naked in front of the sink, thinking and writing.  Realizing this is too depressive.  I better change the narrative here, I must talk about something else. Yes. Next day. Dark. Still dark.  Bugs are playing their dawn symphony. They always do. It just came to my mind that I am witnessing so many wonderful sunsets every time I go to the second job. The way the sky is painted feels like a gentle touch for my view. I can have that. I can have a coffee now as well. Time pushes indeed, but I wake up early. Someday soon I will also watch the sun emerge from this darkness and greet our mornings with the fade of the symphony.  I’m still working on logistics here. But it will happen eventually. In the meantime,  I get ready for the first job. The one at the warehouse. I forgot to point this out as something worth to mention: that the bugs don’t play alone, birds play along with them. It seems to me that they, the birds, are not part of the concert since the overture,  but they tend to be part of it as the chants go by, they seem to be like special guests, daily special guests. Who are the daily special guests in our life? Do we have any? Is it good to have it? Is it good not to have it? Sun is coming. Darkness is leaving. I’m watching it from a window, while sitting on the couch, so this one won’t count. I would like to count on any special guest, I guess. Nostalgia is a nice word. I like the word that Portuguese has for it: saudade, to long for that you once had, perhaps knowing you’re not going to have it ever again. Like puberty, for example. I remember when the complexity of what we disturb ourselves with, used to lie more onto unfulfilled desires rather than unmet expectations. Now I’m thinking about the lasting of each – and the repercussions, of course – how long does a desire burn for? What happens next after it stops burning? With expectations is another story, isn’t it? We can expect consequences! In the afternoon,  the symphony is mostly played by cars. Those who stop and those who go. That’s the drivers’ concert, which I’m about to join but not yet. I’m still waiting, whispering and sighing, for the day on my shoulders and for the upcoming ones, in this case. Next day again. Less dark, from what I see. Engines got loud that I can barely hear the crickets. A couple of legs passed by. Still summer. We’re getting into the last days. A light blue is approaching from the back of the sky, making its way through the dark tones already posed when looking up. A few and little pinks start emerging from the clouds. I can see them now. They are preparing the sky for the entrance of the sun. Sun is taking it easy; there’s no rush for shining or rising at the moment. A few birds started singing.  It’s a new day, coffee on hand: black and bitter, for an imaginary sweetness. Memories – mine at least – tend to be stored in my mind a bit like photos or videos on the cell phone; if I want one, I have to, let’s say, scroll until I get it. Lately they have been popping up randomly. I would like to know why. It’s involuntary. I’m picking an order at work and suddenly, a high school moment comes like it was something I’ve been thinking of, but it’s not. My guess is that the mind brings these moments out nothing in an attempt to bear the worries. In other words, the mind can’t stand thinking too much about something whose solution is not coming any sooner, or that there’s no way to solve it at the moment. A defense mechanism maybe, maybe a tryout to prevent a possible collapse. I’m forgetting things out of focus lack. Nevertheless here I am trying to break it down to come up with an understanding… with you, with them, with all of us. Could that be a good thing after all? I think it could be what we tend to code as faith; having faith might be an interpretation of how your mind works things out to keep you going. How about atheists? Honestly, that is a form that narcissism adopts on some people. You build your own ego, on many cases, by forcing yourself to a stereotype fitting, or to an archetype already made, to satisfy a market need,  or a political establishment. What we do is to characterize someone we think we can be using such foundations. That works for a time on many, for a whole life to some. But it may stop working, and there it is when we should surrender our ego, and let ourselves embrace any new and fresh aspect for our personality, something that might be a more appropriate fit for the times we’re living. Quite a break through! And quite a challenge, considering the rejection on long-term endeavors.

 

The sky looks like it’s going to rain. There is this mix of heat and cold breeze that feels weirdly nice. I’m inside the car, waiting,  listening to the sound of one of these industrial engines that must expulse a sort of steam, or smoke - I’m not sure - to keep functioning. The sound has a funny variation more likely found in music songs. If the simulation theory is somehow real, how music would exist then? I don’t know. It just occurred to me. Play is an interesting word. A band plays a song while recording it, and fans play that song over and over later on. In Spanish those plays are in fact two different words; two different verbs. So play works out for the listener and the musician. I’m both, by the way. Play symbolizes pleasure; amusement, in every way when it comes to music. I’m home. I can hear the air conditioning.  I can also see myself into the black mirror out of the TV set. It’s not that I see me clearly, but I can see how I feel in that image of myself I’m now projecting. I’m looking at my son while he still sleeps. He is just a little angel in my bed now. I’m blessed. I love the sound he's making with the pacifier. It’s like a drum beat which I want to follow up. Someday he will see me playing and someday he will have the chance to sense the music like I do. That’s my one true advice if I can give any: sense the music. Break every line down of an instrument and try to get the language each one of them is speaking. It’s just a wonderful thing to do. Enjoy it when you can. The day has almost gone by. Supper was huge; great. INow I don’t know if I’m sleepy or tired. I am full, that’s for sure. Full of emptiness? Not now. Full of hope? Not either. Full of food. Today. Tonight. It’s cold outside.  Not like fall or winter, but cold for a summer night. Crickets sings. The sky is dark, a bit blurry because of the clouds, and not as dark as early in the morning, but dark above all. I guess I will never stop getting surprised by the attention unpaid. I mean, I’ve been there a thousand times, and yet, there it is the bitterness showing up like the flame of a lighter when rolling it on. I’m old enough to tell when my words are going nowhere in a conversation, but I insist, I speak louder; which is a terrible mistake. I’m the only one who knows what my words worth but I keep giving them away and leave them in the unappreciated. If someone is not listening to you, stop talking to them. As simple as that. – I heard that from Jordan Peterson and loved it – Whatever it is that we want to say, should not be subjected to disinterest by our stubbornness. Specially if it goes only to please our ego. Not anymore. And yes, That’s why we insist and that’s why we think we need it. For our ego. It hurts, I know. It pisses us off, I won’t deny it. But we have to accept and understand when we are no longer a priority, therefore what we have to say won’t matter. I’m learning how to deal with it. I have come to a point in which I wonder if I have been doing wrong during all this time.  Perhaps I’m just facing the consequences of choosing this life. Now I’m a fool hesitating and wondering, and I can’t stop thinking about it. Add debts to that and you’ll get a preposterous present: my present. Thanks God I have the love for my son. I’m scared that I’m putting too much on him. I don’t want him to feel any pressure. I want him to be free and happy. I can’t sleep. Anger won’t let me. I’m thinking too much. I need to change the subject. Let me try. I need to believe that I am going through this for a reason, and that there will be some sort of reward afterwards. Is it too foolish? I know. It is. Fucking archetype that won’t let me change, and embrace failure and disappointment as something I have to get rid of, and not as a sacrifice for a cause I know is not such. I’m just losing my faith away. I hate the Smoke. And that’s what my faith has turned into: a drag that goes away with the wind, as the cigarette runs out, and then there comes the need of lighting another one, and another one, and another one, until I have no more and start disturbing and talking shit about everyone, only because I need to buy more cigarettes. I have to take care of he kid. The rest are too busy drowning in the social media while having a smoke. That’s another story,  that’s the story of self cheating. Self cheating and victimism have taken on self esteem. I guess I need to find a joke on Instagram, or spy on someone else’s life, to see mine more miserable and blame the world for it. I hope I can enjoy the balcony, or the sunset. At least listen to the music I like. I remember when I was a teenager and I used to do it. I listened to a lot of music. Those were the days! At the moment,  I just want to say a prayer for my boy. It’s a habit. My faith comes back in a different way. Venezuela was once a colony of Spain, that explain our heritage in many aspects as a nation; as people in general. With the passing of the time, there were lots of changes that added features to our idiosyncrasy, but I could say Religion has kept solid since memorial times. Most of us are catholic. Many of us went to catholic schools,  in fact, I’m pretty sure that catholic schools are still among the first choice for parents to enroll their children.  If I were there, I certainly would be one of those. We have to link these sort of traditions to this vogue-like atheism typical of social media. We must understand that there is a coexistence between everything we inherited as population, and anything trendy on those cell phone apps. We also must understand that many things derived from such coexistence, have political purposes; specially the ones related to behavior and beliefs. Pedophiles at catholic church? Yes, sure. But the fact that media implies that such a crime happens out of religion beliefs, instead of a position of power, understanding,  of course, that church is, obviously,  one of those – I’m not denying it – but not the only one, simply makes the difference. A criminal is a criminal for the things he did, not for the institution he believes in. Nevertheless we buy the political narrative, so we embrace the possibility that religion, as an institution, is undermined by the faith, leaving aside the corruption. There are many examples like that. I could state that the vogue of being open mined was use for such causes as well. That’s why we wanted  for a time to be those who, allegedly, understood the path the world was taking. Now in my forties, I don’t know. I think I’ll just stick with jokes. But the damage is already done. The Venezuelan exodus started more or less in 2015, it has not slowed down ever since yet. So now we watch news like: two Venezuelans were capture trying to rob, kidnap, rape, steal, falsify, blackmail; whatever felony you can come up with. Since when the citizenship dictates the law compliance? Since it's convenient for a political say. Then you get used to read it on social media, and then the prejudge is already on everyone’s head. You also read the opposite,  and it's kind of annoying too: the secretary of whoever important person is Venezuelan, the yoga instructor of whoever celebrity is Venezuelan. Don’t tell me that isn’t political too. After a shower and some wine, I have come to realize that job ads are fake. I haven’t figured them out yet but they seem fake to me. I mean, how come it is that there are so many ads, looking for so many people, at so many levels, with so many types of jobs, and no one calls you for a review of your résumé? Really? You’re telling me I’m not good enough to be summit at least? Come on!