Seventh Page

 

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

 

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

 

Operaciones básicas como preposiciones.

 

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

 

Saludos en letras

 

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

 

HIdden

It really was a bad day yesterday. I mean, It was one of those moments when one realizes that life seems to be pretty much the making of a figure with sand at the beach. I tend to believe that time will tell, if you get to build a castle or just a little house. Everything starts with a little house. At least to some; to me, perhaps. Yesterday was one of those moments when you can see life is not in the sand but in the water, and just one wave can put you at the beginning again. For how long, or how many times, I wonder. I guess it will be as many as hope and expectations govern human thoughts. Why these thoughts then? I´m hoping when hope hurts. Is it some sort of self-destructive nature? Not really. We strive for good. It’s just that hoping and expecting tend to be just one word in Spanish and that´s how we, the Hispanics, get such a feeling. Waiting for, hoping for, and expecting, are conjugated through the same word in Spanish. So this is more an inside thing. I hope inside while waiting outside. I might look expecting to other when I’m just waiting without any hope. There are multiple combinations because we are going to use the tone, we want the other to get and not what we really mean. Spanish gives you that for sure, but on the other hand, once you get all the tones you will understand everything, and, mostly, this exhibition of tones is just nothing but drama. Drama we love. It is interesting that Drama and Dream look pretty similar as words, considering the context in which they can go together. I made a drama out of my unmet dreams. I hope, while I wait, that my expectations get met someday but without too much drama, since I just dream about it. I don’t know but, what I do know is that some of these words were hidden in a post never published, and my ODC compels me to do something about it. This is my something about it. This is from four years back. I wasn’t even a father then. So many things have changed. Except the drama. Even dreams are different nowadays. I took that picture for my wife when I went to Pensacola, four years later. Four years indeed... 

Sixth page VI

 

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

 

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

 

Sixth page V

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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