Nineth page IV

 

Fifty thousand and counting. Not bad for an amateur, right? Women are meant to be loved, not understood. Oscar Wilde said, or I just read it somewhere. A Provider left me a message saying to call her to clarify some information,  and now she has me waiting for so long when I called her back. Don’t get me wrong, I do go by Wilde’s quote. I never try to understand,  I only love, love and desire, it's unavoidable.  Desire and recreate, it came with me. I’ve been carrying it my whole life. It turned out it was my mistake, and somehow I knew it already. I’m good now. Back to work. I need more coffee. Let’s see. I was thinking about the chavistas, the poor ones, those with zero help from the party, nor the high commanders. The ignored ones. The ones who actually sustain the government apparatus. There are several, a lot from what I see, who play the atheist role, only because communists don’t believe in religions, and they consider themselves as left-wing-like thinkers, so we, the ones who believe in God, are a bunch of fools manipulated by the imperial power of, anything related to United States (Yes, always United States for them) and they are free, free. What a word! What a concept! They feel free by being caught in such a system. At this point of my life, I don’t even criticize them. Not anymore. I just think of them once in a while. Like today. Venezuela is on the road to the presidentials and the chavistas want Maduro to win… again! It’s hard to assimilate.  It’s difficult to respect. It’s impossible to understand.  Let’s join the meeting. 

Saturday.  Back to my own things.  When you have things going on, it gets difficult to have a say on others, but that’s because I’m a man. As I man, things occupy a place in our head and remain there until we picture a possible solution,  or at least manage to procrastinate it. Like right now that I chose to write over taking care of it.  Breakfast. Nobody wants to make it. I feel lazy today. It’s too early. Sun is coming up. The day is showing some smiles for us to go out and find ourselves something to enjoy. I love you, son. I love you, mom. I love you, Bienbo. Colors are making their way throughout the apartment. The light is natural, like I said, sun is smiling at us. Everything looks better, feels better. Better is enough to keep going on. Poor. We are poor. I know it and acknowledge it since every time seems all the time. If I want something, it surely has to wait, like the drum set, or like any out of many things I need.

My mind, on the other hand,  has learned how to survive despite of me. In my mind is not money what I but what I think I need. And it makes me try harder, and be grateful for it. But it’s not, and like I just said; I know it. So when you ate poor you have to develop your patience and take to unimaginable states of mind. The poor is a master of patience… until we get some money. Again, hope; hope for deliverance,  like McCartney, or was hope of deliverance? Who cares! It’s not the point. Time to wipe, myself, and my ideas as well. I should get some wine, you know. I’m having some, as a matter of fact.  I was thinking about our villain archetype, it’s more like Austin Power’s Dr. Evil type but not meant to be funny, it’s just that it has to be picturesque,  like we all are.  Own silences, own evocations. Memories that can’t be shared but it doesn’t mean that for that we will not live them. Saturday night at last. I made it! We made it! It’s peaceful now, so I can go back to the picturesque; magical realism, Gabriel Garcia Marquez called it. Well, not him, to be honest. His style of writing was called like that and he became the most prominent writer of it. That is because he was widely famous, he’s a Nobel prize winner. We have our Arturo Uslar Pietri, and some might claim he was the pioneer of such style. It doesn’t really matter. The need for recognition comes with the underdevelopment thinking and with the magical realism itself. We can’t help it. We lose the attention of a movie when we see that Venezuela is somehow present (named) in a scene. We see a Polar beer in a TV program and it becomes a reference right away. That’s how we are, and I get the feeling that here it’s another story, and such a story is still not found because we spend too much time denying our own reality,  and bringing it up as needed, and not to be understood.  We prefer to use our story to move, and as an excuse for keeping the way we are now, and not to make a point and start growing from there. We believe this is  temporary. That’s why we don’t even learn the language.  Let the kids do that instead. They might be the ones who stay at the end, and that, honestly,  it’s a point to consider. I’m getting old. It’s not even ten and I feel like going to bed. The life with a toddler: as wonderful as challenging.  I love it. Trying,  but lovely. God bless us all. I’m going to need your help. I’m not going to make it just by myself. Wine is gone, and thoughts got lost in the silence of listening and trying to understand, to share. My thoughts are hiding from the loud, they prefer the written voice. Like a drag of a cigarette when smoking alone out of the office. See you later!