Eleventh page III

 

Let’s try to break this down: a bad moment has triggered an old failure I thought I forgot. I was wrong. It actually floated up as the drinking was getting me. So I remember not wanting to. Next act I spitted it all like a mind vomiting. Alcohol does that too. Now I have this failure moment attached to the recent bad news I got. They are now related. So the news is processed and stored in my head labeled as I failed, when I first  thought that they were unfair at me. Was it a good experience? I really don’t know. I have to keep thinking about it. I have to think about it while not drinking, otherwise I’ll get back to it as an endless spiral, or until time and oblivion do what they do. I exist as I think. I have neighbors, I know other Venezuelans who try hard as immigrants.  We have chosen a destiny in which we have to prove our worth to be accepted,  understanding that such acceptance comes with a judgement, and such judgement may undermine our true worth, or at least the concept we have of it. It makes this whole experience tough,  but tough is also the life we left behind.  Do we exist? Do they exist? When do we realize of our existence? When it hurts, or when it bothers us? I don’t add happiness because probably that’s the one we save for ourselves,  for our own amusement.  Nap time. I’m hungry. I wish I could save moments like this forever.  After crying like a little girl out of impotence,  this is very comforting. My spot, my silence, my thoughts fighting one another to be served here, without any order consideration. Sunday afternoon with no music for now. The toilet is making its own noise with no previous flushing.  I wonder. The night is greeting from the window I am next to. There is a door right beside it that takes you to the balcony.  It is the kind of those that has a glass-wood combination style. It is broken on one side, by the way. Maintenance said it is already ordered, but it’s been a couple of months since I reported it. Anyway. I was having a peaceful moment that today I just forgot. It’s Monday now. It’s early.  It's still dark. I dreamed at lot last night. I was in Caracas, always in Caracas,  my Caracas. I was there but I wasn’t,  really.  It was not a memory.  It was some weird present time with myself there walking through the streets as I remember, only that somehow I was conscious that I didn’t live there. I couldn’t tell if it was a trip what I dreamed about.  I just remember being there, hanging around; explaining the difference between both places: here and there. I could sense some sort of resentment. Now I kind of understood that it was my resentment,  the one I hide because I feel ashamed of it. I’m home now, wondering. I saw something good on social media. It turns out that Dr. Kanoche is going to have a movie. Caracas, if I haven’t said it already,  is a valley. There is a big mountain that surrounds a good part of the city. That mountain is called cerro el Avila,  despite  Chávez insistence to change its name. Deep in the mountain lies a mansion, as far as I can remember,  the mansion is named the ruins of Kanoche. According to the story, he was a doctor that learned how to mummify corpses. I would enjoy that movie when I get the chance to watch it. I just watched Simón,  the movie. It summarizes a lot of we’ve been through,  a lot of what we thought then. I was already an adult when the story told took place but I saw a lot of what’s told there. Good movie. You can tell why we have become in the biggest exodus of western culture. Modern times have a different meaning to Venezuelan. Modern times is story of unwanted farewells and a tough adaptation.  This is us. This is us now. God bless us all! The day has gone by quiet, with no complaints so far. That’s good. I like quiet. There is an engine that makes everything shake in the house, I believe is the air conditioning system. The glasses tell everyone about it. Everyone on their on social media: searching; searching the endless search. A search turned into a finger movement I call scrolling. Thumbs work out more than the people who hold them. I am no different; my thumb is the one serving these lines. I’m listening to Soen while I can see the orange through the window resisting the farewell of blue. The night is coming.  Time to go to bed. Time for artificial light. Trees remain trees still. They’re getting ready to become shadows. Birds are looking for shelter. I have to do something about this wasp nest that is growing at the balcony. Wednesday. Work hours.  Inventory.  Sadness never asks for permission.  Sadness never cares if we are busy. It only takes a phrase, a simple phrase of impotence,  of disappointment,  even just a phrase of a satisfaction still unmet, to, to low your enthusiasm and lose any expectations from the day. Sun is not shining anyway. Not now at least. I woke up hopeful, thankful. Only not strong enough to bear the bitterness of any economic insight that reminds me how far I am from solvency, and that this is one more day of hanging in there, with no other expectation than hoping not to get worse, because it’s much easier to go worse. Hope must be adapted I guess. Let’s get back to work. I thought I get a little, anything at the very least from doing this. It hasn’t happened yet. Not while these words are taking place and we are about to be 67.000 words work. I’m not planning to quit or whatever, but the necessity of resources is putting stupid ideas in my head and I feel like I want to write them down. One of them is to go back to Venezuela: better be poor there than here. I have to give it a second thought. I’m tired. I’m tired of being this way. I’m thinking about Galeano’s horizon: too many steps and it’s still far away. I’m not even losing weight from it. On the contrary, my belly grows as worried I get, and I’m worried on daily basis. I’m grateful too. Let’s keep going. Algún culo echa sangre, we colloquially say back there. Not yet, only not yet… but it will! I can feel it.