Eleventh page VII

 

The quietness of the window.  How the sky looks from here. The clouds touching the trees. Green and blue and white. Are those trees near or far? Why am I curious about the space and dimensions, where I can’t even take my wife to a simple concert? Why do I have to keep prioritizing needs, I mean, aren’t they ever going to be fulfilled for once and for all? How long does it take?  Second day with wine. I need it more than yesterday.  The bitterness has to be tamed somehow. I don’t know what to talk about to avoid the discomfort.  What the hell! This is what we are living now.  I guess our choices brought us here, and despite I hate it with all my heart, I have to face it and accept it.

 

Let the music play inside my head. I was thinking about Prayer, from Disturbed.  It’s kind of accurate for this part of the tale. I think it’s time to confess that this is not about myself but about my best friend.  I have three best friend as a matter of fact.  Three brothers I chose to love. One of them is the main character of this story, or perhaps this is about the four of us. I haven’t decided yet. One of them went through this very moment around twenty years ago. The same bitterness,  but we all were in Venezuela then,  now we are spread in four different countries, and we haven’t met since more or less five years ago. Our children don’t know each other. In another present, in our beloved Venezuela, our kids would have been raised as cousins. This what makes me sad above other things; that we were forced to part and start new lives away from one another. In addition to it, the poverty, the judgmental daily basis. We look like savages here, like primitives from the third world.  Columbus found us first, by the way, and certainly on his third trip, but no one should ever refer to us as third world. Caracas is older than half of this country. Miranda and Hamilton were friends. There are letters that prove it. I think Paez died in United Stated but I’m not really sure of that.

 

One more glass. Sorrows must be put to sleep. We need alcohol for such an endeavor. The silent husband syndrome: could it be that? Could all this be just a testosterone dropping? I can accept it if it is so, but what about the pushing; the pushing man has to bear. I don’t think it's solely about testosterone,  it’s actually more than that. So we’re back again where we started complaining,  where we wanted these words to be served. Let’s just get one last glass for the night; this night. El del estribo, like we say in Caracas.

 

Purse ups: I heard they are good. I've just done some, just a little but. I’m too fat to work out on a regular basis. I was thinking about some expressions we used to say and, given the features of the language, they didn’t need any explanation as they were used. For example, ístico; ístico is a suffix that, when added to an adjective, it indicates relation or belonging. Arte, artístico. So it belongs to art. We used to say  cuchillo as an adjective,  not subject,  when referring to danger; dangerous,  insecure, like walking on the street at night in Caracas. We added the suffix, and it became one of our words: cuchillístico. Something, somewhere was cuchillístico when it wasn’t safe. I remember it. I just remember it like something my head needs as distraction. Some memories remain here only for this purpose: when my mind needs a break from the worries. You’ll see, being worried is exhausting. I’m tired. Estoy pure, si, but I’m also tired. Whoever wanted me beaten, I salute you, you’ve made it. I am beaten. Thanks for the fight, fir the challenge. I don’t want to keep with the fight. That’s it. I lost. I give up. Get another one, this one is done.

 

Wednesday night. Wine night. This week, the whole week. Failure is here beside me watching TV.  I should go to the bathroom and get ready for bed. See you tomorrow! Car waiting.  It looks like a quiet morning. Wine was fine last night. Belly is still growing.  No soundtrack for the moment.  I haven’t turned on the radio yet. I love the fact that there are actually a couple of rock music radio stations here. By the time I left Venezuela, everything was about Reggaeton,  or reguetón, I’m not really interested in writing it well, so I guess I don’t care how is it written. I believe we may use this type of music to get an idea of our society nowadays.  There are a couple of says I would like to bring on for context. The first one goes as You are what you eat, and the other one if translated; as you talk, you think. I want to merge them like this: the music you listen determines, along with your words, and the food you have, the way you think and who you are…  Who are you then? Well let’s see.

 

Thursday night. Everything is dark. I got a nice picture of the moon. Taking a look at the moon is always a good thing to do. It sort of gets you in the mood. Now I’m going to bed with a smile on my face. I was also remembering those characters I used to make out at my friends’ expenses: Sebulba: taken from Star Wars. Los Popumbos: Le Grand Popumbo and Le Petit Popumbo. El Silsa, Golfilia el Innajatse. These are like some sort of characters from my own version of Dungeons and Dragons, but Caribbean, and with all that comes with it. Maracaibo, which is an actual city in Venezuela,  is often taken (by myself, of course) as the battlefield of any of the adventures I can come up with. I used to think about the alliance between el Innajatse and el Silsa, against Los Popumbos, who later took separate ways, then Sebulba came in and joined Silsa and Golfilia, and ended up trying a garage band in an apartment in Caracas. Le Grand Popumbo opted the exile, an imaginary exile, of course, not like me, I took a real one. Le Petit Popumbo inherited all the weapons left behind by Le Grand Popumbo.  All that vibe  and joke was left along with books and other belongings in my old bedroom; they are more like old toys from a childish era. I kind of miss that era but the lack of money has a lot to do with melancholy. So I’m not really sure if it’s that I miss those days or it’s just my mind taking me there as a defense mechanism.  I don’t know. A Friday morning away from smiles. I have to take a second job. I really do. I’m getting closer.