Syllabus

There’s no sex in your violence.  I love it.  Isolation is starting to become bearable.  What the hell then!  If we ever get divided, please let’s group according to our music taste. Aren’t you tired of sharing with people you just can’t connect with? Music, not only music, but seriously; music is, and I do abide it, the most proficient catalyst for mind connecting.  Our words flows around as the songs we play. Play me forward then! Play me all over. Let us become a song and forget about anything else… whatever that might mean!  Silence Management and the expectation to be heard; understood. Eyes on the phone. Life scrolling out our time. Songs from a musical.  Songs in my head again.

  

A carpet. An opened window during summertime.  Air conditioning down. The day looks pretty.  The beginning of the end seems to come, at least we hope for it. Cartoons.  I like cartoons, specially this Asian Anime: their vision, the places they explore, the future they foresee, I love it! Somehow Venezuela is turning into a post apocalyptic drama which is often told as a comedy when trying (abusing, in my opinion) sarcasm as a defense mechanism.  Everybody needs to be cool. There has to be something cool to post, to read. I have to repeat what I’ve just read on social media, only that my bitterness doesn’t let me. I can’t lose myself into scrolling.  I try but I can’t, and it’s a lonely life these days.

 

I’m about to forget this: edit, edition. I was wondering if this social media life is all for, not only to pretend;  to make believe; but also to have the chance of edition. Let’s say I woke up this morning, got ready for work, drove my wife and son, and then just arriving to my office I realized I left my headphones at home; what if we can just edit that; not changing the past, not changing the decisions we made, or the facts we had to face, or go through,  no, it’s not that, it’s just an edition; everything would go as planned, mistakes would be made, nothing would affect anything,  it’s just a simple retouch. Kind of like those we do all the time on social media. I took the same picture several time until I get to the pose that makes me look better, attractive; attractive to that one who seems to want me but we have to disguise it as friendship. Or maybe it’s just me who want it, and I’m making this whole thing up because I get bored of the life I have, and want another life for some moments. It is so hard for a girl to be faithful to one guy all the time, specially when she’s talking to several male friends. The telephone puts everything in different perspectives.  How do we run away from it? Would it be enough if I just move out again? How can I convince my habits to let me do this for my own good? I can’t.  I just can’t.  This pursuit of an alpha-male-type archetype is exhausting, and it seems I won’t get it after all. We’ll see. Debts are overwhelming enough. Halloween is coming. Tomorrow is another day, and another day that becomes yesterday, a yesterday of my today, because today it’s when I’m writing, and I’m writing because I can’t talk, and I can’t talk because I have no one to talk to, so I keep it as written words, it’s kind of like a code, a code to nothing, because there will be another tomorrow, and so many whispers and sighs going along with it, to nowhere, to nobody, I’m just alone and nonsense right now. It is hard not to be so, but here we stand, I stand, hoping, we never know…  and hope answered,  by the way. I guess I’m not alone after all. 

 

There’s a leak; the bathtub faucet does not shut entirely.  Fourth note tempo, I can sense. My mind is trying to sync with it; English helps, Spanish is less diverse when it comes to one syllabus words:

I

Am

Up

To

Think

That

This

Beat

May

Take

Me

To

You,

For example.  

Mindset brainstorm

I need focus.  I have spent too much time on social media. Time that won’t come back. Time I have just wasted. What will those apps do with that? It’s clear that we’re taken our time. Time we weren’t going to turn into money, to be honest, but now that I think about it, perhaps they do, I mean they can. They can get fueled up from our time and convert it into money. So when they say feed, that’s means we feed them. We feed the system with our time. I can’t remember last time I allowed myself to get lost in a book store,  in a library,  I’m actually forgetting the things I have read. I was trying to explain my brother what it’s going to happen with House Of The Dragon, since I have read Fire and Blood, but I just couldn’t, I remember nothing, only a couple of things.

 

What is happening to my memory? Am I not only giving my time away but my memory too? I have to think a lot about this. I hope you all help me out.

 

We need a character for this question. I have to come here. There’s no one to talk to, and I spend too much time on social media trying to get an unwanted answer that never comes. I haven’t found my way out. I guess I need to redirect my own attention. This time should not be wasted on people who don’t give a damn about me. I’m tired. I should take a little walk, or get a book, I guess. This spend-and-pose type of life is consuming me, and don’t even have to cut my hair. Let’s redirect.

 

The voice of my silence. The words that can’t say out loud. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. I’m sorry couldn’t do better. You were a gift from God. Your presence. Now I’m going to be alone again. Alone again between the social media and the smoke. That’s how we start to fade. That’s how we join the oblivion. Me and my memories. Me and my silent desires, watching how fat I look into the black mirror and the white screen; feeding myself with fantasies and vestiges of past glories.  Happy Halloween the whole year, the only good thing. Challenging,  but good. Good and worthy, like a glass of wine on a Monday night with no occasion,  with the voice that can’t be heard.

 

Those little light bulbs on electric devices, the ones that remain on and bright to let know the machine is off but also plugged, and plugged means it can be turned on at any time, at will. That’s how expectations decorate a living room nowadays; plugged machines on off, expecting to be used. Am I expecting to be used as well? I want something else. I want you!

 

We’re more everyday.  I’m not sure if that is actually a good thing. There is this dilemma: we don’t want to be alone but we want to feel ourselves exclusive.  We want to be more but we don’t want to tell any other story but ours. It’s kind of hard. It could be some sort of dialectical. The Venezuelan dialectical; we want to increase in population but without stop being the only Venezuelans in town. It’s not easy, we all feel it. Why can’t I stop eating for Christ sake!  

 

Maybe I’m tired of watching children videos. Not really.  It is what it is. The day has finally arrived. We cried. I cried. I cry every time I step into something; anything, that she use in the house. We’ll be missing her terribly.  I want to call this challenges from the poor; or poverty.  I’m not sure which one conveys the message I’m trying to send. So, poverty challenges: forced farewells among them, why? Because we never know when we’ll get to able and afford. Affordability is an issue, for sure. So, see you someday, when faith empowers us and not only over mindsets, but over pay capability as well.  

 

A new week comes, and it comes with the routines: the meetings, the documentation, the early breakfast, so we don’t have to spend on it. A new promise, a new expectations awaits…

Nothing awaits. It is just our need for illusions that tries hard to keep expectations,  so we think something must come up, or soon. We vow for a good surprise, for a blessing.  Only that the bless seems to be cursed.

 

I was waiting for the red light to turn green and pass but I opened my eyes and found myself watching tv with the baby on my side. I’m sleepy. Tomorrow it has to be great. Let the music flow around. It worked out, just for day, but it worked out. Now I have to get some rest and postpone this anxiety for having sex.  

Thirteenth Page (and last)

 

Cynicism has found shelter here too. Those who already knew this was coming and think themselves wiser for not having hope. All posers to me, to be honest. Believing is not a weakness… The banality of a disgrace. The need to see, post and comment on social media, and think you’re part of the solution by doing it. It must be some sort of celebrity-like effect: My opinion and angle must be posted too, or something like that. Also the criticism on others for what they are not saying. Everything is a matter of style now, even disappointments out of elections results. This is not the end. Venezuela is on its way to write more promising pages and it doesn’t have to me. In fact I can’t feel anything but respect and admiration for those who stay there and don’t give up. I am here, hoping, having faith and praying. It’s the only thing I can do now. Poor habits, poor stuffs! Wine is gone. Monday evening.  No money until next payday,  which is within eleven days. I have to work tomorrow,  and I have a lot to do. See you! You know what? Nothing. I forgot what I wanted to say. The opinion rally has begun. Everyone needs to say something,  Everyone needs to see something from Everyone else. Silence is confused with complicity. Everyone is a judge during these days.  I’m actually enjoying what the people are doing with Chavez statues all over the country. It feels like fresh air touching your face to get a smile from you. Why did they put them in the first place? I mean, I could get if there were something,  anything to hold on to, but there’s nothing, nothing but a split nation, nothing but separated families. This government has to fall…

 

Tuesday night. Time for bed. I’m thinking about my car’s leak. There’s always something going on to be busy besides work. I was going to take my boy to the dentist and I couldn’t.  It was a lose-lose day. Now I have to take care of this, but now will be tomorrow.  I have to get some sleep first. Wednesday morning. There is this thing I find it confusing: it is known that the taxi service is long gone, that we rely on apps for it. There are several options when it comes to pick a ride on these apps: comfort, time, pet friendly,  but no car seats. We are not from here. We have no friends, I asked everyone I know how do we get a ride with an infant, considering that there is a fine for not having the child on a car seat and, yes, nobody knows. An error in this matrix. An edition mistake in this movie. So the child has to stay while I figure out what I’m going to do with the car, because I can’t just go to the avenue with my boy, and pick a taxi to make the day easier. It seems that not having a car is another problem here…

 

There is a bus stop but I have never used it. Trying it didn’t come to my mind because even in circumstances like this one, we have this tendency of trying to beat time, when time is the only beating. Lapsus. Intelligence voids set up like tramps for this sort of feud between think and feel when it comes to act.  So we act wrong and realize it later.

 

The end is close and we will not have any outcome; nor for Venezuela, nor for our immigration living. The end is the routine, right when we become adults, right there, when we realize that we’ll be working until we can’t do it anymore, hoping our kids to be grown up enough, so they don’t have to depend on us. This is a parenthesis in any life, in any life as an immigrant: a suitcase with hope, and a routine to fade away into. Our thoughts become smoke in the air every time we sigh our despair, our sadness. To my people: keep the faith, to all of you: this is not the end. Viva Venezuela Libre!  Now It’s time to come bac to work. I haven’t been called yet about the car. Rats is sounding in my ear, that’s what Maduro and his acolytes are. Faith is sounding now while I finish this chapter,  finish this story.  

 

The night has come. It’s hot. We keep looking at the phone trying to get with the right answer, that the democracy has been restored after so long. A twenty years old Venezuelan doesn’t know what democracy is like, what diversity is like. I feel for them. I grew up in the eighties and, forgive me for what I’m going to state, but in my opinion, of the last fifty years of history,  the eighties were the best. At least in Venezuela.  That’s what my peers want to have back again. That’s why my peers want it back again. In the meantime,  I go back to my phone and keep spending my time looking who is saying what, and what it’s being said of whom! Coffee morning. I haven’t contemplated it for a while, I mean acknowledge it; taking some time to think while the sweet steam perfumes my face. One more Thursday, one more day. I wonder what have we learned, perhaps nothing, just perspective. I think we need to look ourselves into a mirror or words once in a while, at least to see the names and the sentences that floats around when we do it. Someone may need it for a new block chain, or for a new chain of blocks. I’m going to miss you all…

 

 

Twelfth page VI

 

Do you remember the smoke faith? Well, it has been here all the time. Now it’s worse, because it’s smoke combined with social networking, and perhaps things that I better not know for my own sake. Living and bearing. I’m tired. I’ve said it before. We rest when we are working, so we can stop thinking about those disappointments that we haven’t had time – and we’ll never will, by the way – to process, to understand,  and learn from them to carry on, and see what next. Next is an improvisation when we’re poor. We can see it as an endless adventure  but a boring one. Movies are not about real poor. When they are about poor, the poor are somehow successful at the end of the movie. We know that won’t be our end. If we’ll make it to the end, we’ll remain poor, or old. Old enough not to enjoy it, only to remember it, and tell others about when waiting at the hospital for a new prescription.  I’m close… of that life and of the eighty thousand words. My silent achievement… Good for me, I guess.

 

 

What is this I’ve just read? It feels like I just woke up from a miserable life tale. The only thing I enjoyed was the wine, and that’s a good reason to move out after all; one has to be in a place when we can drink. There’s no point to work – all kinds of work: work out, work in, work at, or work for – if there’s no drinking afterwards.  Thoughts and ideas need to gravitate,  to become part of the ether, and be there for whoever wants to grab such knowledge, and do something with it. That’s the purpose of any writing, in my opinion: be part of the future. Someone may need some, even these pathetic sort of confessions, anything will be useful,  a least as a reference, and to start flowing around, our body is going to need some fuel, and I don’t know what’s better than alcohol for such a purpose.  It’s Friday today, another reason to get a drink after these office hours. If I were in Venezuela, the Venezuela before Maduro era, I would be drinking right now and watching the Olympic Games, then I would be going to any social network to forget and keep drinking.  Those were the days, yes!  Actually the day didn’t end that bad. New versions from a live concert to amuse myself while listening. I also saw Celine Dion at the opening. It was great, just like these songs of Ghost.  Little victories to cheer me up. This story can’t be only a grief. It just can’t.

Saturday morning. I’m in the mood for an ice cream. Let’s see. Tomorrow it’s election day in Venezuela.  I wish us the best, we need the best to keep going, to know that we finally can consider a return. My hope is now there. I have been skeptical and cynical about it, just as many others, but the truth is that we are hoping for a change, our people need a change. Let’s at least have faith.  We all want our kids to at least have the chance to visit where their parents are from. The culture, the Caribbean culture. The mix, the fact that our skin comes from a variety of races and origins, that we are not just another Hispanic  community, and they need to get it first hand and not only from parents tales. Today is the day, by the way! Thousands of Venezuelans in the street trying this one last attempt to beat Maduro and mist of the chavismo off the government.  It’s election day. The only day the people believe – and are in fact, why not! – they can turn the path of the country by choosing different.  I know it has happened before,  and that the government is who does the count of the votes after all. I know that the forecast is not promising,  I know it has never been encouraging, but I choose to believe. I feel it different now. Perhaps because I’m far from my city, perhaps because Nostalgia grows stronger out if sadness,  I don’t know, but today I want to have faith my country will prevail. Our people will prevail. Venezuelans can’t have another period of darkness. It’s enough. It was enough since ten years ago.  It has to stop. We’ll see! Monday morning.  It’s raining. There’s a lot to do at work. I’m not sure if I know what they mean when they say close outs, but I have to do them, whatever they are. I thought this was going to be the happy ending of this tragedy,  that I could write some paragraphs of hope. I want to do it but I don’t feel like doing so. The government played with our faith once again, or perhaps they are trying one last move, who knows! The thing is that they have proclaimed themselves the winners of these elections. I mean Maduro won, according to them. One of the  most despised people alive, have been proclaimed a winner of a popularity based contest. No fiction tell more lies than these bunch of thugs. Truth is what power conquest, maybe, but they don’t have it enough to make the world believe them. Now they will waste the people’s hope in sustaining a lie. It’s kind of sadistic; mean and sadistic.  Whatever done on behalf of the equality, always turn out to be the most unfair. Now I have to rethink, we all have to rethink – and get back to work first, of course – Yes. I just forgot. Our sorrows always have to be delayed. Work comes first when you’re poor and needy. See you later!

 

 

Now the Orwellian forwarded allegedly news: I have a cousin, whose husband has a brother, whose father in law is in the army, and he said that there are rumors that many officers are displeased with such an attribution, that this is an insult to the people and to them, that a strike might be getting set, or even more, a coup from the inside of the army to take down the insolence of Maduro and have a free Venezuela at last. This is not a mock, and I’m not trying to make fun out of this tragedy. My country is grieving,  my people suffer, and these are the kind of news many are forwarding now. Since I read 1984, I started to believe all these rumors are made up from the very core of the government,  just to amuse their sadistic impulse, and see how faith is spread and fade into rumors, while they drink the finest whisky and sniff the highest quality of cocaine on earth. This must be happening now in a five star suite of one of those hotels they expropriated in the name of the greater good of the nation.