tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68342251939985117282024-03-14T01:14:47.235-04:00A quo delirio
Blog dedicado a la redacción de escritos, en su mayoría originales. /Blog focused on original writings mostlyOrlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.comBlogger668125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-27896657914855127532024-03-07T09:33:00.010-04:002024-03-07T09:33:57.458-04:00Sixth page V<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN2038I25nLbjWZsNK-aP-duWuaBxupAWqrqNxrUuvX7h2d_6LvYOwlGpoxAtFvFPMk6NehfS87esGs0QeHN5PoRp8ebAhmfkkCgINLKlDfhFLMEugd61sZIrtltMKEzrK6aQxj_fNi4Rp1Z6ravrFFmaMQRAzpmEV2j8LoGdA_Q0bdMZ3ELtVYcTFasvm/s4000/20240206_165935.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="2252" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN2038I25nLbjWZsNK-aP-duWuaBxupAWqrqNxrUuvX7h2d_6LvYOwlGpoxAtFvFPMk6NehfS87esGs0QeHN5PoRp8ebAhmfkkCgINLKlDfhFLMEugd61sZIrtltMKEzrK6aQxj_fNi4Rp1Z6ravrFFmaMQRAzpmEV2j8LoGdA_Q0bdMZ3ELtVYcTFasvm/s320/20240206_165935.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">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,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">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 <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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… <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">One sigh,
then silence,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>making a last phone call before the show;
this show, showing up and on despite the thoughts. Perhaps that explains the silence.
<i>Enjoy the silence </i>with Depeche Mode. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Almost noon.
Restroom first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s hard to call it
restroom after I-don’t-know-how-many-years calling it bathroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is a lot of a second language thing,
just like <i>Where have you been</i>. 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. <i>The
Sound of Silence </i>is another song, or so I think it is. The thing is that
this symphony has more to do with little cough,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>a sneeze from time to time, and steps; back and forth, in stereo mode: “<i>surrounding
me, going down on me</i>” – 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,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>so here I
am. It’s quiet, it’s early and Friday, by the way! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A statement
has come for visit. I’m not sure that I want it to be part of my perception,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>by the way. I hear them say
my words will be only mine and that’s why I remain quiet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>our own
understanding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. <o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-32934611261621283892023-12-13T18:10:00.003-04:002023-12-13T18:10:00.130-04:00Sixth page IV<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht_s0_q4XeseLF5RtPt7ELcQPGcKD0nupn3dN7hGYFZEnWSbBH0Qooxk2zvT34M7aFG3D41JBzK1cVtCIU5rgnKy95WsYNoNZXH3r1b3pbJQvwrghcaSFJET4YFwNOuQ1QsLTGomEOedqPoxxVsDS8Bm5J5MbnVQRnmjnbu_mvjMJxM3UNib-u3HSnBzBa/s1303/Screenshot_20231124_201341_Gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1303" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht_s0_q4XeseLF5RtPt7ELcQPGcKD0nupn3dN7hGYFZEnWSbBH0Qooxk2zvT34M7aFG3D41JBzK1cVtCIU5rgnKy95WsYNoNZXH3r1b3pbJQvwrghcaSFJET4YFwNOuQ1QsLTGomEOedqPoxxVsDS8Bm5J5MbnVQRnmjnbu_mvjMJxM3UNib-u3HSnBzBa/s320/Screenshot_20231124_201341_Gallery.jpg" width="265" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Thursday.
Not sure if it’s the throw back kind. There are plenty of things I should be
doing by now and here I am, still serving words to the void. Is it a void? I
don’t think so, I just haven’t found a more appropriate word for it. You see, When
you post something word-like basis, you don’t get the same chance for
randomness that, for instance; a photo, or a video, so it will be hard for a
text to catch someone’s attention over a unknown author; the chances are
uncertain, but uncertainty can’t be measure for a fact, therefore we only guess
in this case, and we tend to guess because we’re giving it a thought, which also means consideration, and, as we
may come around, there’s a chance to consider when we guess, and such a
possible path for consideration will surely provide us all with perspective.
The blocks of this chain once started out as a guess, could become a
perspective when driven by hope, or persistence; and here we have another chain
as well. Let’s keep trying until we reach a suitable deconstruction for this
blocks we’re moving, and moving, until we get the value we’ve been searching
during all this journey. Saturday
evening: adulthood is more about staying home, have some wine, and rest;
relaxed. In fact it sounds like a great plan; perhaps watching some TV too. A
weird Tuesday: two days before Thanksgiving. I know it’s not our holiday but it
is an important one where I live and it will be a tradition for my son. Misery
likes company, but that’s not what I want to say. Why do we take the blame when
we haven’t done anything? <i>Enjoy the silence</i> is sounding. Wednesday
night. Slipknot comes after. I’m alone; unfit for solving any dispute. Man is sometimes
placed in situations in which he is only there to hold on and for nothing. This
is one of those days. I just wonder why. I mean, what’s the point. Why the
impulse? What for? I don’t know. It seems like there is some sort of force
beyond my understanding, pushing me to bear situations just because, and not
for any specific purpose. That’s the point of existentialism. Do with life
whatever life put you to live. I think I get it. Fine. But why? I mean, what a
waste of energy and essence. I’m here wondering why. I guess work helps avoid
this: I need to go to work, maybe? Perhaps change this life. What about what I
feel? Am I allowed to convey my feelings to anywhere? To somewhere? And if so, what
would be the point? I just need to figure it out… but it’s hard. It seems like
I know what I should do but I don’t want to. Fine, but why I don’t want to?
Love is something, definitely, and I
drink to that. <i>Ghost</i> is sounding on TV. Let’s just enjoy it. Music is a
shelter in its own way. So let’s find some rest there. There’s nowhere to go
right now. We made it to Thursday once more. Wine awaits and so the
turkey, because it’s not done. First
bottle while making it, my wife, not me, but before that I’m sticking with my
boy: he’s taking a nap. A toddler sleeping is a moment for everyone else to do
what they have to do. I’m watching him, by the way. Moody is an interesting
word, especially when we understand how far can it cover when talking about
someone, or something. Another sigh with
no name, another look up without any answer.
Words don’t want to rain, they chose wind; cold wind, over faces, to
make us look down instead. <i>The answer lies within</i>, I guess. It’s a song
too, as a matter of fact. Pardon my English,
just in case. Unfinished works, we have plenty, specially during the
Chávez era. I heard this joke where, at some point in a far future, such works will
be thought as ancient remains from an extinct civilization. Actually that’s how
they look like right now. <i>Guarenas</i>, <i>Guatire</i>, what a couple of places.
<i>Maracay</i>, <i>Coro</i>, and several others: places we want to call cities
and, once we get there, once we share with their people, we start getting the
idea of why (and perhaps how) the country took the turn it took, and maybe, where
it ended up nowadays. Our immigrant community is full of people from such
places. That explains pretty much a lot of things, now we’re building a better
version of what we have been, and it is quite challenging, but here we stand:
struggling to prosper, for our children mostly, in particular. Sunday, indoors, it’s cold outside, sunny, but cold. TV for now. Still indoors,
still cold. The sun is wiping some clouds away to give us some blue in spite of
the gray; gray is actually feeling a bit cold. We should give more hugs indeed.
There’s no milk, I should get some. Rainy Monday. A bitter taste after knowing
some about certain expenses. The sound of industry, once more. Not so sure if it’s the sound of
progress anymore. Actually I started
seeing progress as an abstraction, kind of like happiness, I mean: there is not a specific, countable
situation beforehand, in which you can state you’ll be happy once you get there,
notwithstanding hope or faith. It is more a promise to keep and a feeling to
fulfill, understanding that circumstances are personal, and personal are the
insights from any of them. Progress gravitate in that very spectrum as well, in
my opinion. And we meet halfway as always. I sent an email several times, and
still don’t know if I said what I wanted to say. What if history has some of
it? Socrates and Plato, or Christopher Columbus, the very Simon Bolivar; whose good
part of his life we’ve told about comes from the what it’s written according to
O’Leary. Who said those lives, as we learned them, are not in fact a halfway of
different people through the years. The way we find out about history is pretty
much the same for fiction: languages trying to become a thought and survive as
means of information despite the barriers of time. We get what we want to get
from these combinations of letters. Even when it’s recorded, like a public
speech, we won’t get it whole unless we know the person and the nature of the
message. Only that mostly we tend to cherry pick and fit it in our story, or
agenda; whatever that strengthens our position over that we think…. But words don’t
obey and thoughts have learned how to remain silent and within. That’s how the survive, we just borrow them
for a while, until we move on and step into our next tribulations. I always think about the value of this, You
have to understand me, I really need the money, but at the same time I know,
this is just replacing time spent on social media, I still get tired of them
sometimes. Although there’s always
someone, a picture, something, that
keeps me coming back to it, kind of like a vice. Tomorrow will be an important day for
Venezuela, there will be a referendum to
decide whether or not the government should claim <i>The Esequibo</i> as venezuelan
territory. If it turns out that they have to, that might mean going to war
against Guyana, or at least that’s how the media is putting it. I’m still
waiting for what comes after. True intentions will reveal themselves after the
results, but we could guess, for instance, will it depend on how many people attend
to vote tomorrow? And if so, what if numbers aren’t enough? We’re talking about
people in power for more than twenty years, despite the rejection, despite the sanctions, despite the
overwhelming unpopularity; do they see an opportunity here we don’t see? We
have to wait. It might be what I want to call their circus delay, meaning that
they got us used to any move, specially embarrassing, to keep procrastinating
and thus remain in power. This very referendum could be one of those moves.
Opposition media and <i>opinioners</i> have
been posting pictures of empty voting centers. Let’s see what the clowns have
to declare at the end of the day. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-7622970985926012902023-12-11T16:41:00.002-04:002023-12-11T16:41:00.134-04:00Sixth page III<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglJszGJHvFK4KUk6ULzVj9rubEo8cV1byVQIVvusc8Le1x-SbRaxzH4iaFcSiUv4xAeV6GchiK_IVpZCBuYI7Kri5TEP7C-75lZ_N8Jcjwpr9Rj-pBnLT_qBDh-opBN2eWCIL0rwpXbaPXYrpcANOnuZpHQUFOXMMKwKVGmoVPEvESLq4FvK0bw-BRyMhn/s1346/Screenshot_20231019_193653_Gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1346" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglJszGJHvFK4KUk6ULzVj9rubEo8cV1byVQIVvusc8Le1x-SbRaxzH4iaFcSiUv4xAeV6GchiK_IVpZCBuYI7Kri5TEP7C-75lZ_N8Jcjwpr9Rj-pBnLT_qBDh-opBN2eWCIL0rwpXbaPXYrpcANOnuZpHQUFOXMMKwKVGmoVPEvESLq4FvK0bw-BRyMhn/s320/Screenshot_20231019_193653_Gallery.jpg" width="257" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I better go
back and check what’s going on with the system.
That was yesterday, and it’s
still so. I came late today, I was doing some business in the morning, let’s hope it works out. It did, as matter of
fact. The sky held this view as though it was going to snow, but we’re still in
autumn, so it was more a painting to my
eyes rather than an actual fall of snow. Grass is still green, it is getting
more and more leaves on top of it every time. They provide the wind with an
extra percussion; they are the cymbals of the landscape. Like a hi-hat during a
disco beat: pointing, making you remember, evocate. It’s chilling. A good time for making love, for remaining
naked and in each other’s arms. A good time to reduce the world into a bed… stay there, stay there until blood pressure
does its magic, so we get ready for another round. I’m hungry, but just a bit thirstier, so I get some
water. I sit on the couch in the living room… try to have a sort of balance of
past facts, up to the present, all in my head, in silence; looking up with the
lights off. Blinking, once, twice, and as many times as anxiety pushes for. It’s
not panic, not yet at least. It’s just that, for some irony, worries come right
after sex. Sunday, evening, probably the first of the last days for this text.
My eighty-thousand words project will have stop at half of it. It was great to
try, but I don’t get paid for writing; unfortunately for me. May these words
I’m serving here, a bit of reflection, a bit of a story, and a bit of just
fiction; a message for my baby boy – I love you too much – and, or, any
upcoming eyes who dare spend some time here: welcome! And Thank you! Monday, an
expecting morning. News to be briefed about
and decisions to be made because of. It started cold, chilling, and also quiet.
Machines have been turned on . The sound
of industry, once again, once more. Question-answer communication: commands. Yes, No. Here. There. Boxes are coming down
to the pack stations. Am I going to miss all this? Who knows! Routines are
stronger than passions, or something like that. I’m waiting for an answer, and not a <i>unpersonal</i> one, by the way. The
answer came. I think it’s a good one. Let’s see. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">There’s a
story here. The story of the broken glass. Time, money, both wasted, a
lose-lose situation. I came up with this thing that, in order to safe some
time, I start the car and let it heat fir a few minutes, so when it comes to
leave, it will be ready to go then. Old habits die hard, right? I locked every
door because… because that’s what we do back home. There’s no way a car is left
open where I am from. I can’t help it, even by being conscious that I must
leave it open, I lock it as a reflex. So I did it, as usual, only this time I
left the keys inside. It was getting late, and it was cold already. I went
upstairs to find something to open it with. I couldn’t. I don’t know anything
about these things. The day before I had seen a tree with some branches looking
like falling down. I thought I should move the car some spot else, but I didn’t,
I just forgot about it. Now the car was on, with the keys inside, and a branch
of a tree ready to fall down over it… at least I didn’t break the glass myself.
Nature took care of my situation and, as these words take place, (and form of a
message) I’m sitting here, several miles away from work, not getting any money
while waiting for the glass to be replaced, and not before a whole trip under
this chilling weather. All this with the purpose of saving time. I want to go
to the bathroom, but the adrenaline
won’t let me. I said that this journey is coming to a stop, to a cut. I think I
might have a few moments before that. This one for instance, despite the bad time, I managed to serve a
few words about it. Everyone was mad at home, and they have a point: these
times are already pushing us to waste, why
helping them waste more? It is funny, even cute, when I am in situations like
this one (more often that I would like to, by the way) and someone from the
staff asks If I’m dropping the car off to pick it up later… I mean, sure! Only
that I can’t afford it. So waiting, meaning wasting, seems to be unavoidable
for people like myself. There is a guy
in front of me working with his laptop, taking advantage of the situation,
surely making some money, or at least spending this time wisely (I assume we
all have a broken glass here) and I, I am writing, documenting my experience
for, for my own amusement, I guess.
Laughing internally at my own expense; what else can I do? I do have a laptop,
but it’s at home, and I don’t really work with it. I thought such a day will
come soon, but soon seems far from where I stand (or sit) at least I am not
just lost in Instagram. I haven’t even
opened it. That’s something, considering
the circumstance I am under. The day didn’t end that bad. I want to believe
that this broken glass situation represents a metaphor in my life, symbolizing
somehow the break of a past to start over new. Good things happen too and we
must embrace them, not with irony, but with hope. Family comes first. I’m going
to have some wine, surely. See you
later!<o:p></o:p></span></p>Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-63547302714571280502023-12-10T16:37:00.001-04:002023-12-10T16:37:00.134-04:00Sixth page II<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPwPKelz0AeKJEoc6R36-iF1wFfxjJd0S84I73QVCiRWOxmujA8zLkDMryoDnxWHYJ8ZCcn-T_hmxfE9-32zONF-aCFHrqYTV18DzpYpVOoIEbX_u5yKyiYxvfuHaa5PZyLc6EuR5UKTpkcjcbKCbRUlvFvUW3WcQtShOHY1kD8hekxszKUyRINDjH4BQt/s4000/20231021_151146.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="2252" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPwPKelz0AeKJEoc6R36-iF1wFfxjJd0S84I73QVCiRWOxmujA8zLkDMryoDnxWHYJ8ZCcn-T_hmxfE9-32zONF-aCFHrqYTV18DzpYpVOoIEbX_u5yKyiYxvfuHaa5PZyLc6EuR5UKTpkcjcbKCbRUlvFvUW3WcQtShOHY1kD8hekxszKUyRINDjH4BQt/s320/20231021_151146.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Still
Sunday. A headache is dancing me around. I blame it to the coffee, so far forty
hours without it. I don’t know if it was precisely the coffee, the one that triggered all this pain I’m
dealing with. I have to hold on to it. I came to work. For some reason I
believed I was summit in an attempt of a
foreseeable possible promotion, since I
was told, or so I thought, that it was about a very small group for a special
drill of the new system. I was wrong. I was wrong. I don’t feel any disappointment
because of it. Maybe for the headache, I
don’t know. It’s just that I am a hopeful person, and I pay it really bad. Not
for this, please. This is just silly. I pay it bad for a bunch of other things;
few of them implied in this confession. I look at the screens while placing my
fingers on my forehead, moving them as though they were walking; back and
forth. I wonder. Today it was good to cry some. I did it earlier when I was
with my boy alone. I looked at him through the review mirror. I was watching
his innocence when he smiles. I always thank God for granting me such an honor:
the honor of parenting him. A day like today but four years ago, a couple I
know too well was walking for the last time on Venezuelan soil. There must be
some picture of them right by the Cruz-Diez mural, which became very famous for
those who left the country as a tribute for all lived. Some people did it to
pose just because it was trendy, but the true is that time is really serous and
takes things seriously. We learn that lesson slowly, and we learn it well. Many
people thought that it was temporary: temporary for a very few. A lot of us still
remain abroad, trying to figure this path out, and not considering any chance
to go back at the moment. November: for us, this is the Christmas prelude, and
I think I should try to explain it in order to provide some context. To almost
every Venezuelan, Christmas is not just a holiday, like perhaps to other
nationals, to us it is more like a season, and it starts on November. In our culture,
also included in our legislation, people
get up to three months of their salary (some others even more) during this –
let’s call it – season, as a figure of something we call <i>utilidades</i>, which
are granted by the private sector, and <i>aguinaldos</i>, by the public sector.
I can’t say how long this system has worked out for, but I can state that
everyone goes crazy on this season because it’s time to celebrate and spend all
that money, and of course, forget about all those problems you’ve been having
during the year; all those things… for next year! The impact of not having that
anymore has grown so big, that people nowadays become resentful, so the once
time for celebration became now time for resentments. I was talking to my wife about
it, we were thinking of those friends and relatives still there and remembering
how their mood changes this time of the year, considering too that to those,
now overseas, this season has another type of impact, and a very hard one, by
the way, starting by realizing that it is not a season at all, that it is
pretty much one day; one night, and that’s it. That all that typical joy, coming
out from not having to work hard, or the constant hanging out, has just gone. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A Wednesday
to remember. We tend to make promises when we feel happy, when things go great
at the moment. It’s the illusion of progress embraced by hope: hope is magical.
Some people might claim Faith over hope, but faith flirts too much with politics,
so it is prone to become demagoguery in several ways. Fascism takes it share too,
it makes some people question about it, yes, our faith; these faith of ours, as
though it flew outside, outdoors, out
there. Throw back Thursday, once again! Throw away remembrance, in this case! I
was checking on this <i>Serial position effect,</i> and specially, its <i>curve</i>,
and I thought I might find my answer there. I’m not sure I did, but I thought It
was worth to tell why. <i>Why not, right? </i>I went downstairs to start the
car, so I can heat it up for five minutes while I go back home to finish
getting ready. I went to the car again and drove off to work, it was almost
time and, and, right there: at work, I realized I didn’t get my bag with me. It
was already too late to go home again and get it, but the thing is that this is
the – I don’t know – the thousandth time it's happening. Now it’s more a
concern than a joke. That’s why I was trying to please myself by searching some
random diagnosis, and keep thinking that it’s just normal, and I’m stating this
because I just saw, that there was actually a path between a joke and a
concern, and that is back and forth by
the way. Milan Kundera prompted it beautifully on <i>The Joke</i>, indeed. So
let’s bring up all those jokes in our lives: first and last ones, because the
other, and it makes perfect sense, the other indeed. So let’s bring up all
those jokes of our lives: first and last ones, because the others, and it makes
perfect sense, the others are just prone to be forgotten, specially if the amusement won’t pop up the
laughter we, the immigrants, as concern entertainers, seem to be looking for. I
could also guess that this explains our devotion for sharing how we got away with
things we’ve lived; because that’s the <i>prestige</i> of every act’s
resolution: telling we got away with it! That tunes up the tone we show when
talking about it, even the sort of body language we use with our movements,
when it comes to explain it; kind of like a hip hop artist: <i>Yeah, and I got
away with it! </i>Part of the process, this is not meant to be resentful… nor
mean. We keep on offering these conclusions in order to dig deep, until we
reach such a narrative everyone can take advantage of. Specially our soon
coming second generation. There will be a lot of things they need to understand, and don’t get me wrong, this we're reading
here it’s not a knowledge source at all, but it certainly aims to offer an idea
of search, from those who, while in
first generation still, already questioned about the entire moving out. This is
a lot of things, also an adventure; a personal journey for each one of us, and
we might find our paths crossed at some point in this culture. We have to place
our thoughts of it somewhere. This is my somewhere: <i>Hidden gems </i>is
sounding and it is refreshing… I feel like playing it again! Yes, I’m at work
but this is my last hour of the day, somewhere is complex… <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Somewhere is
<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">sometimes
someone, <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">and there it
goes <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">something
for <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">nothing but
everything; <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">every time. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p>Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-27503026796485727522023-12-07T16:34:00.003-04:002023-12-07T16:34:00.135-04:00Sixth Page<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeCYWyeqUpyVB3w6t7UQGSqdEiJSTdxpDzQhE_4NSAQj8dNhWek_H-yT5IuOWpIjX3GknQeFNmBON2gCFLr58AObFO2jk2DXOUfAhKHAWZotYyqbDADz7Nieav54aJfatLqCV99lZeNJi5KOmNReeIeXyXq7siWUuYTOj0oN0Vgg9_xva1BzUdVahKKbPM/s1345/Screenshot_20231107_071823_Instagram.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1345" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeCYWyeqUpyVB3w6t7UQGSqdEiJSTdxpDzQhE_4NSAQj8dNhWek_H-yT5IuOWpIjX3GknQeFNmBON2gCFLr58AObFO2jk2DXOUfAhKHAWZotYyqbDADz7Nieav54aJfatLqCV99lZeNJi5KOmNReeIeXyXq7siWUuYTOj0oN0Vgg9_xva1BzUdVahKKbPM/s320/Screenshot_20231107_071823_Instagram.jpg" width="257" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Still
Thursday. Still at work. There’s no much
time to leave. A friend of mine sent me a picture of our high-school; it was a
photo of the entrance. I’m mot sure it looked like that back then but as he commented
at the bottom of it: <i>I can even get the smell of new notebooks and sharpened
pencils</i>. I had already said it: throw back Thursday for these lines. There
are some other kinds of lines I remember, but not for throwing back at all.
When it comes to evocate, I have a
preference for <i>dermis</i>, so I can touch my lips with my fingertips and
remember. Duty is calling. I’m almost
done. Home. Time to go to bed. Friday is
announced. Two glasses of wine to close the day and check its balance. Hope
makes me think everything will work out. Saturday morning. We were talking about some people we’ve been seeing,
and how this sort of friendship went away for no reason. Actually there were
reasons indeed, and that’s what I wanted
to break down if I don’t forget it first. The thing when your passion is not on
the same page your duties are, is that the time’s equation doesn’t fit right; properly:
duties always come first, passion tends to be, at most, and unavoidably, our
second best. Sometimes off sense, and not counting when it’s off inspiration. Then
passion must conform itself to have a moment upon chance. That’s its best opportunity. Opportunity is quite a word, specially for
immigrants. Back to the friendship, it’s important to bring up that an
immigrant is always in a – let’s say – survivor mode on, thus anything can be potentially prompted for taking
advantage of. And that means, or at least it's what I’m trying to express, that whatever experience at (or with) about anything worthwhile to tell, it may be heard alongside
with this encrypted, and hateful message to me, which sort of states that: <i>if
he had it, I must have it too</i>, so we never know actually when we are just heard,
if ever at all. It could be a misunderstanding,
I have never discarded it, but intonation; intonation and body language,
they hardly get wrongfully understood. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Monday. Not
much to do at work. And at this time of the year that’s kind of worrying, considering that bills don’t go down because
of it, and with such thoughts I’ve made it to the next day. A new routine
starts today. I was watching some media. I got really nothing from it. I tried
to stop between the conflict in Gaza and the political situation of my country:
the one true contender has been finally accepted; officially accepted, by the people. I was reading that it may not
be so due to some disagreements that were not taken in consideration, along with the constant legal repercussions that
many people insist to bring up. That is, just for the record, that the woman in question is not entirely free
from the government restrictions, who still insist on an imposed sanction several
years ago. The media, the social media, through these influencers, and opinion heroes,
are squeezing the topic up to a point I started losing interest. I feel bad for
it but I can help it: an issue, a problem, any social matter, should not be brought
up for perpetual amusement and constant losing of focus, specially when it
comes as news, moreover when it’s about what’s going on back home. That is like
a drug, it is making us come back to it over and over without a stable
criteria. We love today, we hate tomorrow: the post-truth era at its best. It’s
exhausting, really. We have work to do and a life gone distant from it, despite
how bad our hearts won’t let it go. A big worry is getting smaller, that means
it’s getting close to overcome. I’m not taking it for granted but certainly I
have some sort of a plan working on. Thursday,
throw back Thursday once more for this narrative. We made to Saturday. Heartburn and nausea; an unbeatable couple to
keep one up and away from bed. It hasn’t been a night to rest. I can’t stop
thinking about my worries, specially while sitting here, and perhaps this is
making the pain worse. I don’t know. This life, this routine we end up
following (thinking it will get better someday) has this feature I’m listening
to quite often: <i>use it or lose it</i>, and of course, it applies to resting
as well. Today it won’t be like: <i>well, I haven’t slept enough, let me rest
for the day</i>. No. It doesn’t work that way. There are several things that
must be done during the day, and their due time is now. I guess I’ll rest
tonight if I feel better. Two songs come to my mind: <i>A hard day’s night</i>,
and <i>Sunday bloody Sunday</i>. That’s how I summarize the day so far. I’m
still having twists in my stomach every time I get sip of water, for
example. Perhaps I should go to the
doctor, but I have reached this point in which, if the pain won’t get worse, I
will just bear with it. There’s no way I will pay anything for something gone
after a couple of days. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-12356402736671292612023-11-28T18:41:00.002-04:002023-11-28T18:41:00.130-04:00Fifth page V<div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirPS6vCRx3hty6T0nufDyMTvi4pKQYVTWmtV3dG72Vc4qPfn5r9sZWk908hJBCV_m8RZWT_NDQVjLfiWc59M729VRq6BzVtdLTlLIKnM8axMA-WX6Tw1Kpi5HwfOUsnxnyteMWVarl6QQ8lJn1rr1yNn02LVlY70Hq6aH8uH8Q3qlS3gzzo1L3GMKxDLCp/s1297/Screenshot_20230927_154835_Photos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1297" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirPS6vCRx3hty6T0nufDyMTvi4pKQYVTWmtV3dG72Vc4qPfn5r9sZWk908hJBCV_m8RZWT_NDQVjLfiWc59M729VRq6BzVtdLTlLIKnM8axMA-WX6Tw1Kpi5HwfOUsnxnyteMWVarl6QQ8lJn1rr1yNn02LVlY70Hq6aH8uH8Q3qlS3gzzo1L3GMKxDLCp/s320/Screenshot_20230927_154835_Photos.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sunday
morning. Children programs on TV. Expectations waiting on a line of
service. What to think about first. Yes,
next week. End of month is coming, Halloween along with it. Let’s disguise what
we do from what we think, and, go to work without so much complaining. But today it’s Sunday, and it’s sunny. Not
now. It’s Monday already. Not much network for social media. I’m going to think it is a good thing,
despite of the work. Music is here: ABBA for now. Let’s shuffle. Boxes are coming, kind of dancing this disco
I’m playing. The soundtrack of an industrial scene with no other purpose but inoculate
the thought, that while music is being played,
the progress keeps going on. Progress is an interesting definition, and the circumstances we bring it up to
talking are even more interesting. How hard is to feel oneself understood! I
believe that rather than happiness, the pursuit is for peace. Maybe that’s what
happiness means after all: be in peace with the universe you have procured to
yourself. I’ve been climbing through
these branches of decisions and consequences,
looking for some peace; self glorification doesn’t seem to be around, and
it is hard to keep it, to achieve it. There’s always a misunderstanding I feel
the need to clarify. It is just tiring. Perhaps
that’s why any attempt regarding peace is mostly related to afterlife. Life won’t be peaceful, seems to be the message. Perhaps
afterwards. Not while living. So let’s live and hang on. Some people see
life as a journey to experience, some
others as a path of obstacles to get through. Here I am, writing when I’m
supposed to feel sorry for myself, but why? Just because things don’t work out
as expected? They never do, they never have, and they never will, so let’s just
celebrate I can kiss my baby boy within two hours, well, three hours, actually.
<i>Perfect day </i>from Lou Reed is playing; in our Spanish we would say <i>sounding</i>,
instead of <i>playing</i>, playing is tricky for translation. So my feelings for this confession. <i>Only
the good die young</i> from Billy Joel, <i>Regret</i> from The Winery Dogs,
right after that. Duties came back, let’s keep the mood, I need to. I wasn’t
sure it was going to work, and it did. It did indeed. Now it’s Tuesday. Time is
running out for getting early, and, as a matter of fact I came late. One of my
supervisors – because I have more than one – sent me a message, stating that my
name had showed up multiple times on the attendance report for clocking in
late. That’s another cultural difference here: to Venezuelans, five, even ten,
moreover; twenty minutes late, it is still considered on time. I came here
three minutes after, just three minutes after, and I have to ask for an apology
over such sort of abuse. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I think it’s
time for reading a little bit. I’m kind of watching, because where I stand allows me so, some of
the women of the warehouse doing their
job. It just looks hard from this perspective. I wonder how, also why, such
vigor goes for… Is it for paying a hospital bill? Some children education? Perhaps
some loved ones back home where they come? Who knows! I wonder because of their
faces: that mix of desire hiding behind the weight of <i>the must</i> and <i>the
have to do first</i>, along with the blush of the tiredness; add a shy smile on
top of it. Sometimes this mix turns into bitterness, and then a <i>come around </i>to
hurt each other; to envy, so the smile fades out of tenderness, to show up over someone else’s sorrow, and
all that, in the end, it’s just for nothing really, but how could we step into such
stream of sensitivity? I mean; is it something we want to find out, so we can,
later, help heal? To get there, I think, we must see this kind of feeling, as
something to get over, then we think about healing somehow, but it doesn’t have
to be that way, it may not be considered a wrong thing at all. As a matter of
fact, such feelings have the same right to stay there just like those we think
positive. Maybe that’s what makes guys see these women attractive in the
firstplace. Maybe this bitterness works out pretty good in bed. Maybe this has
been so for centuries, so we’ve been born from it, and that’s why it seems to
be kind of hot, I don’t know, but I like to wonder. Thursday. Throw back Thursday, as the hashtag goes. In
a subtle way, social media has imposed it to a point that many – myself
included – just can’t help thinking about a memory to share on whatever
platform. So if this works as such, why not using it for that purpose? At least
for a day; for today… I close my eyes. I think about all those things that
brought me up to this moment, the songs I still listen to, specially now that the
chance to work along with them: <i>Invisible touch</i> from Genesis is sounding,
playing; whatever you want to call it. This song places me back in <i>Puerto La
Cruz;</i> I was around ten. We moved there for some reason I can’t recall, but
the thing is that the song took me there and now I smile because of it. A nice
throw back. If only I could have a glass of wine here at work; at this very
moment, it would be great. I would cry
out my hidden sorrows, I would dance alone. Nobody would even care… The boxes
stand alert, they await for the full lanes to get clear, so they can continue
their march towards their packing. The music is still on top. I think I have
already written: it but, what the fuck! Right?: this band I found out about: –
Ghost; – they are good, really good. <o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-41003519149095443052023-11-27T18:38:00.002-04:002023-11-27T18:38:00.132-04:00Fifth page IV<div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgplW7rvu3vzzxKLUThVK7aE8ImQJXrTpu7BkhgDBY5f38qTZ5MferANOK2GDUSMLgRIjHK0SRq5uUJr3il-cha2Atpar4Gn8JYYKbXM_SA1TaTUl8Hof6gmkkR5oPPignCY7K3bI2qidNj02k8FFUypCLZcd3jneqat1ybnhy033Af5uUpHHGM1-etRC29/s1229/Screenshot_20231015_221722_Gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1229" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgplW7rvu3vzzxKLUThVK7aE8ImQJXrTpu7BkhgDBY5f38qTZ5MferANOK2GDUSMLgRIjHK0SRq5uUJr3il-cha2Atpar4Gn8JYYKbXM_SA1TaTUl8Hof6gmkkR5oPPignCY7K3bI2qidNj02k8FFUypCLZcd3jneqat1ybnhy033Af5uUpHHGM1-etRC29/s320/Screenshot_20231015_221722_Gallery.jpg" width="281" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Thursday.
Hispanics tend to confuse it with Tuesday. Second language things. Sunny. It’s
sunny. We’re all outside for a luncheon. Employees appreciation, they call it. It
wasn’t that bad, I’m full, actually.
There’s a cookie in front of me and I feel I can’t eat it. I’ve just had
enough for now despite I do like cookies. Well, not really; I love chocolate
chips cookies. I’m not interested in any other. Raisins, for example; I hate them, but the one here it’s a chocolate chips one, so I
think I’m going to eat it and feel regretful later… and so I did, and so I
feel. I had’t had such a perfect time before for writing, only that I have
nothing to say. I’m wordless, and worthless I feel too, because now I regret
from having that extra cookie. Mind what we eat it’s perhaps a prominent
metaphor for understanding our impulse over other things. We know we shouldn’t
have this much sugar in a day. We’ve learned and studied a lot about it, and
yet, we fall in temptation and feel remorse after that. So remorse is our thing
here. I could also say we like remorse. Specially immigrants, immigrants’
stories are nothing but an exhibition of remorse in a thousand forms. There
must be a lot of it in this very text indeed. Sorrows. Sorrows too. As I may
have mentioned <i>ut supra</i>, in some way we learn how to live in constant
grief, perhaps remorse is an ingredient that our grief sometimes asks for; then
we cry, we think, we pray, and keep going. I was making my breakfast. I have to
go to work. Bas news. Someone back home is in great pain. Doctors already said
to expect the unavoidable, so here we stand, far from a hug, far from holding
each other and feel the warmth that, only someone who cares about you can give
you. That’s another burden we have to carry: all those goodbyes we never
thought we should have said since we might not have another chance. Only that
hope doesn’t work that way. Hope, hope keeps us believing, despite any
adversity, that someday, and somehow, we'll meet again with our loved ones;
those deeply missed because of the circumstances. We've become good at hiding
it from the outside by choosing these sort of poses, specially those that makes
us, to a certain point, and from a very certain perspective, look cool and nice
people. I wonder how the nationals see us. I don’t, really.
I don’t care. It is what it is: a process in development.
We must be patient to ourselves. Let’s all hold on and go back to work. Back
in the balcony. Not for too long. In fact
I just sat and went away. Wine is back, also the balcony at night. It’s cold. It’s
a bit disappointing, but that’s the way
it is. Social media is coming first. There is this sort of club of prominent
Venezuelans, which seem to – from what I see – dictate the path we all should
choose, if we want to be seen as cool guys. This group is composed by, more or
less, actors who came late when national television was worthy, middle-high-class
guys, who found themselves out as comedians, personal trainers, and some
allegedly artists, whose art is known precisely because of their social media
impact. These are our mentors. Not knowing them places you aside from the
coolness, which is where I stand, by the way. So I’m doubly lost here: I’ve
lost touch and interest. These mentors are also called influencers. I know this
is happening all over the world, but I’m talking about those from Venezuela,
they have gone to a point where even their routines, since this is all public
access, have become in pretty much the main topic of conversation for so many;
let’s add <i>Reggaeton</i> as music taste to that. Wow! What a combination! That’s
why I feel so lonely in my island of <i>uncoolness</i> and Rock music, and I’m
not going anywhere, but on the other hand, everyone is welcome to it. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Saturday. There’s
something beneath one of the heaters of the stove. I could tell for the smoke
when I was trying to boil some water. Smoke saying good morning, I guess. I was writing about our influencers;
the cool ones, on one side. There are also the politicians, on the other side,
and the analysts of whatever happens in our country. This is pretty much how
our social media is fed. I think that, for those abroad, following these
people, despite the pursuit of the nice and cool, in a way it could be also a
sign of wishing they were there, and perhaps in order to evolve, this is one of
the necessary steps. I guess I’m not a part of it because I don’t want to, but
at least I have the pleasure to write about it. Who knows! Maybe someone
different than me will need these impressions in the future. I just feel the
need for saying it now. I’m always confused but I’m working on it, or at least
I tell myself so. Saturday morning
still. A boring voice from a testimony is filling my hearing space with a personal
life I don’t know. What amazes me is that such a story get to be interesting to
someone, to a point that I have to listen to it just because I insist to be in
the wrong place. I guess it’s part of life. I have this void, again. It comes
and goes. It’s not like I manage to fill it up and gets empty again. It’s more
like rain: when it shows up, I fall into it and feel lost for a while. That
while is now. There was an interesting posture over Open Source when it comes
to news, but I just forgot it. It went more or less as some sort of reactive, kind
of like in blood tests, to see how the news behave and what sort of opinions
pops up because of it. In some way that’s the thing with the news, but the
article was trying to make a point regarding printed newspapers and
distribution rights, along with intellectual property. Who do we answer to,
anyway? More than one would claim <i>no one</i>, but it’s not true, I mean someone,
or something owns us, why do we feel the impulse to belong? Maybe because some
entity made a campaign for it. At least that’s what I need to believe, if I
want to understand that anybody’s private life, just because whatever he does, or
whoever he sleeps with is uploaded (by him, by the way) on social media, get to
have several people somewhat interested – and eager – in knowing further
details. It occurs to me, now that I’m writing about it, that this could be part
of the nostalgic wave it is now in vogue. We used to be that eager for gossips
back in schools era. Somehow this kind of information evocates it so. Being an
immigrant, among a lot of things, is about longing and remembering other times,
perhaps more than others, and we get so immersed in it, that our world of
impressions is reduced to a cell phone screen. <o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-66294297412927215392023-11-24T18:35:00.002-04:002023-11-24T18:35:00.137-04:00Fifth page III<div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUXY6fR8REmeHq5gzXh3ReDdKiH0xhfW_X_6IGfyaN2DEsMZna1j0z6IM8fo1yXExCDlbR8CFa5qoN2b9CrLqfuHnTYhWtf_WfSetjlLf6-pDuKRf9OAhRr54OAyPq7lgJ9rNAL0ngMkf17FaiJ8DukipKhd6zIjrQUWjuynZM8FDyTQzKghioCn6-9z88/s1346/Screenshot_20231019_193653_Gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1346" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUXY6fR8REmeHq5gzXh3ReDdKiH0xhfW_X_6IGfyaN2DEsMZna1j0z6IM8fo1yXExCDlbR8CFa5qoN2b9CrLqfuHnTYhWtf_WfSetjlLf6-pDuKRf9OAhRr54OAyPq7lgJ9rNAL0ngMkf17FaiJ8DukipKhd6zIjrQUWjuynZM8FDyTQzKghioCn6-9z88/s320/Screenshot_20231019_193653_Gallery.jpg" width="257" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Friday. The black mirror in front of me. I don’t get
to see me. I’m below its reflection. I
can see the painting on the wall and the lamp. A mirror is always good for
putting thoughts in perspective. You
see, the painting and the lamp are actually on my back, but I can see them on
the screen of the TV set now that is off. In a way, this might tell us that there
could be anything behind us, either by chance, or by choice, and make it
reflected right in our front, so we can take a look at it, stand up (and for, or
against, why not) and see ourselves in it as well. Thus we can think
again, think again but not overthink,
overthink is more like a condition, and it
triggers our neurosis, which it’s already
there, I know, specially on people used to the chaos, used to crisis, shortages,
or whatever not-good-at-all sudden thing out of our foresight. I’m relaxed now.
I have to go to work but I’m still on time for it. My neurosis levels are low
for the moment, unlike my hope; which is
up high and I’m smiling while writing it down. First break. Everyone on their
screens. To be honest, what else can we do? We kind of feel some pressure on
being more social but there’s this endless carrousel of media material that
keeps us looking nowhere else. Today, there’s no point on debating it. It is
what it is. Break time has ended. We’re leaving early today. No payment for
those hours. Let’s go back. A little something about our neurosis: we have this
urge for an answer every time we send a message. It’s this tiny emperor-like
pose we tend to adopt on waiting. We just can’t wait anymore. This has flourish
in some way, I guess, because of the constant scrolling. For instance, I
usually leave at 3:00 PM, not today, but the rest of the days I do so. Right at
3:0l PM I’m sending my wife the first message asking her how close she is from
picking me up. That’s how we work on waiting these days. However, when it comes to answer, that’s a whole
different story: we want to be understood,
we want that the fact we might be busy stays implicit over the waiting
time. Only that we feel impaired for switching roles, therefore no sympathy for
anyone, on anything, specially when
scrolling on the screen of the phone. This is the society model nowadays. Many
of our memories will just be left to an app feed, and some of them will just
fade as the thump moves down, all that in no more than two, three seconds. I’m
getting used to watching people looking at their screens. It’s a terrible feeling: knowing you’re alone
among people. Loneliness has changed. Saturday
afternoon. Sunny after a rainy
morning. A few airplanes have gone by. I
could tell for their sound. Long naps are plan killers. Don’t ever plan
anything before taking a nap. There’s the balcony, for myself, but there’s a
stronger force having me indoors: the power of the hesitation. I could grab
something and prepare it for dinner, but I guess I rather hesitate and let time
burn over the uncertainty. Everyone else
is still sleeping. That’s why. The TV is
on but there’s actually nothing running since it is an app for streaming. There are just some figures moving back and
forth and that’s it. Hangover: interesting word when it comes to translation. I
mean, hang, as in <i>hanging</i>, and
over, as in <i>entirely</i>, it is like floating on your own after being drunk. It’s an interesting way to see it. In my
country we call it <i>mouse</i>, like Mickey,
and everyone understands it. It is actually a verb, so to make it
somewhat possible in English, it would go like <i>I am enmoused</i>, or <i>I
have mouse</i>, like I have fever. I don’t know where it may come from. The
thing is I feel like I am <i>enmoused</i> still, or I’m still having this
hangover, and I have to go to work. As a matter of fact, I’m ready to be taken there, carrying all
this bad disposition and headache, Wine was on Saturday, it’s Monday but I just had too much. Let’s say I had enough
to spend the whole Sunday on recovery, but Sunday didn’t last enough for it. I
had my first break already. I still feel a bit bad. I would say I won’t drink
like that again but we never know, at least I can tell myself I hope not to
since I’m wasting beautiful time. Let’s take out the garbage and take a shower.
I’m home. It’s fine now, and cold too. I read a good article about the decay of
the so called <i>Venezuela se arregló</i>. In order to bring up some context, it
was a slogan promoted from the government, through its network of allegedly
social media influencers and presumably famous people, who still live (and
work, doing I don’t know what) there. The government, let’s say, understood that whatever illusion
we may fall into, must come from social media. Thus they made a whole world
inside of it, and they made it so deep, that people abroad, specially young
people, including people of my generation too, have started to believe it. Nostalgia
pays great deal, I have no doubt about it, and, added to Hope both combined, it’s more a kind of strong
drug, a drug many Venezuelans are getting addicted to. And just like that, there
are many spellbound through their phones getting the latest news of this cool
Venezuela nobody got to see back in the day. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Don’t get me
wrong, we’ve seen and had a lot great things; great times, things that,
obviously, trigger our Nostalgia, otherwise resentment would have swept it all,
and I thought it did. I mean, when I was still there, there were a lot who ran
away already, and the common grounds for most of them used to be hatred. An annoying hatred, to be honest. At that time, I felt more like:
<i>go</i> <i>live your life and leave us alone</i>. Now I kind of understand
it. I still have my doubts, but certainly it is a process of several and
diverse steps. After a while, I became part of those who left as well, and I
deal with the pain that what, and who, I missed and left constantly cause me,
but also the joy, the joy of being away, of starting over, of a another chance;
because there’s joy after those complaints, and a new life ahead too. Only that
there’s also a lot of sensitivity, sensitivity born out of such runaways. New
resentments have been coming up towards this make believe the government managed
to establish… only for a while, That’s what the article was about: that the
illusion is fading, like the smoke. Yes. Nevertheless, there must be something
going on. It is too much coincidence that this kind of news were brought up in a
moment of important political decisions, but on the other hand, we’ve been fed up for more than twenty years
with important political decisions, and here we are, still waiting, with our
smoke faith with nothing but disappointment to recall. Third break, ninety more minutes, and that’s it for
the day. There’s a lot going on these days. Some voices are blurring me, and I
can’t focus on these words I’m writing about. The room got quiet again. I can
think and evocate, close my eyes a little bit and pretend I’m resting
wonderfully. I let my hand go over my
neck in an attempt to get some relief but I can’t just let myself go since I
may fall asleep and we’re here to work. The vision, my vision, gets blurry.
Voices are rising loud again. I want to go home. I hope I can get some rest
when I get there. I’m going to need it. Big day tomorrow. Several duties only
for a day. I’m still at work, half of an hour to go but it is not now yet. I
should use this time more wisely, but I
can’t. Inspiration doesn’t work that way
but at least it will find me working. I believe Picasso said that. We need to
keep breaking down our process until we get to that point where we can state,
once and for all, that from here – the place once found, whenever that may be –
it’s where we can start over, thus help each other, and grow strong as a
community. Sometimes I think it won’t be something from our generation. So
let’s just help the next ones. I hope this sort written confession statement
diary fiction story helps someday, sometimes, at some point. Meanwhile, let’s keep on letting it go. Time to get a
broom and sweep, not fly, I’m not a
witch. I’m home now. I hope I can get some rest right now. <o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-18042994874022716162023-11-23T18:32:00.001-04:002023-11-23T18:32:00.143-04:00Fifth page II<div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeBdad-2R3JyRw25wpEjnsBo6R0COF1dSRfcn1cFscmlpu67NxfKmsCebN9QJXerS3ktEx_F5wJ2Nh18XflslaMe7zmfZJevHJ5R1KESeDPBPN6NDMX5iRtDba83YYiU3Bome0lh_OivHWGZYq_JZk4KoTiBL49L40xaxCyrhnieaglExSZq5gRU49Ocp_/s1471/Screenshot_20231026_190110_Gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1471" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeBdad-2R3JyRw25wpEjnsBo6R0COF1dSRfcn1cFscmlpu67NxfKmsCebN9QJXerS3ktEx_F5wJ2Nh18XflslaMe7zmfZJevHJ5R1KESeDPBPN6NDMX5iRtDba83YYiU3Bome0lh_OivHWGZYq_JZk4KoTiBL49L40xaxCyrhnieaglExSZq5gRU49Ocp_/s320/Screenshot_20231026_190110_Gallery.jpg" width="235" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Time for
bed. Not really sleepy, but old enough to get some sleep just by laying down on
the bed. That’s kind of like a superpower; the working class superpower:
postpone the tiredness until reaching bed time. See you soon, maybe tomorrow. It
rained. It looks like it rained last night. Not when I was writing, but it
definitely rained. The sunshine is making its way through the clouds. The
yellow and the light blue are trying to
put the gray behind, the white is
helping. We could say the sky is dancing, the sky is dancing the song of the
birds. Saturday morning. The balcony,
the coffee, this time a little sweet because of the other creamer. I
love it, and I can’t help it. Time for a couple of duties. Somehow the sun touches
in a gently way the window when it’s shining. Now I can see it. I hadn’t seen
it before. Actually I can’t remember myself at home in the living room at this
time to acknowledge it. I could say it is something new for me. Led lights are like,
making us forget the yellow times; television included. Most of the lights now
tend to be white. Late. When we’re late, everything falls apart. What we have
left is to make it up for the rest of the day. That’s some sort of a lifestyle.
Elvis has left the building. Making it up for rest of the day. A constant
improvisation. Monday, Monday. Dark and cold. Autumn is here. Balcony times
will be left for memories, or some other
moments during daylight. Not now. I
don’t see it like a spot for writing at this hour, so I’m back to the living
room. Indoors, carpeted, among the mix
between some yellow and the white lights. This month is working out, November
doesn’t seem too cruel either. I guess
hope is doing its job, at least emotionally, and that’s fine for now. War news
are back again. I used to read and think much more about these themes back in
Venezuela. I felt something like: a man
of my standards, should know about these things. Geopolitics, some people call it. Now my standards are
others, so I just think about it and smile, not at the war; that’s terrible, at
that ten years ago me who’s should be gone by now, or perhaps confided to my
memories, and for evocation purposes only. This could work out as some
interesting story title: <i>for evocation purposes only</i>. It could actually
be an immigrant slogan. At the end of the day, at the end of the shift, that’s
what we normally bring up to a conversation: our past life, for evocation
purposes indeed. Sighs after that as needed. There’s some irony, and it's kind
of like a metaphor came true, the fact that these words take place while I’m
about to wipe myself up, I mean, I have to stop talking (writing) about
evocation and sighs to clean my ass. This is a very loud and clear message from
Life and it’s time to go to work too, by the way. Here I am, enjoying my <i>horizontal
projection;</i> that means: same salary, different work. I’m back to that where
I can listen to music out loud but there’s no signal for losing myself over
social media. Maybe I will be able to write more, I may even try to read some.
I have a book in my bag, we’ll see. I’m a little over the thirty thousand words;
a bit more, surely. I went public. Nothing
happened, as I expected. Why would anyone
read it? Reading is a very selective thing to do. Those who normally do it,
don’t read just anything. There must have been some recommendations beforehand at least. This is just left to chance, I guess.
If something happens to me, the story won’t be complete. It’s a bit of a dilemma. A no worth dilemma, but a dilemma whatsoever and after all. A
delusion. A delusion I intend to keep, to embrace. There are much more words to
add. So let’s keep going. I just had a
great lunch. I love when my wife cooks for me. Now I’m here, listening to <i>Corazón
Delator</i>, and getting a nice vibe when he says <i>Los vestigios de una
hoguera</i>, because there was fire in that passion, and there they are: the
vestiges, denouncing a heart aching, burning, for a love gone. I don’t think a
love gone would be a subject during this story. I don’t know. This immigration wave pours some spice
tragedy-comedy sense on it. I was talking to my wife about it. We do suffer,
we’re all genuinely in pain for what we left and who we left. It’s just this south-american
way of ours, that we must make up a joke out of any disgrace, and therefore get
a laughter instead of sympathy. Nevertheless, I don’t think it is sympathy what
we’re trying to get from the rest, so maybe the this humor of ours, is not just
part of the way we are but more, more than that. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Indoors.
Bathroom. Weather doesn’t seem to be as cold as yesterday but our mood seems to
be bitter nevertheless. This is the kind of town, and routine, where you need a car for everything, for anything.
This is not the kind of town where you can take a walk to the bus stop
and wait for a few minutes, and perhaps coincide with someone a few times
during the month, so you’re able to start a conversation and eventually, get to
know each other and finally, stop feeling alone. This is not that place. This
is the place where you enter in a seemingly endless loop, by doing the same
thing over and over to a point of losing track,
any sort of track. Whichever that may come first. For instance, losing
track of memories: ask the same question every time, because you just forgot
about it, for an unknown reason, by following this loop I’m talking, of course,
you just forgot any of the answers, so you ask and ask like an ever repeated
song. Track of time, lost too, prompted to lose it at first, by the way. As it
happens, it turns out that you remember what you asked, only not when you did
it, so the same words come and go throughout your head; your being, and we
start using the same, even for opposite things, and laugh or yell because, just as toddlers do, we don’t know other
words. I heard something about the brain and its condition of use it or lose it,
and, we might be losing it. A rolling belt, in a way, very much like those in
airports that carry people’s baggage from one place to another. An old rolling
belt and its continuous sound. A sound of movement and going nowhere. A sound
that comes back where it starts. A cycling sound, a cycling song for the bored
and the tired. I’m hidden among the boxes; watching, listening. It’s break time
but I’m not hungry. Let’s go down and see the others eat. The day just went by.
Wine checked. Good news on one side and some hesitation on the other. That’s
how life is. Bed time. Not sleepy. Let’s see. There’s a promise. A promise of
progress, of commitment. Hope finding
its way but trust is losing its track. What’s the track of trust, anyway? We
get used accept. But there’s the
promise, the wonder. Elvis would say <i>The wonder of you. </i>Who is that you?
Is it really you? You may be someone else. Wonder has several approaches. Let’s
wonder why. Let’s be wondered by. Now in bed, I want to evocate, I want to
imagine, to imagine and touch. Is it
true? Are you for real? Will you wait? Will you miss me? Who knows. Delusion
has several faces. Wine is gone by now. Noises. Noises from silence, from the
night. From my will for sex. Sex is absorbed by wine sips. Several glasses for reflection. Am I going to be
touched? Good night if not. The garbage truck and its solo under a rainy day.
Still dark. Obviously indoors. Only hearing and having this sort of hangover.
Things seem to work out. Two love stories came to my understanding. The first
one is about a couple, that in order to remain legal, they must join a third
party, so to speak. I guess it is the real life version of Sandra Bullock’s
romantic comedy: in this case certainly not romantic, nor funny, but a comedy hereinafter.
Again, we’re looking for laughter rather than sympathy. The second one, the
second couple. This couple got together again in Venezuela after being away
from each other for a little while. Only that they went through different
things after that while abroad. Now they
are back when they started, surely with a way different mind. This is more a
tragedy but it won’t be taken seriously,
so it will become a comedy, for
the amusement of who they left behind at least. Home. Shining afternoon. Let’s take a nap and get good vibes. We did.
We ate out. <o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-1972576395616637572023-11-20T18:28:00.002-04:002023-11-20T18:28:00.139-04:00Fifth Page<div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqm4vz2NQCEfRgaF285WXEUU7NiNnKeyx24xq3kcFfbNX-IcO8ZaBJPxQ3bDwYc9pmSRSS8y6Znus5ocJpvge6GTYU2xitmlqus0vuxx-06ckvjhPiq7BRzwPzyTIZuijwSbDGTorMepRZgoVJsOzvx6nJpYd45bHTxzkENLxJjh9WhLYaYg9qPwqP1EkO/s1440/Screenshot_20231026_190111_Gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqm4vz2NQCEfRgaF285WXEUU7NiNnKeyx24xq3kcFfbNX-IcO8ZaBJPxQ3bDwYc9pmSRSS8y6Znus5ocJpvge6GTYU2xitmlqus0vuxx-06ckvjhPiq7BRzwPzyTIZuijwSbDGTorMepRZgoVJsOzvx6nJpYd45bHTxzkENLxJjh9WhLYaYg9qPwqP1EkO/s320/Screenshot_20231026_190111_Gallery.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">October. Another
morning. Indoors for now. I haven’t gotten up early enough during this
week yet. I still haven’t been able to serve few words for this text. I have carried
enough weight. I have done it for quite a long time, I think. I haven’t paid any attention to the sunrises,
or the sunsets lately. I haven’t even placed my thoughts on a chain to at least
understand them. I talked to a friend; that I did. I was trying to share my
worries with him; he’s still in Caracas, with all that it could mean for us; for
them, and for everyone somewhat attached to it. I was trying to get some
perspective, and I think I did it after all. He made this point that the fact
that I was one of those out of the country, for the ones who remain there, there
wouldn’t be any sympathy towards us – at all, from what I see – on any of our
concerns. Somehow leaving the country breaks something to a point in which we
start sounding strange to them and the other way around as well. During that
strangeness, we found out about feelings
we prefer we hadn’t had, now we see different,
we see each other different, and now that I’m writing it, I wonder if
it’s something that just came out and burst because of the distance, or if it was
always there; if it was there held by the courtesy of the hangouts, and the
good times together. Third break. It’s late already. Low season, they call it.
Time to go back. I got something to write and thus link a little bit all this.
I hope not forgetting about it. Alright. I was talking to a guy from work. We
were comparing our countries, the bad things, such as government, culture,
underdevelopment things, third world things and, we got to a point in
which we realized that, aside from certain places in Europe; where else in the
american continent you live in a place in which more than three languages, all
from different places, share the same neighborhood, and actually can greet each other as neighbors,
if not here, and moreover, if such diversity is well understood, and somehow accepted, how come this government wouldn’t interfere
in other countries’ affairs? We got this conclusion that mostly left-wing-like
and halfway-informed people, tend to be the ones who despise this country over
public opinion matters. Most of their claims are based on opinions and
perspectives from centuries ago. It’s a petty that those are the kind of people
who rule our countries, and convey such a resentful angle on schools. We become
adults hating a system we haven’t yet understood. So there’s this pride, born out of the
failure, compelling us that our sorrows are not on us. And it could get more
serious as we take it further. I mean, we develop hate as a feeling that can be
indoctrinated, from politicians in power, through the educational system, and that
embraces (or implies) love as the
logical immediate opposite, therefore it might be indoctrinated as well. This
make the love-hate path a place that we can transit back and forth, and back and forth we let our faith – and
idiosyncrasy – grow. We become back and forth believers with back and forth
foundations and thus our confidence, and thus our Morality. Unless you're one
of those who had high class education, which I don’t know since it's not my
area. Never was indeed. Friday afternoon.
Home. Indoors. I’m going to see if I can take a nap. It was great. Now I
would like to come back to bed but my boy is like, so very awake. I guess I’m
going to have to wait. Let’s see. Friday night. Wine is gone already. I got
some complain about it. I just thought one bottle was enough. I still think so.
But I accepted it. What else can I do! It’s coffee time now. I think it’s good
after the wine. There’s no work tomorrow.
I need to do a lot of things but I keep procrastinating them. I’m glad I
could talk with another friend; one who left Caracas too. I guess we are
unavoidably picking sides over this undeclared feud. When I started this story,
I was so convinced otherwise, now I feel like I have to take back on several
things. The life abroad is affecting me, changing me, as these words take place
over this sort of story. Our story. Our version, and conversion. I’m sure I
have mentioned it before, but this is a cycle, a spiral through which we’ll
have to step on the same thing over and over; kind of like Nietzsche’s eternal
return, so let’s bring it on again: once you decide, by force or by choice, to
become an immigrant, you have to start
from scratch; everyone knows that, but it also implies, and I want to emphasize
it, for some narcissistic reason perhaps, but I feel this need to place it in
words, that it implies start over being poor, even if you never were, a new
immigrant is a new poor, and as a new poor you have to learn things from there.
I have learned some, and I’m fine as poor until I get to talk to another
Venezuelan; specially anyone who decided to stay. <o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-54408511440105355612023-11-17T21:01:00.002-04:002023-11-17T21:01:00.135-04:00Fourth page V<div><br /></div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOwO2XVlu5wS8aQxeslbGZ6k0Sr2MCnnIA8Eugukihlv5AXipPk9qwjvowlLvNQc8Sznr6GdZcLUtCdcsgrTlNFO2ndBSzMKTC813_hSEgGNmLf9awlp_yMh27RHS_9w3j_SXNAjjFg5QQTulPwiLCcSwmtwvQZeVyAUMOZyY3TBFESQ7h70OnZgI23T5o/s1440/Screenshot_20231026_190111_Gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOwO2XVlu5wS8aQxeslbGZ6k0Sr2MCnnIA8Eugukihlv5AXipPk9qwjvowlLvNQc8Sznr6GdZcLUtCdcsgrTlNFO2ndBSzMKTC813_hSEgGNmLf9awlp_yMh27RHS_9w3j_SXNAjjFg5QQTulPwiLCcSwmtwvQZeVyAUMOZyY3TBFESQ7h70OnZgI23T5o/s320/Screenshot_20231026_190111_Gallery.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 150%;">Waiting is the hardest part. Meanwhile Instagram is
firing me with all these debt relief programs. I am tempted, I’m really tempted. Sometimes I fill out the
whole application and then I regret and take it back. The cost of living is the
cost of life. I’m overwhelmed by my thoughts; the things I could do if, if
only, but just only if, but no, not so far at least. I need to figure out why I have this sense of
remorse for things I didn’t mean to. It is so tiring to explain myself over the
intentions of whatever I’ve done. It weakens me. Explain my intentions feels
like I did something wrong or bad and I must justify it. If it’s bad, it’s
fine, someone needs an explanation, but
what about those things beyond control. I came to pick up someone and that someone
is not ready yet, do I have to feel bad for this time I’m waiting? I know I
don’t, but I do, and I need to understand this impulse for explanation. Nobody
cares, it doesn’t matter. I have to put this in different perspectives. Meanwhile I remain regretful for not knowing
how I should have done this or that. I can’t have a problem everyday, please. There’s wine waiting. I just wish to
be at home already. Why wine forces people to say things they can’t keep as true
statements. It gets boring. Annoying. I gave it all. It is amazing. I am sure,
completely sure, I gave it all, and I gave it all for nothing. It’s hard to accept it. It was for nothing,
but let’s leave that for later. Now I’m just waiting to get some sleep, to find
hope elsewhere, perhaps focus on my boy’s voice; my boy’s smile, and stick with
it. Nothing else matters, I guess, and I remain poor; that’s important to bring
up; when you are poor, daily things become a drama. Rich people convey their
art through higher states and dimensions, the poor, on the contrary, they play like
they reach such a high level by exposing their miseries. We feel this need to
tell everyone how bad we want to feel understood, ad we want to do that in a
world where nobody cares. A whole drama. What are we going to do about it? Drink
and bear. Next day tends to be next in several ways. Who knows? It could be my
lucky day. Saturday morning. Gray like rain is coming anytime. A bit chilly but
nothing unboreable with a sweater on. Coffee, balcony and birds singing; louder
than other days, by the way. I can hear a few steps around. I was given another
chance, that’s how God works. I must honor such a trust vow somehow, and I need
to find the wisdom for it. My thoughts are not wise, and my ideas are not
profitable in any sense. These very words won’t give me nothing to bring to my
table, and yet I still come here and write some for my own realization. I
wonder where this impulse; the insistence, comes from, given the fact that I am
not the pushing kind. I’m more like introvert, I have this sort of condition that
hits me every time which is called – I looked at it – <i>over-explaining</i>,
and it is actually a trauma. Apparently we develop this when we are constantly made
feel a fault. So we grow up always in search for approval. I’m not totally sure
if that’s my case, but now I know it is an issue, and as such, I must take a
look at it at least. Nevertheless I just go on with my things and it seems that
today (and tonight) there will be wine and eat out. And I will get sad again
for sure: what a cycle! But we are not there just yet. Let’s <i>rise ad shine</i>
despite the gray. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 150%;">Still loving you</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 150%;"> is just an amazing song, just like <i>Comfortably
numb</i>. The solos, both solos, accompanied with a glass of wine, to listen
then <i>Stairway to heaven,</i> the live version from <i>The Song remains the
same</i>; watching my boy playing with my mom’s phone. This is my hallmark. My
wife is coming to add some love to this scene. Now it’s time for thoughts to
fly across the oneiric world I may create for them to flourish, thrive, or
burst, depending on the dream. Tomorrow will be another day. Another Sunday.
Let’s see. Let’s see indeed. Sunny, a bit chilly and quiet, except of course
for the birds, and an airplane, which is coming right away, followed by the
sound of a car running slowly: this is the song for those already awake at this
time. I’m starting to get the sound of the elliptical machine too, I think I
have mentioned at some point. I have a coffee, creamy but not sweet. Not
sweetener for the first one I’m trying to state, and it has worked out pretty
well so far since I started it. These sort of rituals, now presented as routines,
help me – us, I believe – understand a bit more every time about my space-time
relation with the environment I’m surrounded by. Birds’ singing is fading, for
example, that means more people are
coming out, and that the morning is on for everyone. Indoors time, coffee is
not over yet. I got this cool <i>Star Wars</i> mug with light sabers design, which
shows the sabers on while the liquid inside remains hot. It’s a pretty nice
thing to have. It was a gift from a good friend last summer, not the summer just over but the one from
last year. I met him during a trip. We
had a great time. Back in the balcony. Quiet, as I’m not used to. Another
coffee, same mug, it became my everyday mug at home ever since. The weather
can’t be nicer: sunny but not hot. I think I’m just giving myself this time for
contemplation, I actually have nothing to write about, I mean, I’m always
wondering why and how on several things floating inside my head. Some of them I
just don’t know how to let out, but it’s not something I want to write about
just now, maybe later. Later is not just yet. Later could be now, but I remain
wordless for my ideas to become Text. Farewells are hard. I’m still trying to
serve something about it, but not just yet I think. I’m still in the process of
understanding some moves from certain people. In the meantime I would like to
wonder why the exchange of own time over work done has this tendency for unjust?
How do people actually realize they are doing more than what they get paid for?
What is that thing that triggers our perception and takes us there? Because
once there, there’s no turning back. It is kind of cruel in its own way. But
now wine has done some damage, to the point of dizziness and will for confessing. There’s coffee,
decaf, because of the hour, but enough to withhold this impulse on over talking.
We call it <i>ultra petita</i>, in law school. Everyone is in their room, so
there’s no audience for uncomfortable confessions based on wine. Let’s get
quiet, tomorrow it will hard and we have to work too. The air conditioning is
going crazy with this weather. So I am.
Let’s just go to bed. No balcony, too early, early Monday. A farewell is
coming. We must be on time to stop by and keep going. Things look slow at work. A tense calm
followed by the uncertainty of what will happen in the next few days.
Supervisors don’t say a word. There is this sound I can hear and, I might
guess, it is someone mopping the floor, there is a bucket falling down from
some stairs, or so I hear. Two guys laughing and telling each other a story, a
story I don’t care, but I have to listen to it. We should close our ears the way we close our eyes. Some things
are just worthless to listen to and yet we have no choice for it. It’s not like when we don’t want to see something.
The Power, wearing any of its faces, takes advantage of that. Power tends to
find the way to get to our ears and makes us listen to those things we don’t
want, and does it as many times as necessary, until we assimilate it, and then
be pushed to believe and accept,
because, eventually, we all
accept it. There are plenty of examples throughout history. It happens with
music too. What people call music nowadays is incredible. Most of the music I
like comes from a joint effort of minds working together in an attempt of expression,
and that doesn’t mean they must say something in a song. Sometimes it has more
to do with the way they play the instrument,
or that, plus the musician put in a specific part of the song. Having
that, getting that, it’s just sublime, provocative, <o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><br /><br />Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-5609421925927131902023-11-16T20:59:00.002-04:002023-11-16T20:59:00.139-04:00Fourth page IV<div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXYurfsqlACuJQpMKUU6LKEpMq55uvVmeNUxhRhyphenhyphenrkrDuxOCjs5wHEoGCqlPcrWPfhwtl2y_q6bCygKY7wemmmjqo5H-gJLOVxzKkmZ7nOquw0j1we-1QUUIte6u9_kzBM4nA6ATJLvVIhYg-OKHGaicpe46jN40CKjnTp0s28yTHHdXvKH_ZQnw0bzdsf/s1222/Screenshot_20231019_193655_Gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1222" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXYurfsqlACuJQpMKUU6LKEpMq55uvVmeNUxhRhyphenhyphenrkrDuxOCjs5wHEoGCqlPcrWPfhwtl2y_q6bCygKY7wemmmjqo5H-gJLOVxzKkmZ7nOquw0j1we-1QUUIte6u9_kzBM4nA6ATJLvVIhYg-OKHGaicpe46jN40CKjnTp0s28yTHHdXvKH_ZQnw0bzdsf/s320/Screenshot_20231019_193655_Gallery.jpg" width="283" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Read a book,
listen to a whole record, go on and watch a movie. Go ahead a pick one by
chance, something, someone you’ve never
heard before. Give it a chance, give yourself a chance to go on something you
never saw on social media, and then sense it. Make your own impression about
it: a terrible movie, a boring record, a very bad novel, place, time, picture,
exhibition, it won’t matter because,
each and every single one, will grant you with a piece of space for your
thoughts and perception to float, to flow, so be it. Afterwards you pick a
place and sit, talk to yourself and smile (or cry) alone. Then get your shit
together and get a job, or go to work if you have one. It doesn’t sound like a
plan to you? You can always go back to your scrolling, just give it a try. I
try. I read some today. It felt great. It felt like a trip when you pay nothing
ad you can get anything. O want some delusion here: there is this girl gone
crazy for a guy. I haven’t seen that before, I mean, I have lived a life where
women always have the say; watching that is really impressive to me. Sunday
night. To some, we are in autumn already. Yesterday it rained the whole day. It
was kind of like an entrance for the pumpkin season, but today, tonight, summer
says goodbye on some fresh air despite of the dark. Tomorrow we’ll see. I feel
like I want some coffee. And I had it, as I’m having one right now. It’s cold,
the weather, not the coffee, but a cold summer-like,
which means there’s no need for any sort of coat. Friday and Saturday were
colder. Almost no stars in sky, I can’t even see the moon. It’s thick, I don’t
know, not Foggy, but dark blue gets me this thick sense. If I could get a piece
of it, – a piece of sky – at least a
piece from the one I’m starring at now, it would be thick. Lamps on the streets
are on. Lamps of the apartments across; not. Is it too early? I don’t think so.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Light bulb
of the balcony needs to be replaced. Dark
and cold became friends. I could join them by wearing some coat but I guess I’m
opting stay indoors out of my lack of mood. Why? I guess – again – because bad news tend to
hit harder lately, not because of their
impact; their impact is something different to place in thoughts: that requires
a different angle. I’m talking about how
often, or how many, depending on my will to count them, or pay attention to
them. I tried counting first, it’s just not working, I mean, I get tired of it. There’s some
weight to carry while thinking about them, and, during this traffic jam of
thoughts, the effort of counting them, let the others vanish too soon, so
there’s a little spot for reflection; and I need to come around. Light bulb
replaced. This one is white, it gives you this sense of office now. I think I
like it better in yellow. The yellow light gets me, I don’t know, warm, takes
me back in time, takes me to Caracas, on
1985, or 86, when I was in our elementary school. This one, on the other hand,
takes me to an office, and I just realized I miss them both. Break time.
Breakfast time but since fasting, the break’s got to wait a little longer. A
little longer I must wait indeed for some news to come. And they will. I just
need to give myself to delusion meanwhile: I see you see me, I see you see me
behind that I-don’t-care-about-you gesture in your face. I know anger can be a
mask sometimes, a suit we feel like we
need to dress due to the this fear of exposure.
Feelings must be kept in the mouths of silence. In the steam that comes
out and rests around the glass right after a sip of wine. That moment, that
look up trying to find it, and not getting it yet… that look down trying to let
it go, and carrying with it still. At home. Quiet. Walls speak: a TV on, at
some other apartment, a video on the phone perhaps. I feel like I need to shave
but I tend to drop it right before the bath. It’s like this nutrition program:
I just had an Ice cream that I shouldn’t have had. Let’s play Depeche Mode for this moment and
enjoy the silence. There’s plenty of time for whining in words (written
thoughts) specially during this story, a story nobody cares, to be honest. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It was just
the perfect opportunity, and I just wasted it. Why? Well, here I am: the car
won’t start. It was like that since yesterday evening. I made here to pick up my mom and then it didn’t
start anymore. Two people came for help. The first one tried to start it. He
really wanted to help and I just felt and feel graceful for it. If you hesitate
of God’s existence, think again. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out. I joined one of these car
companies that provides roadside assistance. They never came. I got a call from
them at 1:00 AM. I saw it at 5:00 AM. I was already at home thanks to the second
man who stopped by and tried to help as well. Since he could not get the car
started, he offered himself to take us – Mom and I – home. Like I just said. God
is there. I’m in the workshop now, but let’s go back a few hours. I texted my
boss to let him know I was going to be late today (which I’m still, and I guess
I will be for the rest of the day) He didn’t answer but I assume he got the
message. I got to the parking load where I left my car, right where I picked up
my mom yesterday. I tried again, maybe 20 times more, and nothing happened. I
called for a tow service. The second one was the one who took me to the
workshop I’m used to take my car. The guy there refused to check the car, he claimed
they don’t do that, so he suggested another workshop, and we went, and there
was no one there. I told my tow driver: I’m lost, I’m not from here, I don’t
know what to do, Do you know some place where I can take the car? He made a
call, got a number. I called, and here I am, writing while waiting.
Unfortunately I didn’t bring any boo and it was actually the best chance for
it. I’m going to leave my whole salary here. Taking care of a problem means
delaying another, that’s how life works for me, for us, I took my boy in my
arms yesterday. I took a bath with him, I started to cry, he started to laugh
and that made me think about God again. I have one of his angels right in my
arms, so hope came back again. Today I feel broke – I am broke – but this story
is not over. For now, let’s just state that I wasted the perfect opportunity
for a good read, but on the other hand, I got a good one for writing. I don’t
think I’m going to have one like this for a long time, but who knows! I’ve
written a lot so far, despite the fact that no one is going to read it, my son
will, I know, so it will worth at the end. Let’s still wait and do what most
people do in cases like this one: scrolling up and down on social media. <o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-25472041844204478092023-11-13T20:55:00.003-04:002023-11-13T20:55:00.136-04:00Fourth page III<div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghnOZRiEq9Zo3kzz_wX3-mkQYdgXoK0EmSmLxSqqZVj0_4PnLLbo4YgSoIlpnaUD0AZV7u4WYCw-w3AUyeeWMKHjBt0WE5WzhLj4WN1gNuvEyLwu-POnbLF-YDbhSGFVuqASnAkylOFEZKwjldc6u8y8IqROzP8cUIwPRGsl-Y4SSekn9Nep3WXCPbyrrg/s1240/Screenshot_20231019_193658_Gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1240" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghnOZRiEq9Zo3kzz_wX3-mkQYdgXoK0EmSmLxSqqZVj0_4PnLLbo4YgSoIlpnaUD0AZV7u4WYCw-w3AUyeeWMKHjBt0WE5WzhLj4WN1gNuvEyLwu-POnbLF-YDbhSGFVuqASnAkylOFEZKwjldc6u8y8IqROzP8cUIwPRGsl-Y4SSekn9Nep3WXCPbyrrg/s320/Screenshot_20231019_193658_Gallery.jpg" width="279" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My little
man is still sleeping. I’m loading myself up of hope thanks to him. And it’s
real, you know! Today it wasn’t that bad with the deliveries. I had it in a
good pace. Still cloudy, and raining. It’s a bit chill too. I’m on the floor, on
the carpet. This type of apartment has a carpet all over the floor. So here I
am, with my little man, which is climbing the sofa over and over while I watch
him and smile. I feel like I want a glass of wine but my wife and I decided to take
a break (it’s Sunday) but who knows, she just went to the supermarket. Let’s
see. She came back empty handed. It's time for a shower. The walls of this
apartment sound like there were someone else taking a shower behind them. They
talk, from what I can hear. We never feel alone. Actually feeling alone is more
prompted towards being with people who don’t care about you, rather than being
by yourself though. Chill. Bad mood around. It’s Monday but that doesn’t make
any different from whatever day. That has more sense back home. Tuesday: dark,
chill, black coffee on hand. There was a store in my dreams. I don’t remember
what it was it about. Still early. I thought I could have a bit more of
something to state, or wonder about and writing it here, but I just remain
silent in every way. I don’t know what to do. There is this strategic move I
should be smart enough to make it, but it overwhelms me. It’s like it is further
from my capabilities. I hate it. I hate hesitation from myself. I feel bad
enough already when realizing I’m repeating the classic pattern of not being
with my boy, only because I have to work. That’s enough from a punishment. Sometimes
I think that if something ever happens to me, these words won’t go public. I’m
halfway from whatever goal I set up in my head, but I’m not sure how long will
it take me that other half. I guess I have to honor my roots, go public
incomplete, and keep going with the flow. Going with the flow is actually what
I’ve been doing so far. The flow has taken me to work more and more. The flow has
me worried about the car and the debts. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Yesterday, I just felt tired for delivering. I forfeited
it. I felt more like going published and so I did: I started posting this tale.
I thought at first that I was going to slow down this impulse I’m having for
writing, once I get to post the first page, – or chapter, whatever suits best –
but it turns out that I’m still on it. I want to keep placing our thoughts as
part of this narrative. Dark; We better get used to it. From now on, every
morning is going to look as it looks now, only colder with time, and it will
remain so until next summer; not even next spring, I think. More black coffee
then, and more clothes for having some time here in balcony: yes, the
balcony. In order to keep ourselves
writing, light must be on. That makes us one of these yellow ships floating in
the dark. Like the one I’m in front of, like the one whose silhouette I have wondered
about. Two more I can see at the back. Two little ones I see coming closer;
it’s a car, and then another one: people going to their jobs, or just parking
outside, until the school bus picks up their kids. This is the type of complex
with gate bars at the entrance, we get a special magnetic key to enter, and
there is a sensor that opens it when coming out. It has its timing, I guess for
safety purposes; it takes a few seconds to open up, that means we have to wait
to go out. If it’s not six thirty yet, you will have a few cars on your way out
from those parents waiting for the school bus. It’s better to wait until six
thirty five. Anxiety doesn’t like that. Anxiety is always interesting. It is
always good to bring up. Clear, it’s clear: dark, but clear, the lead voice is
on the engines. We get this sense of factory, of production lines, while having
a coffee. I guess working is always in our heads. I was talking about that
yesterday: working is so present on songs’ lyrics, not like in my culture, that
there are songs for not working actually. On the other hand, it came to my mind
these guys from <i>On The Road</i>; I think they don’t work in the story. I
don’t remember it well. That’s why I tend to refrain from quoting, since I may
mix references. We better stick with each other here and leave the wise ones
alone in their pages. Again, dark and clear with machine sounds. A Slipknot
song we could evocate out of this sensing. The coffee is a plus, weather is not
warm at all. Evening at last. Nothing special to bring up, maybe a couple of things
to break down. Illusions pops as wine fades, my mouth tastes the last one while
my mind plays with the first one. Let’s declare: better times are coming,
despite the desperation. My boy plays with his pacifier. I wonder and realize
in the meantime. Hope has its own language, then I smile. I forgot if I’ve ever
mentioned it, but we live near the airport,
so every few minutes we get to see (and hear) the airplanes. When it’s
dark, kind of like now, airplanes look more a bit like spaceships, or so I see
them, and they add some momentum to this sort of symphony I whiteness every
time I sit by myself in the balcony. If this were a rock song, the airplane
passing sound would be the epic drum fill, like the one in <i>Tom Sawyer.</i>
It doesn’t look that dark today. It’s a bit cold, but enjoyable. First break
with no eating yet. I was thinking about the word <i>break</i>: it is so not
our culture, just like this combination: <i>go by</i>. I don’t go by the
standards you break down for me. I have my own way, and expectations will met
in both. This would be the kind of sentence a machine translator might not help
you with. I just checked it on Google, and it turns out that it actually works
pretty well. I’m heading to the obsolete. Let’s get there in good mood then, it
will be unavoidable, so why worrying or
getting mad, right? A gray rainy Saturday. It doesn’t seem to be a joyful day.
Let’s see. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t, but real life tends to be less
dramatic. I had a bit of wine. I didn’t feel like having more, not even as
usual. One glass, one glass was fine yesterday. Today looks better out there.
It looks more for a nice walk. It’s Sunday. Again, let’s see. Now that I live
in an English speaking country, I’ve been getting more than I used to from
songs and movies. I’m not going to lie, remember, we meet halfway, but what I’m trying to say
is, that although I don’t get to understand fully like a native speaker, I get more every time, and that more is
putting me in a position of – I guess – realizing that there are quite a lot of
songs whose message is leant to express the feeling while high, or on something
stronger. I have nothing against it, but it makes me smile from time to time
when getting it. By the way, there’s
something I need to leave here. I don’t remember if I already had done it, but
just in case, here I go: we need to work more on our capability to give space
to our thoughts to flow. Thoughts need to flow. They need space. A good way to
make that space bigger might be by reading more fiction, so we train our head
to create platforms on which we can develop our stories, or whatever we may be
getting from a lecture: the more, the better. A bigger space helps us get how
tiny things can be and therefore realize that not everything, in fact; almost
nothing, is about us. Two people whispering around, for example. They might be talking about anything, not
exclusively about us. That is important.
We tend to spend too much energy on others, on things we think they are
about us, and that’s because our platform (if I can call it so) is not big
enough to let those thoughts vanish on the oblivion. It’s like smoking in a
closed bedroom. We’ll get intoxicated, and so will happen with thoughts. Let’s
make them a bigger room, a bigger space. That might work as an antidote for the
excessive scrolling – and depressing vibe – on social media. I made an
experiment on myself. Too many people
having the greatest time everyday and every time… honestly, that is just sad. Imagine the pressure we get
to be under, that we have to share only good things. Imagine spending your day,
looking for something great, something that may last no more than ten seconds,
most of the times, in an attempt to marvel several people’s eyes who just don’t give a
fuck about you. And on top of that, living with the anxiety that comes out when
others post nicer things. The never ending comparison match. <o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-10451522483435994292023-11-10T20:52:00.002-04:002023-11-10T20:52:00.150-04:00Fourth page II<div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrTbdieioLGHPTIwC_ZQ4mqdP2x6eWWrVU969bMmPWPoQI6EGPVsuOEvYdcIQd8RqXkINyIUqjD3_9NdyLZxVRBtxYm_XDdJaPeKoKLWeR1p387ZCrEeJNPCDHHCef8m5k82zWlI-ugqU6u-166LDylrFjDkrQhBrUsNf2ErUymL0xSVIpJktbEXaqY9B4/s1231/Screenshot_20231019_193700_Gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1231" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrTbdieioLGHPTIwC_ZQ4mqdP2x6eWWrVU969bMmPWPoQI6EGPVsuOEvYdcIQd8RqXkINyIUqjD3_9NdyLZxVRBtxYm_XDdJaPeKoKLWeR1p387ZCrEeJNPCDHHCef8m5k82zWlI-ugqU6u-166LDylrFjDkrQhBrUsNf2ErUymL0xSVIpJktbEXaqY9B4/s320/Screenshot_20231019_193700_Gallery.jpg" width="281" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Breakfast
for lunch. An hour of exercise earlier. It’s been a cool Saturday so far. Now
it’s time to work. And it was fine too. I’m holding a glass of wine thinking
that I’m going to take a bath with my son in a few minutes. I haven’t taken it yet,
I’m about to, but I haven’t though. Sunday morning. Cloudy. It looks like it’s going to rain. I think I’ve
missed a couple of details: you see, with this obsessive-compulsive habit of
scrolling the phone screen – because we just can’t (and don’t want to) stop
doing it – it is very common for anyone to fall onto a monothematic stage, to a
point of self limitation, which is
actually moved by the trends of social media. We don’t choose our topics, we remain
inside a loop that keeps us repeating the two or three variants of that subject
we probably were not thinking about, and perhaps, if having something to say of
it, it wouldn’t fit with the previously established variants I was referring
to. In fact this very writing is a proof of that. Then, back to the
never-ending topic, I wanted to add, based on my opinion, that the change of the
establishment, talking about the factors of power, brought up what we’ve been
calling dictatorship. Why? And here’s my guess: a left-wing-like system will
always be less democratic due to its essence,
which in my understanding, goes by the increment of rules from The State,
to seize more control over the nation (and by nation I mean everybody else) The
democratic appearance was given by the allegedly free speech from the
media, and the size of the industrial
park. The new regime changed that. They reduced the industrial park by setting
up a bunch of economic measures and procedures, forcing several owners to find
abroad a place to work under more suitable circumstances. They promoted a
series of new laws that made payrolls simply unsustainable for the private
sector. In order to keep the nation going, the government had to sponsor pretty
much everything in every aspect. That’s what they wanted, they wanted to be
above the private sector. As an employer you weren’t able to let an employee go
unless you had a reason that fit the criteria of the law. Such a thing is going
get different angles, I know. But there is the undeniable fact that owners prerogatives
were undermined, making it subjected to
question the worth of having a property, where sovereignty is not fully so. And
I’m just cherry picking here. They wanted to control the currency exchange: a
terrible mistake. It takes a lot professional analysis to make the world
understand that phenomenon. I don’t have the words. I was just a victim like
every single nor high range officials, or friend of those, in Venezuela. And
those are the ones I wanted to mention in the first place: those people have found
the best money and power match at the cost of the nation. In other words, we
lost the country to make those people rich. Now what we have left is our
disposition for a job in another country and make ends meet with it. The
morning is almost over. It's
raining. It’s been raining for a couple
of hours, maybe. Schedule is set. I’ll be on duty in the
afternoon. Let’s hope the rain to stop
then. In the meantime, I’m having my son
here with me. He’s sleeping right over my chest. I remember when he fitted
whole, that was barely two years ago.
Now his legs are out, his arms are out, and eventually, I’m not going to be big
enough to have him this way, so I just enjoy it while I can. There is a kind of
synchronicity between the fan spinning and his breathing. I’m always getting those type of sounds like
they were the music of the world, perhaps not the world; that sounds like too
big. Let’s say that’s the music of the environment, the environment I’m
surrounded by. There is a beat and I usually tend to get it. Sometimes I think that
we are driven by it and the fact that we can listen to it is a proof we’re not
entirely on our own, and that there might be a chance that someone is setting
that up to make us function somehow. Some other times I think that it is just
my obsession to find songs anywhere and everywhere. There are times in which I
think it is a useless capability, but once in while I think it is going to be
part of brighter future. Once in a while I think I’m not going to remain poor,
and that the things I’ve learned and thought may be worth to pay for, so I can
teach my son a sensitivity to understand the world from there, and not only
from social media standards. The sound brings words, words that acquire a shape
to become a message, a message that
comes up to share it, because we are here not only to do as told, but to create
and explore, explore the untouchable and make up our own language out of it. Only
that it is not happening now. I mean, it is happening, but in my head, and it
says there; there and in these words. Most of the time I’ve got to go to work.
In fact I’ll be working in two hours from now, so I’m helping my crazy thoughts
not to vanish in the oblivion, by keeping them here and whoever decides to give
them shelter while reading them if ever get to it. Thus I have space to worry
about my situation and work hard to get through it. <o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-33994374126878306912023-11-08T20:50:00.002-04:002023-11-08T20:50:00.133-04:00Fourth Page<div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1fxIifc9Zqu-4TNLorLHd9vYdcK2SeFtQ1W1GvbSxPbuoRbfZhzuqQZIcrfjvJIKTc2TjnRybBZ3KLCS0eyT7F4YAviH-dSEdfNK_CZ1CFqcEU19P58YYAJ1zqQIbRSYdOPYtB3mg9q050Ih6nFkubm8ODC4VXzFsDbtmWnTB4glRJ-bsgUgJG7Onq5re/s1423/Screenshot_20231026_190106_Gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1423" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1fxIifc9Zqu-4TNLorLHd9vYdcK2SeFtQ1W1GvbSxPbuoRbfZhzuqQZIcrfjvJIKTc2TjnRybBZ3KLCS0eyT7F4YAviH-dSEdfNK_CZ1CFqcEU19P58YYAJ1zqQIbRSYdOPYtB3mg9q050Ih6nFkubm8ODC4VXzFsDbtmWnTB4glRJ-bsgUgJG7Onq5re/s320/Screenshot_20231026_190106_Gallery.jpg" width="243" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Fog. Foggy
dawn. It’s curious to me that fog excels the light while blurring it. Lamps
cover more but in a less clear way. Sun is not shining yet at all. Somebody got
an exercise machine. I can hear the cycling sound beating. There’s a shape
walking by, and by the light that comes out of his cigarette, I could see it was a man taking a drag. Crickets,
I hear some. The rhythm is led by the exercise machine. Now I’m inside the
apartment, hearing the sound of the water flowing through the pipes. Somebody
is taking a shower, I guess. Voices. Voices behind the wall, two female voices.
It’s still early. Monday: a new week of expectations. Is there a word in
English language for the opposite? Let’s say I do not want any expectations.
It’s not unexpected, it’s more like, for this case; <i>dis-expected</i>. I
would like to dis-expect some of my worries, at least the upcoming ones, those
not yet turned into actual problems. Please, don’t come! First job, checked.
Second job, about to start. The day is fine. Sky looks nice, everything seems
good for a Monday afternoon. It should be easy. Good music is making me
company. Let’s enjoy it. At the end, it wasn’t that good but I can say it was
fine, I mean, regardless of the distance, I did it in a good pace. Black dawn.
No fog today, just darkness and engines running. I dreamed about some people,
people I know. People whose ultimate decisions got me thinking. I thought of
this great book: <i>The unbearable lightness of being</i>. I don’t know. It’s not something we feel like we want to
state, but there is some certainty on such an angle: determination is often
thriven at random; by chance. Planning looks great on companies’ meetings and self-help
books, but our true will grows stronger, in so many ways, and at so many times,
by the appetite of the sudden. <i>Let’s go, let’s do it. Tomorrow we’ll see!</i>
And tomorrow passes, over and over, to a point that I need to see it as a plan:
a plan I never made, but it makes sense using it as the storyboard of this life
I’ve chosen… In other words: I never got to the <i>how</i> of such a <i>what</i>,
therefore I better work on my <i>why</i>. But when why is what with no how, or how
is why with no what; how does what matter without why? I’m wondering. It
rained. It rained during the second job. Tiring. Incomplete. Let’s see what comes from oneiric. Actually
it was a weird dream: there was a young guy; a janitor, on duty, who I asked
for something in the pool to fix. He gave me that look you give when someone is
wrong, saying something wrong, you think he’s stupid, or didn’t go to school,
or perhaps that look immigrants get from a gringo when we try to express
ourselves in English. In my country we say, if translated: <i>the guy wrinkled
his face.</i> In Venezuela you wrinkle your face before a situation is not
common to you and it sort of bothers you. Like the beggar on the street, who
approaches with a story of misfortunes just to ask for money at the end of it. I
wrinkle my face right away. Well. That’s the look the guy gave me, or so I thought, because, to be honest, we never see actual faces; what
we see is more like what we interpret. And yes, I got mad in the dream, I got mad, and for
some reason, I was bigger than him, so I
stepped on, pretty close, and intimidated him. I don’t intimidate anybody in
the awake world. I guess that happens because it’s my dream. So I did it, and
he felt miserable by my claim. The next scenario, I remember it as myself trespassing
somebody’s property to get, I guess it was a toy, for my son. The owner of the
property: some shape with no face, came close and the janitor guy from the
previous scene, talked to him on by my behalf and explained the owner whatever
reason I may have had, and which I have no idea of. I remember we all shook
hands, then I woke up before the alarm. That was two days ago. Now I’m waiting for
the clock to reach eleven thirty five to approach myself to the break room. I
have pasta. I love pasta. I think Venezuelans love pasta in general. Last night I had a great time. It was my
mother’s birthday. Having hear around
gives me hope. When we study in English we learn this expression: <i>make ends
meet.</i> Let’s see how it goes. I don’t see it at the moment. In Venezuela,
when people have hope, despite of some overwhelming scenario, we say: <i>cualquier
culo echa sangre,</i> and it works like a mantra. Cold morning. Not Foggy.
Actually it’s not that cold, it’s just colder than all these days before.
Summer is coming to end. Perhaps it’s already over, and sunny afternoons are
just a prelude for a <i>see you next year</i>. How positive do we get to be, to
state that we’ll do this or that, or see whoever we say we’ll see, in a future
time? Where does that confidence come from? From routines, maybe? And what about when it’s not a
routine? It might be a farewell.
Farewell is there, like and entity. An uninvited entity for some, but
not for all, and moreover, not for both;
assuming that this is about a matter of two. A guy who works with me asked me,
I was telling him some story from a past time and, now that I’m writing it, it
occurs to me that a past time is in way a past life, another life, a life gone.
I’ve come to think that those past life memories we tend to hesitate believe in,
they might be in fact about immigrants; immigrants’
lives, an immigrant telling something where he came from. Different languages meet
halfway and I’m not even sure if what I’m writing here is actually what I want
to say but, I’ll be more than pleased with our halfway encounter. So the guy
asked me, right after finishing my story, what happened to Venezuela? I didn’t
tell him this much, but I feel like telling a bit more here, not without
pointing out, that this is what I think,
and that everyone has the right to agree or not, in fact, it might be better if
there are disagreements. Disagreements
will take us to a better understanding.
So here I go: I want to call them factors of power; they are primarily
two: The Clergy and The Oligarchy. The first one is formed by the church, which
is an important political arm there, and the second one, by the aristocracy. I
believe those factors have been in control since we were part of Spain. With
time, those factors came up with a third
one: The Military force, and with such, it came the republic. As a republic, it
was ruled for many years by the three factors. In my perception, it remained as
it until half of the twentieth century, more or less; after that, when the
democracy was established, and so the unions, this last one, as I see it,
became the fourth factor of power. Everyone else was, in a way, a servant of
the power structure. Every single chairman-like official in the government was
promoted by any of the factors through political parties. That worked for a
while. Of course, there were riots, laws, media influence, but in general, it
worked out for many. Until bankers, media owners, and some other rich people
who were not part of the aristocracy, decided to seize a place in structure of
power. The first step was the division of the unions: teachers, police men,
nurses, and a lot of workers, started feeling unrepresented. The next move was… a hero, an outsider, and,
to me, that’s how Chávez became famous.
He was the hero that this emerging power needed. So they made him a
politician, and on top of that, they made him the alternative of the unionized.
I believe some, let’s call them, deserters from the former factors, joint this
new movement, knowing there was a lot of money and left wing agenda behind it.
So everything got set, and Chávez became president and got all the support he
needed to promote a new constitution, and therefore a new structure of power. Former
factors got their share still. It was a transition. We never got the chance to
choose. We never had it, actually. And the purge began… new ministries, laws,
exchange control, expropriations, and all the things that made six million people
leave their homes and lives, to start over where nothing previously done seems
to be considered. There are millions of stories to pick: hunger, crime, threats,
brutality, nepotism, corruption, everybody has something to say. I
have my story, our story, we all have it: at the hospital, in the
neighborhood, while driving. There are
too many. Too many voices silenced by routines in warehouses and social media
feeds. Too many stories hidden behind smiles and cool poses. A transcultural
era, for many, and still in disguise. <o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-31333886117278931982023-11-06T20:47:00.002-04:002023-11-06T20:47:00.145-04:00Third page VIII<div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5y8hc0oF7rIhEqY0dFzf7bPP1m0C5EGjsdzyRPcdrS1jvW8h5HSr_Hj4cIPF1e9sG_NqgTNedgsYcU2Ccvch1TzWhpqtb_HiaSqw6yl9CHiixCCcliOzvSoe1Et5nh9i4K0_4uqLJM7PCkN78rafitgNsO0Ww60s1ptcEhHso1vrrL8bPGExNngiQIPNe/s1433/Screenshot_20231026_190108_Gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1433" data-original-width="1075" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5y8hc0oF7rIhEqY0dFzf7bPP1m0C5EGjsdzyRPcdrS1jvW8h5HSr_Hj4cIPF1e9sG_NqgTNedgsYcU2Ccvch1TzWhpqtb_HiaSqw6yl9CHiixCCcliOzvSoe1Et5nh9i4K0_4uqLJM7PCkN78rafitgNsO0Ww60s1ptcEhHso1vrrL8bPGExNngiQIPNe/s320/Screenshot_20231026_190108_Gallery.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Another
night, another deception . Get used to it. I take a shower with my boy. I have
to take advantage of it because he will grow faster than my thoughts. I enjoy
it. It's kind of like our moment. I hope he remembers it as I do. Now I’m naked
in front of the sink, thinking and writing.
Realizing this is too depressive.
I better change the narrative here, I must talk about something else.
Yes. Next day. Dark. Still dark. Bugs
are playing their dawn symphony. They always do. It just came to my mind that I
am witnessing so many wonderful sunsets every time I go to the second job. The
way the sky is painted feels like a gentle touch for my view. I can have that. I
can have a coffee now as well. Time pushes indeed, but I wake up early. Someday
soon I will also watch the sun emerge from this darkness and greet our mornings
with the fade of the symphony. I’m still
working on logistics here. But it will happen eventually. In the meantime, I get ready for the first job. The one at the
warehouse. I forgot to point this out as something worth to mention: that the
bugs don’t play alone, birds play along with them. It seems to me that they,
the birds, are not part of the concert since the overture, but they tend to be part of it as the chants
go by, they seem to be like special guests, daily special guests. Who are the daily
special guests in our life? Do we have any? Is it good to have it? Is it good
not to have it? Sun is coming. Darkness is leaving. I’m watching it from a
window, while sitting on the couch, so this one won’t count. I would like to
count on any special guest, I guess. Nostalgia is a nice word. I like the word
that Portuguese has for it: <i>saudade</i>, to long for that you once had,
perhaps knowing you’re not going to have it ever again. Like puberty, for
example. I remember when the complexity of what we disturb ourselves with, used
to lie more onto unfulfilled desires rather than unmet expectations. Now I’m
thinking about the lasting of each – and the repercussions, of course – how
long does a desire burn for? What happens next after it stops burning? With
expectations is another story, isn’t it? We can expect consequences! In the
afternoon, the symphony is mostly played
by cars. Those who stop and those who go. That’s the drivers’ concert, which
I’m about to join but not yet. I’m still waiting, whispering and sighing, for
the day on my shoulders and for the upcoming ones, in this case. Next day
again. Less dark, from what I see. Engines got loud that I can barely hear the crickets.
A couple of legs passed by. Still summer. We’re getting into the last days. A
light blue is approaching from the back of the sky, making its way through the
dark tones already posed when looking up. A few and little pinks start emerging
from the clouds. I can see them now. They are preparing the sky for the entrance
of the sun. Sun is taking it easy; there’s no rush for shining or rising at the
moment. A few birds started singing.
It’s a new day, coffee on hand: black and bitter, for an imaginary sweetness.
Memories – mine at least – tend to be stored in my mind a bit like photos or
videos on the cell phone; if I want one, I have to, let’s say, scroll until I
get it. Lately they have been popping up randomly. I would like to know why. It’s
involuntary. I’m picking an order at work and suddenly, a high school moment
comes like it was something I’ve been thinking of, but it’s not. My guess is
that the mind brings these moments out nothing in an attempt to bear the
worries. In other words, the mind can’t stand thinking too much about something
whose solution is not coming any sooner, or that there’s no way to solve it at
the moment. A defense mechanism maybe, maybe a tryout to prevent a possible
collapse. I’m forgetting things out of focus lack. Nevertheless here I am
trying to break it down to come up with an understanding… with you, with them,
with all of us. Could that be a good thing after all? I think it could be what
we tend to code as faith; having faith might be an interpretation of how your
mind works things out to keep you going. How about atheists? Honestly, that is a
form that narcissism adopts on some people. You build your own ego, on many
cases, by forcing yourself to a stereotype fitting, or to an archetype already
made, to satisfy a market need, or a political
establishment. What we do is to characterize someone we think we can be using such
foundations. That works for a time on many, for a whole life to some. But it
may stop working, and there it is when we should surrender our ego, and let
ourselves embrace any new and fresh aspect for our personality, something that
might be a more appropriate fit for the times we’re living. Quite a break
through! And quite a challenge, considering the rejection on long-term
endeavors. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The sky
looks like it’s going to rain. There is this mix of heat and cold breeze that
feels weirdly nice. I’m inside the car, waiting, listening to the sound of one of these
industrial engines that must expulse a sort of steam, or smoke - I’m not sure -
to keep functioning. The sound has a funny variation more likely found in music
songs. If the simulation theory is somehow real, how music would exist then? I
don’t know. It just occurred to me. Play is an interesting word. A band plays a
song while recording it, and fans play that song over and over later on. In
Spanish those <i>plays</i> are in fact two different words; two different verbs.
So play works out for the listener and the musician. I’m both, by the way. Play
symbolizes pleasure; amusement, in every way when it comes to music. I’m home.
I can hear the air conditioning. I can
also see myself into the black mirror out of the TV set. It’s not that I see me
clearly, but I can see how I feel in that image of myself I’m now projecting. I’m
looking at my son while he still sleeps. He is just a little angel in my bed
now. I’m blessed. I love the sound he's making with the pacifier. It’s like a drum
beat which I want to follow up. Someday he will see me playing and someday he
will have the chance to sense the music like I do. That’s my one true advice if
I can give any: sense the music. Break every line down of an instrument and try
to get the language each one of them is speaking. It’s just a wonderful thing
to do. Enjoy it when you can. The day has almost gone by. Supper was huge;
great. INow I don’t know if I’m sleepy or tired. I am full, that’s for sure.
Full of emptiness? Not now. Full of hope? Not either. Full of food. Today.
Tonight. It’s cold outside. Not like fall
or winter, but cold for a summer night. Crickets sings. The sky is dark, a bit
blurry because of the clouds, and not as dark as early in the morning, but dark
above all. I guess I will never stop getting surprised by the attention unpaid.
I mean, I’ve been there a thousand times, and yet, there it is the bitterness showing
up like the flame of a lighter when rolling it on. I’m old enough to tell when my
words are going nowhere in a conversation, but I insist, I speak louder; which
is a terrible mistake. I’m the only one who knows what my words worth but I
keep giving them away and leave them in the unappreciated. If someone is not
listening to you, stop talking to them. As simple as that. – I heard that from
Jordan Peterson and loved it – Whatever it is that we want to say, should not
be subjected to disinterest by our stubbornness. Specially if it goes only to
please our ego. Not anymore. And yes, That’s why we insist and that’s why we
think we need it. For our ego. It hurts, I know. It pisses us off, I won’t deny
it. But we have to accept and understand when we are no longer a priority,
therefore what we have to say won’t matter. I’m learning how to deal with it. I
have come to a point in which I wonder if I have been doing wrong during all
this time. Perhaps I’m just facing the consequences
of choosing this life. Now I’m a fool hesitating and wondering, and I can’t
stop thinking about it. Add debts to that and you’ll get a preposterous present:
my present. Thanks God I have the love for my son. I’m scared that I’m putting
too much on him. I don’t want him to feel any pressure. I want him to be free
and happy. I can’t sleep. Anger won’t let me. I’m thinking too much. I need to
change the subject. Let me try. I need to believe that I am going through this
for a reason, and that there will be some sort of reward afterwards. Is it too
foolish? I know. It is. Fucking archetype that won’t let me change, and embrace
failure and disappointment as something I have to get rid of, and not as a
sacrifice for a cause I know is not such. I’m just losing my faith away. I hate
the Smoke. And that’s what my faith has turned into: a drag that goes away with
the wind, as the cigarette runs out, and then there comes the need of lighting
another one, and another one, and another one, until I have no more and start
disturbing and talking shit about everyone, only because I need to buy more
cigarettes. I have to take care of he kid. The rest are too busy drowning in
the social media while having a smoke. That’s another story, that’s the story of self cheating. Self
cheating and victimism have taken on self esteem. I guess I need to find a joke
on Instagram, or spy on someone else’s life, to see mine more miserable and
blame the world for it. I hope I can enjoy the balcony, or the sunset. At least
listen to the music I like. I remember when I was a teenager and I used to do
it. I listened to a lot of music. Those were the days! At the moment, I just want to say a prayer for my boy. It’s a
habit. My faith comes back in a different way. Venezuela was once a colony of
Spain, that explain our heritage in many aspects as a nation; as people in
general. With the passing of the time, there were lots of changes that added features
to our idiosyncrasy, but I could say Religion has kept solid since memorial
times. Most of us are catholic. Many of us went to catholic schools, in fact, I’m pretty sure that catholic
schools are still among the first choice for parents to enroll their
children. If I were there, I certainly
would be one of those. We have to link these sort of traditions to this
vogue-like atheism typical of social media. We must understand that there is a
coexistence between everything we inherited as population, and anything trendy
on those cell phone apps. We also must understand that many things derived from
such coexistence, have political purposes; specially the ones related to
behavior and beliefs. Pedophiles at catholic church? Yes, sure. But the fact
that media implies that such a crime happens out of religion beliefs, instead
of a position of power, understanding,
of course, that church is, obviously,
one of those – I’m not denying it – but not the only one, simply makes
the difference. A criminal is a criminal for the things he did, not for the
institution he believes in. Nevertheless we buy the political narrative, so we
embrace the possibility that religion, as an institution, is undermined by the
faith, leaving aside the corruption. There are many examples like that. I could
state that the vogue of being <i>open mined</i> was use for such causes as well.
That’s why we wanted for a time to be
those who, allegedly, understood the path the world was taking. Now in my
forties, I don’t know. I think I’ll just stick with jokes. But the damage is
already done. The Venezuelan exodus started more or less in 2015, it has not
slowed down ever since yet. So now we watch news like: two Venezuelans were
capture trying to rob, kidnap, rape, steal, falsify, blackmail; whatever felony
you can come up with. Since when the citizenship dictates the law compliance? Since
it's convenient for a political say. Then you get used to read it on social
media, and then the prejudge is already on everyone’s head. You also read the
opposite, and it's kind of annoying too:
the secretary of whoever important person is Venezuelan, the yoga instructor of
whoever celebrity is Venezuelan. Don’t tell me that isn’t political too. After
a shower and some wine, I have come to realize that job ads are fake. I haven’t
figured them out yet but they seem fake to me. I mean, how come it is that
there are so many ads, looking for so many people, at so many levels, with so
many types of jobs, and no one calls you for a review of your résumé? Really?
You’re telling me I’m not good enough to be summit at least? Come on! <o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-90391480074059847552023-11-04T19:45:00.002-04:002023-11-04T19:45:00.134-04:00Third page VII<div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi09Qps4EF0ataH_66kQ8Ity2-ke5sbwJ_gg2Z6-lfvH2bb-XsvSkhCCAAldm0sWuVBeIfU4ULbKIqETTsD2ero5ucssn-ot8J3iMGM34lYTog3dvmANeRUnvKrXupwuK6OfKKDpAc_7TNKdl2aTYwi-pJw25zHldP5ALPg2lRdK62k84b5CZnBvR2uXNqB/s1471/Screenshot_20231026_190110_Gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1471" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi09Qps4EF0ataH_66kQ8Ity2-ke5sbwJ_gg2Z6-lfvH2bb-XsvSkhCCAAldm0sWuVBeIfU4ULbKIqETTsD2ero5ucssn-ot8J3iMGM34lYTog3dvmANeRUnvKrXupwuK6OfKKDpAc_7TNKdl2aTYwi-pJw25zHldP5ALPg2lRdK62k84b5CZnBvR2uXNqB/s320/Screenshot_20231026_190110_Gallery.jpg" width="235" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Saturday
morning. A piece of bread and a mug of coffee, here in the balcony, yes. I better enjoy the moment. It’s sunny.
It’s a good time for giggles and wiggles. I’m just drawing a little smile for
my face and a bit of patience for my mood. I think I left something undone and
unspoken, but it’s next day and I am a little more into what this next day is
going to offer. I worked. I’m going to
work tomorrow too… in the other job; the delivery one. A beer before bedtime:
when it's bedtime, anyway? Poor people, yes. I’m thinking about them. I am
poor, that’s why this will go public, if it ever does, by myself through a
blog I hold. I’m not sure if any editorial
might ever get interested in this as something worth to pay. It doesn’t mean
I’m going to refrain from doing it. What the hell! These are my words: my inner
war. My dealing with poverty… that’s the thing! Poverty. Why do we have this need to hide our Poverty?
Why? Poor people have projects, dreams, ideas. It’s just that work comes first
because bills must be prioritized for living. Everybody must pay to be in this
world. And on top of that, we must pay interest – high ones, by the way – for
any sort of expectation. Expect is expensive in many ways. I like to believe,
from time to time, that we are the fuel of the world, kind of like <i>Matrix</i>,
and that there is actually energy for it in every effort we make. It would be
great to be compensated for that energy we provide. There would be more healthy
people around. More sex, considering the energy there. More laughing, more reading… if only! But the poor have to stick with a full time shift,
tell the same jokes over and over, and try to find some relief on a glass of
liquor, or on the screen of the phone. Others try stronger, but stronger eventually
turn unaffordable, because even a bad habit is also hard on (and for) the poor.
Sunday: <i>Sunday bloody Sunday.</i> I found a bit of satisfaction on the
delivery this morning. Funny, I know. To realize what you're lacking is a terrible skill. Most of the poor don’t
know what’s missing and that is a bless. It's a bless because they can take it
on whatever, whoever, and whenever suits them. I’m sad; surely because of the
news, or because I couldn’t buy that I saw on Instagram… What about those who
think they deserve better? Deserve; again, what a word! I deserve a glass of
wine. I worked today. I went out twice on a Sunday while many are just enjoying
their balconies. By the way, I should take a look, maybe the sun is setting and
the evening might bring some air to promise, to promise oneself better mood for
the upcoming challenges, to promise
better being for those who I share my home with, to promise more smiles, to
promise never giving up, not even under these circumstances. I have a son to
look after while he’s looking at me. Tomorrow is labor day here. In my country
we celebrate it on May the first. It’s a big day back there because we have
this tradition where the president, orders (yes, orders) all employers to raise
the minimal wage over a percentage he decides. This, of course, is announced on national broadcasting
followed by a speech full power for the people, and the eternal big fight they
(we, I suppose) are always winning against the imperial forces (meaning United
States) <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It makes me
laugh too, I know. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was thinking
about those cover letters. I wrote mine. So far, nothing to point out. I’m
still trying to figure out if there’s
any other reason why I haven’t got an opportunity, other than being Hispanic.
Don’t get me wrong, please. I don’t want to go into politics. It’s a comfort
zone people use as an excuse to avoid trying harder. I’m bringing it up because
I would like to share what I think I might have said on a cover letter. I
believe it started out as a personal
description of myself. Who is that? Am I the one who is placing these words in
a sequence for a message? Or the character of this story? You see, I’m not
always the guy waiting for the balcony, or the one who complains about his
poverty. I am a multiplicity of events, followed
by ephemeral purposes that becomes a narrative, ⁸once mixed all among each
other. That narrative is who I’ve been so far. Those events are my thoughts
attached to my memories. That multiplicity is my desire burst into breaths unable to catch, and smiles forbidden to
explain. I am more silence than loudness. I am more what I choose not to say. I
am what I think, when I realize you are not paying attention to my thoughts. I
am what I think of you, when I see your face sunk inside social media. I am each
and every resentment from other times. I
am a father above all. Anyway, I am, like we’ve learned in our language;
substance and presence. Since English provides us with just one verb for both,
then I am for both, and for
everything. Another morning. Weather reminds everyone it’s still summer
and it won’t be for too long. Black coffee with no sugar: the charm of the
bitterness. No good for teeth, to be honest, but teeth and mood won’t ever
agree on that, neither on wine . It’s like
when poor people have a great time, there’s then this feeling of guilt that comes as a remorse: a
remorse for feeling good. Again: deserve is quite a word! I read once that
brands and gambling targeted poor people to get their money out of status. Most of advertisements are orientated that
way. One is by offering the illusion of easy money just for being lucky, The
other creates an archetype and sells it as an example of what great means in
life. There is a sense of pleasure already guested in our perception, its
purpose is making oneself happy for a little while when buying something we
don’t really need. What have we established as needs, anyway? I mean, have we
ever done it? How do we know that the will of buying something unnecessary is
made up? I haven’t figured it out. I’m just wondering because it bothers me.
But, and yes, there is a <i>but</i>. It bothers me when someone else does it.
Not when I do it myself. It’s how I found out that when anybody does something
we get irritated for, it might be something we carry within as well, it’s just
that our ego won’t let us see it, so we look for it on others, and there it is
when we start projecting, thinking that we hold any sort of capability for
judgements, when most of the times what
we do is a confession. So let’s confess: I can’t stand unproductivity. I hate
laziness out of nothing worth to be tired. Another morning. Another morning I
wrote nothing. This another morning is not the one before. Busy day, I guess. Eviction
letter. Interesting. In this country, you sign a contract for a period, and
monthly payments must be done during the first five days. Failing to pay then, you’ll
be charged a late fee for the whole month, and an eviction notice, giving the fact that
the month you are late is not over yet. In Spanish, the language we use, for
such case is, in a way; let’s say: softer. I guess we see words more carefully,
or perhaps we’ve been raised this way that, because we think we always deserve
better, we feel offended by pragmatism. We have this sense of being someone that
pops up on curious circumstances. If you need a volunteer for a challenging project,
fewer, but a lot fewer people, would step forward, but when we feel in some way
undermined, or underestimated, we step
up right away, claiming we deserve better because of the many things others
should consider when it comes to consider us. How different was back then.
We’ve been understanding a few important things through immigration. The biggest one, from my perspective, is that
there are a lot of things that are just different once you arrive. One of them
is that your traditions are no quite so in the new country. <o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-26848008468439531752023-11-02T19:41:00.001-04:002023-11-02T19:41:00.139-04:00Third page VI<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQgINf8k3ZX1KFfjLH_VIDUeOF-zdAxhiXooMg_AW4trc3MoC2V2Efptbv3c4O1JgBSig68_UJIuHoK54ojNOeuA1AzzIuV1KBLneFT1DIub88c02oTI6HBhf5yCReO-P0J2mu7JnOUE8ImJ3ASpvh1DJTVLrRTlwjL2vWdKEaXXcPfxU5onb7qbwTcOHN/s1440/Screenshot_20231026_190111_Gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQgINf8k3ZX1KFfjLH_VIDUeOF-zdAxhiXooMg_AW4trc3MoC2V2Efptbv3c4O1JgBSig68_UJIuHoK54ojNOeuA1AzzIuV1KBLneFT1DIub88c02oTI6HBhf5yCReO-P0J2mu7JnOUE8ImJ3ASpvh1DJTVLrRTlwjL2vWdKEaXXcPfxU5onb7qbwTcOHN/s320/Screenshot_20231026_190111_Gallery.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><p><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><br /></span></p>A new week
has come. This is my most important week of the year: it will be my son’s
birthday. Everything makes sense and
whatever effort has not been hard enough when it comes to him. I just hope to
improve it in time. Actually I expect it so. Let’s see what comes along with it
next week. For now, let’s just think and enjoy. I want chocolate. There’s a candy bar machine across the room
but I don’t really feel like having anything from there. I’m just waiting for
this break to end while these words find themselves a place for this paragraph.
I’m at home now. Again, holding a glass of wine, indoors. Hearing the
complaints of the house, hearing them like they were said in some foreign
language I don’t know. I just consent with
my head pretending I’m paying any sort of attention. From time to time, I make a little smile. I
open up my eyes in an attempt of surprise. Anything that works for looking like
I’m following it. Balcony minutes. Not enough. Never enough. I’ve lost space over
the smoke. It kind of makes me sad but I can forget it a little bit with every
taste of wine, with every kiss on the glass. No glass kisses for a long time,
by the way. That’s how a life with debts looks like. Worries comes first, I guess.
I guess wrong. No sunset for these eyes today. Next business day, like the
invoices. Still dark. Foggy. Less hot than yesterday. Now that I look at the
watch, it's time to get indoors. Forgive me the rest of the bands but in
Spanish, Soda Stereo is just the best of
the best… the GOAT, like I’ve heard here. I’m listening to them just now. A
pleasure for my soul. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">At least. At last. “<i>Es un delirio de condenados</i>”.
Yes indeed. “<i>Encendió mi conciencia con sus demonios</i>”, definitely. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">And now that my consciousness is on,
I can state, as a figure of speech, that
depression is more a luxury when we come from the underdevelopment. I mean,
look where we come from. Seriously? Can we afford to get depressed? It’s an
interesting thing to write and argue about. A next day. A hangover next day. Surprisingly,
no work today. I asked for a few days off since I thought I was going on a trip.
That’s the thing when planning so early. No trip but I still keep the days. I would
like to say I’m going to take advantage of it, and use them wisely, but I know it won’t be
so. A procrastinating life, breathing depression from the air and halfway
broke, is, is a, is not a, not a promising picture indeed but, I have colors in
the sky as a gift from the sun. Let there be sun then. <i>Sunrise</i> is
written in English almost like <i>smile</i> is in Spanish: <i>sonrisas</i>
then. Let’s go. Let’s hope. Why not, right? Cortisol: what am I going to do
with you? Chocolate, I guess. There is a little tiny black spot at the ceiling.
It might be a mosquito. It looks smaller than a fly. I guess it is there to get
fed from my blood. It is still there. I can see it from we are I am. The thing
is that I’m feeling itchy already just because I know it is there, and I find
the whole thing a bit funny. Body is already suffering not knowing if ever get
to happen. Mind does that. Everything we sense is pretty much perception coded through
that we've been storing in our head. What have we stored so far? What have we
coded in that space we relate with love? Have we stored suffering there? Now we
know why love hurts, right? How about buying food, pizza, for example? We
understand that the way we’ve been storing moments, and the feeling we relate
them with, somehow determines our character, and by our character, our
attitude. What's the difference between
them, by the way?</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A new Friday
afternoon has come. I had a great end of August. Actually the last day of August is the most
important day in my life, and, for the record, it was just perfect. That was
yesterday, just like the song. No work
today, no work tomorrow, and not on Monday either. In this country that means
no money as well. My worries are now manifesting themselves as boils in my
face. I have one on my nose now. That one could mean the rent, for
example. I got an infection in one ear,
probably because some other debt I must honor by next week. So stoicism hasn’t
worked out pretty much at the end. Today, I drink. What else? Nothing to get
profit from, right now. I’m waiting for tomorrow, for a brighter tomorrow. Let’s see. Sun is still shining, so we can
smile and remember. I was thinking about <i>victimism,</i> and it turns out
that it is exactly as the Spanish interpretation: blame others for your own misfortunes. How
should we understand a misfortune in the first place? I mean, is it something derived,
kind of like a consequence, from any chain of events? Is it just shit
happening and that’s it? Or maybe it’s something we could blame someone for? Let’s
assume we could actually blame someone for that thing is happening to us. Then
what? How come blaming solves anyhow whatever problem we have to face? The need
of not being accountable is stronger that the acknowledgement of the self on it.
And perhaps that is because <i>guilt</i> weights more than <i>taking</i> <i>any</i>
<i>responsibility</i>. That could explain procrastination. <i>Avoid</i> is an
interesting word, also the words that we read from it… avoid a void, indeed! The
balcony. I feel like I’m losing it. You see, I don’t live alone. I understand I
have to share it, but it sort of bothers me this fact that I feel, it is not
being equally shared: victimism again talking through my words. Who cares! Does
it matter at all? I don’t think so. I believe I just need a better income, to
be honest. I think the rest is just hanging in there, precisely for not being
stable enough to purchase anything that helps you forget. I write because I
can’t take my car to go out with no explanation. I can’t even have any alcohol
outdoors because I’m always the driver. I can’t take the fucking balcony for
myself because I’m not the smoker. See. I just need a better income to bear my
so made up problems, and not playing victim again anymore. Sorry for taking you
here and make you witness an average forty four old man complaining for a life he
chose, and trying to blame anyone else for it. Diapers. I’ve changed some. I
may have to change a symbolic diaper for my mind. It’s time. I have to talk to
the administration office, and tell them I can’t pay the rent now. Let’s see
how it works for me… <o:p></o:p></span></p>Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-39422575353998677572023-11-01T06:17:00.005-04:002023-11-01T06:17:00.149-04:00Third page V<div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmoqBQpVw7X210bVbCYHfN8IY8zw5w7qtAKSSgoxBycHT0CTCsnmLLWAT6vbJlOLqrq4ljKJDpnt9ubCmTvM4wRQlvOB-qT-3L1bsN9zSp9p0aMVNs7JZ_sXr99kkESTC1odP4OLXM1Ok37pdH29wCNtqeerIrVkj4wN-aFE90ScUesy4-9Xka6GGEwDyY/s1300/Screenshot_20231015_221729_Gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1300" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmoqBQpVw7X210bVbCYHfN8IY8zw5w7qtAKSSgoxBycHT0CTCsnmLLWAT6vbJlOLqrq4ljKJDpnt9ubCmTvM4wRQlvOB-qT-3L1bsN9zSp9p0aMVNs7JZ_sXr99kkESTC1odP4OLXM1Ok37pdH29wCNtqeerIrVkj4wN-aFE90ScUesy4-9Xka6GGEwDyY/s320/Screenshot_20231015_221729_Gallery.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A new today.
Same worries. Why did I get those loans? Why did I move to an apartment I can’t
afford? Now that I’m putting it in perspective,
it sort of makes no sense. If I knew I wouldn’t, then why I did it,
right? There it is: did I know it? Did I really know it? Now it is popping up:
we never knew it! We have a sense of knowing it and, by that sense, we have
taken most of the chances we now have to pay for. I’m just catching my consciousness:
we figure a landscape we see as future, and since we are the painters, we hold
every single brush we are going to need; then time goes by and we don’t see any
painting. The switch between tangible and figurative is in our head. Our mind
simply decides what to believe. I just thought it tangible. As a matter of fact,
I replaced <i>If</i> with <i>When</i>, and <i>when</i> never got to exist
because, as long as something is conditioned; subjected to, time is relative,
and relativeness in time could take a whole life. Now such whole is empty, like
a true hole, a void. An existential void we better overcome for our children. Let’s
get delusional a little: we feel this <i>whole</i> out of the abstraction, and,
perhaps emptiness out of these small concretes we’ve been picking as problems.
If we assume that it is so, problems are just part of the big abstract,
therefore our being should not be defined by those picks. Let’s call them picks
from now on. Evening is coming. A bottle of wine is waiting at home. I’m not
working right now. I’m just waiting for someone to go home. No wine yet. I
don’t know why my mind is so tired. It’s raining. Maybe that’s why I haven’t been able to sit
on the balcony. Contemplation is important
for thoughts. I need some music. Not too
dark. Not too early either. A new day to wonder. I pushed myself to spend a few
unnecessary minutes scrolling on the screen. I guess it’s because of the need
to it. How could I help someone if I can’t even refrain from it. I need to read
more about it. Meanwhile, wine awaits. Perhaps today paints better but it’s
not. Not at all. Here I am, trying to serve a few words holding a glass of
Cabernet. Sunrise at last. No work today and I’m worried already but, since I
can’t do anything about it, I’m going to
watch the view for the first time again since some ago. It's curious that when
reread oneself, days are mixed in the same paragraph. This one is an
example. It adds a bit of neurosis to
the statement, it kind of makes narrative look like someone who wants a
cigarettes so bad but there isn’t any around. The point is, if that is actually
how this is perceived, then this tale
going somewhere despite of everything. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I have to
take advantage of this moment. I never
have this chance but I really need to get indoors and go to the bathroom,
unfortunately. I’m sure, or at least I
want to believe, that I’m not alone when it comes to tell moments like these. There’s
always something we have to cut out of the sudden. Including scrolling, and yes, it is ironic. An uncommon afternoon
for contemplation. Worries come and go. I feel like I want to get something to drink
but I haven’t made up my mind. For some reason I totally ignore, it seems like
I need a sort of approval for everyone here at home, but wait, don’t get the
wrong idea, I just don’t want to go out, knowing I may have something else to
bring. So here I am, waiting, waiting to ask while thinking about writing. I
want to let go something but I’m not sure what it could be. I saw a person at
the supermarket. I went to the supermarket yesterday and I, I met a woman, that
woman was from the same country I am. It was an interesting encounter because
she told me that there was a Venezuelan community near by. I felt like: why? I
mean, yes, it's good to know people from your same country, because we can share
impressions since we have the same culture. It would be good, it would be fine,
it would be… it would make you feel better but, it doesn’t mean that we are
going to become friends instantly, and
that is the thing that I want to talk about; that’s what I want to put here in
words: we are a very new community, so we have never done this before. Moving
out is not in our culture. I’ve said it more than once. I’ve written about it
more than once, the fact that we are a new community of immigrants, pushes us –
or so we think – to be like the rest of
the communities, and we don’t have to push ourselves to it. I mean, other
communities are better organized because they have been doing it for years; for
a long time. We might just learn our own process, but this need to keep up
grows strong, so strong, that we feel the impulse to compete like this were
some sort finals and like there were a price we must win at any cost. No. I
don’t think so. I acknowledge the effort but it is a bit rushed. Time will tell. It is a slow process: another
long-term endeavor. And my guess is that, again, this rush could be due to
social media: you see, we look ourselves into any mirror, and that reflect we see,
despite of any depression, anger, low self esteem, shyness, megalomania, anything,
despite of anything we see, it's less ugly, or more beautiful; depending
on the case, version of ourselves, and that perception fuels somehow our soul,
so we keep going, or at least feel like doing it, the problem is when that
perception starts facing the outside. It tends to fade in many cases. A way to
keep it could be through a plan, a long-term endeavor. And there is our
struggle: the <i>now</i> versus the <i>later</i>, the <i>already</i> versus the
<i>yet</i>, the <i>present</i> <i>continuous</i> versus the <i>future</i> <i>simple</i>.
The <i>screen</i> <i>scrolling</i>
versus the <i>page</i> <i>turning</i>. Where to be at? How often to be
on? Which one shall we choose? I choose wine. <o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-79049200803782678412023-10-30T06:15:00.002-04:002023-10-30T06:15:00.143-04:00Third page IV<div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUJkxoKWPvm3lSfEwARq_JvuI0P4Jzaz8gn0n-nwUIyhejUMOZlOsZ5kUP8LQf6zG96kRPqWZEK2RalqFHnf0v9L2SOoJb69S0dKq_eJ2l0VyaZrPrzTIamDc12Hl8TB4E6emPEogtmkD46vZW0iDveDDw1iQXNIX0nNFelx1JoW58uT_HRq6uGXzQXPC5/s1217/Screenshot_20231015_221727_Gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1217" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUJkxoKWPvm3lSfEwARq_JvuI0P4Jzaz8gn0n-nwUIyhejUMOZlOsZ5kUP8LQf6zG96kRPqWZEK2RalqFHnf0v9L2SOoJb69S0dKq_eJ2l0VyaZrPrzTIamDc12Hl8TB4E6emPEogtmkD46vZW0iDveDDw1iQXNIX0nNFelx1JoW58uT_HRq6uGXzQXPC5/s320/Screenshot_20231015_221727_Gallery.jpg" width="284" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">An indoors
contemplation. No balcony today. Unappreciated
comes to my mind. What is appreciation anyway? Until what point do we expect appreciation
when we do something? Is it something we start expecting or is it expected when
we start something? I wonder because I
would like to point out, if possible,
what could it be when you stop doing something out of your own personal
motivation, rather than for external appreciation, or acknowledgement purposes. Can we? Or is it all implied? I woke up
thinking about it, but moreover; I woke up trying to leave it written in
English words. I’m trying here: a guy goes to work. Let’s say he’s not the smartest
kind. Actually he has – I could tell – this sort of thing I want to call Lack
of attention. The guy seems he can’t focus, so he makes a lot of mistakes while
doing his job, which is pick a certain number of packages by request and drop
them on a belt for shipping. There was a jam on the belt. It was not his fault.
We tend to have some predisposition towards him because he miscounts too often,
but with the jam I can say it was not on him. He got hurt in the attempt of
clearing it. He got hurt because he tried hard. Where shall we meet
appreciation here? Shall his boss acknowledge of his effort? Did he actually do
it pursuing such a thing? I wonder. I’m wondering about it. I want to say that
what happened to him meant something… to anyone, or anything, but it didn’t. If we take his
case as an example, his effort was not in search of recognition. He just felt like he could, maybe, that he
had to, and if someone appreciated it, that was by chance, not as an
acknowledgement of his attempt. In conclusion; appreciation comes out of
chance. Prove me wrong! Let’s bring another word: resentment. Are we resentful? It comes and go, to be
honest. Of course, I’m taking about
myself. It comes from time to time because it’s hard to unlearn values you were
taught since childhood and for long periods as well. I am too immersed in
believing that merit is something we deserve by nature, and that it is actually
derived from our efforts. That’s my culture talking. Even now that I know it
was made up by politicians of my region, but still, it’s a bad habit, like smoking, like finding cheap dopamine on
my cell phone. I can’t help it. I think I deserve better. Sorry but not sorry! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It feels
weird not to be working right now. It’s Sunday afternoon, why would I? Because
of the bills. Yes, the bills… and the loans! Guilt is something special but why
do I feel guilty? I’m supposed to feel relaxed. I’m trying. Actually I’m
holding a glass of wine and seeing if the truth of the enlightenment comes in
through a sip. You know: <i>in vino veritas.</i> But so far nothing has arrived
yet. And after a while, the only thing that has come is the perception. The perception is, according to something I’ve
read, a projection our eyes take to our
brain, so this one can give it a meaning. Therefore what we see may not be
exactly the same thing in each head, and that is because, let’s say, the way we interpret is unique. Unless, of course, we were one of those into social
media, which means zero discernment, and with that being said, written in this
case, we may have an idea of where social media is heading us, and what we
might be at the end of this story. What’s your story about anyway? Do we have a
story in the first place? Of course we do. Is it important? It might be to
some, and those some could see us, so let’s be seen through words and be read
instead. We would become words, and words can be used in any message. We’ll be
messages at the end of any attempt.
Let’s be one of hope, of faith,
and not one that fades into smoke. Let’s be hard to drag but nice to
digest. Let’s be more like a dessert. Why? We must be what we want to be. Are
we sure of that? Not me. But wine made its work and now I need to sleep. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A new week.
Dark still. Machine noise-like. Some air conditioning, perhaps.
I can’t see the words I’m writing.
It might be the stress. There’s always something failing. Who might we
be giving our energy? Our vitality? Someone must get fed on it. We get tired for
those people. A life full of <i>must</i> and <i>shouldn’t</i> definitely has to
be out of someone else’s need and such need… on us. I want to go to bed, for an
hour at least but I have to go back to work. I’m back to my old job, by the
way. I just miss the music but for the rest of the things, I’m better here now.
I have another job: typical. I belong – not sure if proudly, but I do, I am one
of those – to this sort of group of men, who were raised with this belief, that
man should do what he must because he’s a man. A sort of burden-carrier-type with
no complaints, and only silence and hard work. Am I comfortable at it? Hardly
ever. Am I going to change? Not likely.
Writing is pretty much my therapy. I’m trying. I’ve said it before. The
thing is that, giving the nature of my being, I have a second job. It’s not
hard at all. If I place anything against it, it would be just drama for this
comedy. What I want to say is that I am poorly rated at that job, and I think
it affects my chances for getting good deals. I do deliveries. The other bad
thing is having less time to spend with my son. It is what it is, people say
here. I always try to find some minutes to hold him, to tell him that I love
him. To let him know he is my world. And someday soon, I expect to find much
more time to be with him. I cry of joy when he laughs. I know what being in love really is
because of him. Dark again in the balcony.
A car passes by and some other apartment’s engine has just turned on. The beginning of a song led by the garbage
compactor. The sound I make with every sip of coffee add some too, probably. No
butterflies. Break time. A few voices kind of like a bass line. I’m sitting
with two fellow countrymen as these words are taking place. I can tell one of
them wants to talk. I can see him looking at me but he stays quiet and go back
to his phone, pretty often, but not for long. That’s how we are nowadays:
choosing worlds; in or out of the screen. I’m on the screen now right after
finishing my second job. Again, not a good day. I already wrote a little bit
about it, but it came to my mind again: burden-carrier-type… what should I do?
How could I embrace it? I’m not making enough on my own, so what am I supposed
to do? Now I’m just complaining but tomorrow it will be a new day and due dates
are coming: they don’t ask how am I doing. They just come and take whatever we’ve
worked hard for, including the metaphorically
speaking: plans, dreams, peace, will; mostly will. <o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-3489643630079691622023-10-28T06:13:00.002-04:002023-10-28T06:13:00.147-04:00Third page III<div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUgJorJOvLm2fFwT-v4nAAzqAgHcxof45CpD8zkjdXEXsCyrmOU2XSrd5LJHODXFEYqczKMy43DniC3b21nVtt7IkgsSRN6eZ9FXZWXrPMvyoVwLeW8KLl3s03Wimby52oweBrzvBGsg7B6IkdAfI8piQqcLSHr1D0xUcP370_MQoyGfjvBH06N16_UhL/s1232/Screenshot_20231015_221724_Gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1232" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUgJorJOvLm2fFwT-v4nAAzqAgHcxof45CpD8zkjdXEXsCyrmOU2XSrd5LJHODXFEYqczKMy43DniC3b21nVtt7IkgsSRN6eZ9FXZWXrPMvyoVwLeW8KLl3s03Wimby52oweBrzvBGsg7B6IkdAfI8piQqcLSHr1D0xUcP370_MQoyGfjvBH06N16_UhL/s320/Screenshot_20231015_221724_Gallery.jpg" width="281" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Friday
afternoon. That used to mean something
but not now, not anymore. There’s work tomorrow so Friday could be any Monday.
I’m trying to bring up a time where days of week mattered for doing any
specific thing. I don’t. I can’t. I
believe I’m jut going to take my son for a little walk. Let’s see If I can
gather a couple of sentences to serve after that. See you then. Then is now. Not
much to write about. Daylight is still painting the sky with its typical blue.
Colors. 10 hours shift. Mosquitoes. The balcony is not welcoming as expected. I
got wine, I guess I just need add some to my mind, so I can at least forget for a while and bear the
news stoically, which is the most accurate way to face it. I was watching a guy
exposing that we should stop complaining immediately. Complaining is a bad
habit kind of like smoking. You just get addicted to it. If you don’t like
something, change it, if you can’t
change it, discard it, if you can’t discard it, start any sort of movement
against it; a campaign, a counterstrike, but please stop complaining. I was thinking about it. This is pretty much
a complaining, and I’m doing it through written words because I feel I don’t
have the voice up for it. I’m sticking with this guy’s speech about complaining
because I saw it convenient for me. I just quit complaining. Yes. Yes, but.
Yes, but what about these words? This is my therapy, hoping to get a least a faster English writing,
or a less mistaken one, if possible. It
is still dark. There’s a little light on the back announcing a new day comes.
It is quiet. No birds singing, no wind
melodies, maybe a few bugs making their way. An intro, an overture. Some
vestiges from last night wine. Yeah. More for worse than for better but it sort
of put a smile on my face. Face is a fine word. In our Spanish, most of the
meanings derived from facing goes on the forehead. We forehead the truth rather
than face it. Let’s forehead this life. Beer in hand. Saturday evening. Nothing to write about. I was thinking about
the disappointment. Why will it be that we hold on hope when we know we’re
going to be laid down? I’ll stop smoking.
I will stop smoking next Sunday.
Next Sunday is tomorrow. Why do
we believe? We only get the chance to love our children as they see us great, and
that is pretty much it. The rest will only keep disappointing us. We are going
to let someone down too. This world is, in the end, a result of some mixture
from all those things done out of a chain of disappointments. Whatever we can
make up from it. Wherever we can go on from it. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Dark blue
Monday. Dark because it’s early. Blue because sunrise is coming in a hour.
Stars are still floating in the sky. I can see many, actually. I’ve never been
a star reader. I don’t know what do they mean or if they do mean something at
all. I see them more like little windows that let pass a bigger light from the
other side. Of course, that is nonsense, right? Supposing that these
surroundings were not as infinite as science claims they are. The thing is how science
is so convincing on showing the magnitude of the untouchable, but when it comes
to human soul, everything is reduced to superstition. I haven’t found anything about it yet but the
truth is I’m not really looking for it either. It is just that there are people, specially these coffee shop
pseudo-intellectuals, that claim, assure and deny, with this confidence so
derived from a total absent corroboration, that precision is met only through
science, and superstition, which means everything else, is typical of ignorants,
and by ignorants they often mean the people who didn’t go to college. Going to
college in my country is seen as some sort of important, and significant, step
towards self realization. Understanding
self realization as an elevated social state (or status) of the person itself. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It is hard
for a society to grow surrounded by people who claim that bare knowledge holds
a market value for which the government,
by any means, must pay, and I say government because who else will pay
for hiring someone whose expertise is not required? I won’t hire a lawyer to
fix my pipes, right? And If it happens that the piper is a lawyer, because he went
to law school, I would be hiring him as piper, not as a lawyer. It seems obvious
but obvious stands by the culture who proclaims it so. That is one of the
things we learn when we leave home. We come with this, I've read it’s called: Cultural baggage, and
it’s hard to unpack it and let it get along with the soil that is holding you
now. Besides that, there are these daily
basis little <i>undoings</i>, which add a bit of frustration to any attempt of
conviction I try to build. Another day comes. It's darker than yesterday. There
are these butterflies trying to remind me of something. We are in the afternoon now, inside the company’s
property, feeling the heat, the sweat; the sticky sensation when taking the pants
off and on, the march of the equipment; machines keeping up the beat of the
must, of the duty, of the programmed schedule to meet the goals. Not my goals,
of course. Not anyone sweating or lifting weight either. Chaplin’s Modern Times pops up in my head.
Block chain technology, only the human
type. Dark again, darker, also earlier and no butterflies. It’s is now when I
can write. It is not now when I would like to put a thought into words. I hear
a car passing by. Another person going to work, I presume. I feel tired already
but at least I can listen to music I actually choose. It is strange how the
things I enjoy find, and hide from myself; depending on the case, a certain
path for not being completely absent in this very case. Despite of
everything, here a I am listening to
music. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: ES-VE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Boxes are
coming up: “<i>Dame tu amor, sólo tu amor, sólo dame tu amor</i>”. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Let’s see if
good news come in too. Let’s see if good news come in too. “<i>You get what you
deserve</i>”; what do I deserve? Do we really live under a system of deserving
anything at all? That works for music songs, yes, but music songs move you,
move me, move us. We bear big things thanks to music songs. Thanks to art in
general. Lunch time. A cat. I used to see cats and dogs on the streets of
Caracas all the time. Not here. Not common. I may write something about it, but
I understand every place has its own procedures when it comes to animals. I’ve
seen some deer here, they are just cute. They make my day every time. There’s a
red window in the apartment across the street. We’re pretty close. It’s more like
a red reflex from what is inside. I guess it is because of the curtain, it must
be red. The color and the light, along with this darkness, makes it special,
makes me wonder; imagine, think of the shape of a woman’s body taking her
clothes on. She got up naked, I think, and naked is why I can sense the details
from where I stand. My coffee gets cold, my attention is on my eyes, but it’s
not my eyes really. It’s more what I’m thinking of. The woman dances, yes,
dances while getting dress, I become her audience: this is a show. Is she aware
of me? Who knows! I take my imagination inside my house. It’s time to get ready
for work. It was a rough day. I have this sense of satisfaction because I was
up the task even though I tend to see myself kind of old for things like that. I
thought about a glass of wine but I decided to postpone it until tomorrow. I am going to see Sum 41 and The Offspring.
The first one has a song named We’re all to Blame. I hope to get the chance to listen
to it. Tomorrow will be a day not to think about debts or worries. I’ll see my
sorrows on Saturday. Hopefully I may have some time to let myself go and worry
back again. It was good. I had a great time. I went back to teen years. I was
unavoidably comparing the difference. It was great. <o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-6730856915201860422023-10-26T06:09:00.002-04:002023-10-26T06:09:00.146-04:00Third page II<div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhALAH28SHoXlLiNXY2v8UB-us2ZjoQToMoKYaeHhtmWSqXK2-77bJ8jPPoSMAHY7-UbtQ6Z4xrgrxzb-E78Q2rZqCNQK_QK2NBoSpa88VcfhVLbR1bPh8dVOZzvSsrzzdsgF7x1KMne5l5kWzCg_iKEghqx-E-TZzg5hr2flnNa5jcoDlf9sRVPq11HmIB/s1229/Screenshot_20231015_221722_Gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1229" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhALAH28SHoXlLiNXY2v8UB-us2ZjoQToMoKYaeHhtmWSqXK2-77bJ8jPPoSMAHY7-UbtQ6Z4xrgrxzb-E78Q2rZqCNQK_QK2NBoSpa88VcfhVLbR1bPh8dVOZzvSsrzzdsgF7x1KMne5l5kWzCg_iKEghqx-E-TZzg5hr2flnNa5jcoDlf9sRVPq11HmIB/s320/Screenshot_20231015_221722_Gallery.jpg" width="281" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sunrise got
from a red paint to a blueish yellow. It’s time to go but here I am: sitting in
this balcony and contemplating along with my thoughts. I haven’t enjoyed it enough, I often tell myself. There’s always something,
someone, which I’m supposed to share it with. Share is a nice thing to write
about. Moments to share, for evocation, as needed, of reflection, with you, without them, under this sky, above
the hardest times, inside each other, and moments we just don’t want to share. A
few changes inside the house, some magic act on TV. There is this novel about a
guy who fights his TV and goes crazy systematically as the novel passes. It is
a Venezuelan writer. The name of the book is The Wizard of the Glass Face. A
nice souvenir if ever want a piece of my country. I believe that if you want to, let’s say, know about some place’s culture, a fine way
to do so could be through their voices; writers tend to be the most prominent
ones at it. Musicians and moviemakers too, but there is this personal statement
that writers know best, specially when it comes to send a message or tell
something. For instance I don’t think any Reggaeton artist will ever define the
culture wherever they come from. I don’t see them as musicians at all.
Unfortunately, I have to acknowledge that their impact over our society is solid,
to a point that any friend or relative may easily know, and like, some of them.
There’s this paradox: they call themselves urban artists, so many of us unavoidably
think of them when bringing up such a definition. As urban artists, and along with
a massive market strategy, they’ve been
placed side by side with actual musicians, which meant with time that
regardless my denial and many others’ who feel me, because what they do is not
music, they’ve come to establish that as a new genre, making themselves a room
in the music industry. This urban style have made a perfect fit to a generation
now used to phone apps and social media for stimulation. That occurs because of
the growing rejection of long-term processes. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">How about my
generation on long-term processes? Many of us couldn’t finish a book anymore. Sunrise
starts getting late. There are no color combinations I can taste from where I
stand. I sense fog instead. Not the kind
that won’t let see what’s next but the kind that makes the sky looks blurry. What
I do sense and taste is the coffee on my side. I made it strong; bold, I
believe is the appropriate word to describe it. In our perception, we would use thick to replace bold for this
strong coffee. As I understand it, in our case, the metaphor goes more on the
texture, despite we’re talking about a liquid. And that is something we could
highlight to understand our culture. We may say we kind of need to touch, or
have a sense of the matter at least, over the majority of the things we talk,
or think about. That could explain why we need our hands to talk. We talk about
the sky, and the impulse of putting our hand up high to draw a figure, somehow
related to the talking, comes out immediately.
So my commas, now that see. Long-term endeavors. Yes. Isn’t my
generation as affected as millennial, or even as the younger ones? Everything
looks like a big interest reprise: the same joke over and over on each
platform. Countless hours with the eyes
lost on cell screens. Myself included. I don’t even know where I’m going with
this. Sorry, I remembered. It works for
practicing, after all. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It's not
blurry today. I also hear a bird trying to give orders through its
singing, or at least that’s how it feels
like from where I’m sitting. I can’t take my rejection off the cigarettes. I go
to bed and wake up almost everyday with the same thought. I’m putting it in
perspective to see if I can figure it out, but I can’t, I haven’t been able to, I still wonder why smoking
is so disappointing to me. That’s everyone’s life. It’s not my problem. It shouldn’t be, but it does; it does bother
me. I hope someday soon I manage to get over it, otherwise I’m going to start
having problems at home. Anyway, there
are good things to think about. Music songs, for example. I wish I could live
from this. Real writers have a place, a moment,
a routine, a Cábala; which is a word we sometimes use for special
rituals, when it comes to do something
out of our inspiration. I only have the times when I go to the toilet and the
few minutes of morning I grant myself in the balcony. Franco de Vita has a song;
Louis. It’s about a Taxi driver who wants to be a rock star. I’m bringing it up
because there is a moment in the song it says: “<i>y sueña con escenarios,
mientras le cambia la luz. </i></span><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: ES-VE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Del rojo al verde no hay mucho
tiempo para soñar”</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: ES-VE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I feel this part so deep because I
live my life dreaming, using the same metaphor, from red light to green, and it
is just like the song goes: there’s not much time for dreaming. I look into the
mirror and I realize how easily my once achievements can be forgotten, or
replaced, or put aside pursuing a near future that never comes present. The one
true thing I can rescue, and pick from
the rest of this present, is fatherhood:
that’s an incredible journey; the only one that keeps me going. My faith
vanishes in the air just as an exhalation from smoking a cigarette. A faith
that smells, that stays in your clothes, in your mouth, in your yellow teeth
and yellow fingers… a faith hard to gather, to get it all together. It's there,
it’s here, you feel it but you just can’t hold on to it. We’re talking about a
nominal faith, it only works for words to give, to serve on a page and read it,
perhaps smile while reading it. That’s it. Let see if I can enjoy the
afternoon. Rosé wine for me. It kind of match with the sky before evening. Tough moves. Tough news. A weekend to come and
see. I thought of a path, a path with obstacles. I was bear foot but I wasn’t
getting hurt. I was just going on my own pace. I saw sentences hiding behind the
ads. Yes, I saw some ads. Ads are even in my thoughts. The government of my
country tried to get rid of them. To make it happen, they had to burn the whole
country to the ground, and even so they
couldn’t wipe them up entirely. Ads resisted.
More than people. I saw words coming up, leaving messages. Is there anyone behind them? Probably not. It
is just this algorithm that takes whatever interest I’ve been navigating around,
and link it with some advertising something, to then put it on every feed from
any app; and search, and gives you this sensation of being watched. I took that
to my oneiric world, it’s unavoidable. I took that to my thoughts. It is the
consequence of using these apps too often.
I heard someone claim it is world we live in but the world we live in
still has the other things. What are those other things, anyway? It has more to
do with time and distance than any other repercussion. The fact that we have it
all on the palm of our hand, makes this carelessness for the outside very much
present. But it is a selfish approach,
what about those places not into technology at all? There are a lot of
places where people can’t afford a smart phone. Having a smartphone in my land
is a social matter. It is not something for everyone. You could get robbed if
you’re seen walking around with your eyes on the screen of the phone. People
there just can’t do as I’ve seen it here; that you go to a public garden and
you see a group of people gathering
where they can focus on their devices. <o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-57553907356664102012023-10-24T06:25:00.002-04:002023-10-24T06:25:00.140-04:00Third Page<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU3DV8ekPksaPaqZD67nPAUwD_rW3EGWkNI2HCfm93cqFmWb9cjCkTD7Xu6tyYi86LjZkCrc6PSmsOkrtgnf7UaiNVwQzpgWhor4g0Z2D_akgH1eGNGTeQRRipkMtTGeFP0dl2-kN1HmbmSQmUCtpw9gIg8SMeYlURSrjy3YDxKjR5bOh-QynhYTEHibd8/s1207/Screenshot_20231015_221720_Gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1207" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU3DV8ekPksaPaqZD67nPAUwD_rW3EGWkNI2HCfm93cqFmWb9cjCkTD7Xu6tyYi86LjZkCrc6PSmsOkrtgnf7UaiNVwQzpgWhor4g0Z2D_akgH1eGNGTeQRRipkMtTGeFP0dl2-kN1HmbmSQmUCtpw9gIg8SMeYlURSrjy3YDxKjR5bOh-QynhYTEHibd8/s320/Screenshot_20231015_221720_Gallery.jpg" width="286" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Pain. Pain
is something we use when we need to learn, and along with Art, they both embrace
suffering as some sort of vehicle. There has to be pain so I can feel what
needs to be done to achieve it. What? Whatever you want the pain to get you
for. This is a hot afternoon, full of
commitment. A promise I need to keep, to suffer, to let the pain walk me
through. I am tired but I have my
motivation. Time is not so friendly but it
never was, to be honest. God’s time is
perfect; many people state. I want to take some advantage of the language and propose
instead: God’s tempo is perfect. Tempo rules the rhythm, the speed you do what you do. So tempo, as it
is interpreted in English, sounds to me more like something it may happen when,
let’s say, the right time comes. When is that? God only knows. That’s the point
and that is what The Say wants to imply. Another morning. I can be a witness. I
can join the audience for whom this show we call sunrise is being performed. I
see. I feel. I close my eyes and think: there might be a chance. We might make
it. This could be a hard step we had to take. The reward is the fact that we
know why we are doing it. I think not everyone knows. That’s why the need for
distraction on the phone comes out so often. Slow cook. Baby steps. My stomach
is talking. A few hours later, I’m finally home. A beer in my hand. It was a
productive day. Empanadas for dinner. Nowadays homemade ones. I wish I could
explain it better, but I’m not so sure if You can feel me when I’m saying how
great is having Empanadas as meal. The texture on the first bite, the flavor as
is being swallowed. It is just something else. Else, else is not well defined
in Spanish. I mean “else” tends to play as “more”, so there is no big
difference when saying: something more or something else. The way I see it,
that places a desire in a different state of intensity, of deepness, of abstraction.
Then abstraction can fluctuate depending on the language, thus our capability
to picture a scenario, is, in a certain way, affected by the syntax of the
language we speak. These very words I have just written, the commas I have just
placed. They came out from a Spanish mind thinking, pretending to send a message in English. I
said it before: we meet halfway, so halfway will be good after all. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I believe
the word is steam. The steam comes out from a hot mug of coffee; always a
strong one. That steam comes out making shapes, shapes for my mind, for my thoughts.
Those shapes shows up following a rhythm,
maybe from the birds, from the morning. It is a slow movement, anyway. The
thing is that it seems like it also has its own language, a kind of language
that dances with my silence. Debts invades, always invades. This search for
balance is tiring. I feel tired already.
No money for anything when getting paid. That certainty overwhelms harder than any
other existential crisis. For this era, money is the one true catalyst for
almost every form of thought, idea, wish, whatever comes to mind. Sometimes I dream
and think that these words somehow might become any sort of money, and that I
could finally get the basic decent life I’ve been working so hard for. I had
thought about it already: when I get to a certain number of words, I will go
public, posted, published, the method that serves better for any money collect.
Then I think twice, I think of a song, and then of a debt, debt invades,
always. Debts are the noise of any form of silence. I think again, like I said, and realize that it is a nice
dream, a noble sort of hope, but it is not likely. Now likely is a nice word, a polite kind to
me. It is not likely that I can get a better income anytime soon by only showing
my curriculum, and hoping that somebody
out there, in fact give me any chance because he saw something like potential
to join me in whatever he is recruiting for. Not likely at all. I was
collecting some extra money by working with my car and, today, my car is down. There
is Say from my country stating that when
the poor do the laundry, it rains. It is
raining over my hope, over my will, over my self esteem. So I grab a beer from
the fridge and stop thinking. They were more than one, indeed. I would like to
confess that I’m not sure where this writing is going. I don’t even know if
it’s going somewhere. I’m just placing words as a pointless attempt to see
myself in them, so I can actually figure out what’s going on with me, and start
solving it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Up to this
point, everything lies on money I can’t get, despite this sort of double shift
I’m having. I want to cry. Cry feels good when I’m like this, but I want to do
it alone. I don’t want to explain anything, I’m writing it precisely because of
it. One more morning. A cold one. A summer August chill morning. I don’t
remember it like that last year at least. I woke up with the same problem I
went to bed: the car. It’s very cloudy. It may start raining at some point of
the day. I often think about this Guns and Roses song; Estranged. I tend to see my life as a movie. I even think about songs at inappropriate
situations; in this case, I was just remembering that the song starts by
saying: “When you’re talking to yourself and nobody is home”. I talk to myself pretty often. More often than
I want to admit. In a couple of times, someone has asked me something like: who
are you talking to? Or You’re getting old, you’re speaking alone already! And
that tells me I can’t even control it. So my need for reflection is stronger
than my will to appear before others. I can simplify it by confessing I am just
getting crazy, but it’s not true, I mean, I am alone. I feel lonely. I have no one I can try these thoughts and
not coming up with those types of answers, the kind I’d rather not listen to such
as: don’t worry! It’s not big deal! Like we say in my land (this is the worst) “You
are drowning in a glass of water”. I prefer to speak alone then, and I don’t
think it makes me a crazy person. Have you ever listened to this Foo Fighters
song: I should have known? It is something
else. I never get tired of it. Anyway. Work time went by with a tiny victory. Let’s see what’s next. Next is now, and now
was yesterday, indeed. Today is the tomorrow of that time, a past tomorrow
then. A past tomorrow that tastes some
bitter despite the short nice time we had. Time to get ready to go to work. I’ve been thinking about Deserve, and the
impact it has on my people; many of then, or many of us, go around assuming
that we deserve better. Why? I mean: why are we still thinking our efforts should
be compensated by some high power, just
because we’ve been working hard? We’ve been working hard to get the payment we
previously agreed to, and with such payment, we should make ends meet, or stay
tight and bear it. Only we don’t want that. We want, like a Say we have; “to
shit upper than the ass” (or higher; not sure which one suits better) <o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-55615687253828372982023-10-22T07:43:00.002-04:002023-10-22T07:43:00.147-04:00Second page VII<div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcegMsst1PuKf8sRs-3DUrWIumTNnDrqpGznTxsyjfZ5jGaz4yLvKaWcDHqOyPreO6f0jF76tG21266EKJTwfzcZH8W3aErrhJauGWw11skEeHZ71HdHqfWfagDY2VPAork7IjbRhEObitRiARYyN-ahgsYzmXz6AT5AAWz-1-yKOgMsuul-hMO-dE_dne/s1246/Screenshot_20230920_195551_Gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1246" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcegMsst1PuKf8sRs-3DUrWIumTNnDrqpGznTxsyjfZ5jGaz4yLvKaWcDHqOyPreO6f0jF76tG21266EKJTwfzcZH8W3aErrhJauGWw11skEeHZ71HdHqfWfagDY2VPAork7IjbRhEObitRiARYyN-ahgsYzmXz6AT5AAWz-1-yKOgMsuul-hMO-dE_dne/s320/Screenshot_20230920_195551_Gallery.jpg" width="277" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’m
escaping. I’m lost in the music I’m playing, not trying to forget, don’t get me
wrong; I want my pain right where it is. It’s just a little eyes-closed trip to
nowhere, to the sound of the music, to the vibes I never sense but at some
point I would like to, perhaps not too much. Not too often, of that I’m sure. But
it’s true, I would like to. I’m getting so used to this negativity that I feel
guilt when I imagine that. What is that? Wonder on. Evocate. Picture it to see
if it becomes true. I was thinking about those people; that couple who came
four years ago. I thought of some others too. How their stories start looking
the same. Social media does that. The impulse of being part pushes, and pushes
hard on everyone to have them addicted. It is amazing how people take their
time for granted over the futility of fake news, or trends, that will soon pass,
and won’t give them back their time. Time is the currency of life. There is no
a single form of achievement, or memory, not linked to time, either as
chronology, or as number of iterations. There is time and times, in English.
Spanish is different in that perception.
Perception is also a valuable asset in life. We are losing sharpness on
it, every time we leave; this virtual consensus, the capability of figuring
something out. Another aspect we are taking for granted. Contemplation needs
space. Contemplation needs us for time and perception, and we are giving them
away for the comfort of a cherry pick pleasure. A cherry pick pleasure indeed
may cause long-term consequences. Every time we grant a moment of our own, just
to spend more minutes on scrolling down,
brain loses something, anything.
It is just not the same anymore. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Have you
ever felt like saying something but you can’t just find the right words? Can’t
you at least come up with any right word at all? Have you felt this way? It
might be that something was taken from you. You lost it that time you spent so
much short laughing on the screen; short smiling. Now the void makes you sad. Confused.
I know some about that confusion. I was talking to someone and, during the conversation, every example I made for, let’s say, explain myself better, it was all about an
Instagram joke, or a trend, something always according to some media. There is
this clip from the nineties: Something’s Always Wrong. Back then, it was about TV and Marketing calls. It was so
innocent, now that I see. They were
trying to expose, in a way, how the market embraces every corner of interest,
to a point that there is, in this case; was, nothing unavailable for purchase. That
was then. That was before. Consumption has escalated to further and higher
levels. It’s not just what I want to buy, and how do I get debts for it. It is
the change of perception. The new reality.
The post-truth era. One day, I was talking to a sort of friend, and he
told me something like: New Media; that’s how he calls it, New Media found its
way in by bringing up our adolescent era and appeal to a nostalgic sense of a
better moment. As adults, we are supposed to be up to the new challenges that
come with the age. In the new media, those challenges are reduced to debts. That
way, people could think it’s more worth it a spectrum of memories rather than present
with future projects. So they make room
for it, and such room is fed with a massive wave of content and trivia, also
with all these invitations and interactions, so people can not only boost
images from the past, but also ask others to do it as well. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’ve finally
found a few minutes early in the morning for a coffee and some contemplation.
The sound of the birds and the trees feels as the wind is directing this
orchestra; definitely a different kind from the one at work. There is this picture
in which you can see the clouds getting ready for their amusement: the passing
of light and the sunrise dress. Fauna can tell. Not so sure that we can too but
we try, and try, either here, or anywhere else; anytime, all the time, is the
important thing to consider. I have time. I have time today, at least now. I pour
myself as words into this paragraph, in an attempt to become a message, an
idea, a wish I can make happen eventually. Words of hope: I would like to be
that, although my sensitivity pushes, always pushes, for words of desire. Desire.
Where do you hide it? What are we going to do with this? We see, we want to
touch with our eyes. We want to place a sigh right where our minds ask us to
be. We must be but, always but, we must be but we don’t know how. That’s why we
wish and lie, lie behind our serious gestures, lie through our politeness, lie through
our tough attitude… and confess in silence when we are alone. Some people claim
they do as will: complain when they should, be gentle when they think they
should, argue when they think they should, and touch when they feel like they
should. I have a mix of feelings over that. I’m not sure if I admire or despise
that. I can’t tell what would I be projecting exactly by experience it, if it is projecting indeed, or it is just
some misdirection to my own disorders. I’m not a lazy person but it is hard for
me to maintain an argument, I mean, I
tend to let it go despite I may be right at it. The thing is that I get tired
of needing to prove it. Sometimes I keep quiet because I sort of foresee that
the other person won’t matter going further with whatever argument he wants to fight
for. That need to prevail is exhausting to me, so I give up and accept it even
when I know I’m right. What’s being right, anyway? In Spanish, being right has
more to do with holding a reason; kind of like carrying some weight, it’s more
a possession than a declaration of existence. When someone is right in
Spanish, that person has, or holds, the
reason. Actually Have absorbs Hold in
this case, but for translation purposes,
let’s put it as Hold. Something similar occurs with Falling in Love. In Spanish
you don’t fall, you, let’s say, <i>enlove</i>, to come up with a word for it. So
being right and falling in love, have another taste when changing de
language, for example.<o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834225193998511728.post-62953430310898775512023-10-20T07:33:00.003-04:002023-10-20T07:33:00.157-04:00Second page VI<div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH0sAMgoh6BDi6rAPEu5pjVTejpKPqOPOOhFnTFQWv0ijSMyhtNV1Wpo5ROSBHLVLpKS1x8gJDX0rVmV1E7HSvNZKalPT6YlWJkz8Kxp5bba38TzaftQnDOPIqqUA4bsp1gbSwBRiWmq5RSxrMfJLDm-HRsZEAoRqaSy-DhO32ylTjQgnoX20D6wZqFKeZ/s1330/Screenshot_20230920_195438_Gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1330" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH0sAMgoh6BDi6rAPEu5pjVTejpKPqOPOOhFnTFQWv0ijSMyhtNV1Wpo5ROSBHLVLpKS1x8gJDX0rVmV1E7HSvNZKalPT6YlWJkz8Kxp5bba38TzaftQnDOPIqqUA4bsp1gbSwBRiWmq5RSxrMfJLDm-HRsZEAoRqaSy-DhO32ylTjQgnoX20D6wZqFKeZ/s320/Screenshot_20230920_195438_Gallery.jpg" width="260" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The night
came. It brought its band with it. Crickets, light bugs, frogs, the wind and
the clouds. All moving around, watching the airplanes arrive and leave. Which
airplane will give me this I am needing? At least my kid enjoys them passing by, not now, of
course, he sleeps. I go downstairs and take a walk. The moon is announced.
Glow. I think again, look up and try to find an answer, but I got some other
questions instead. For instance, why are
we looking for answers? Why this impulse for explanations? I always hear this
expression: make sense. What if not? Is waking up early, spending ten hours
everyday in a warehouse, the kind of things we state as make sense? It doesn’t really
matter. It doesn’t matter because the sense making can turn into merchandise, to
then pose at any sort of exhibition and
go available for purchase, and thus grant us the sense, a sense of any
need now fulfilled. That’s why we want,
need, wish for and even have to, pretty
often indeed; go shopping. So it is something serious to feel like going
shopping and not having money for it. How do we code that? How do we link such
a feeling to any of our memories? Buying power might stand for as one of the
fewest things you have to counter strike the sadness you can’t take out. Perhaps
that’s why politicians love to sell the idea that poverty can be solved from
the government, as long as real power gets confided through the illusion of
choosing, mostly by an election campaign. We still talk about choosing, about freedom. Free is an interesting word.
The way I get it is a little different in its intention from the word we have
in Spanish. I tend to think it has more
to do with the, let’s say, bypass of an
obligation: duty free, free ticket, rather than free life, free time. Even
writing it is strange. We all sat in the break room while having lunch, telling
us again, these never ending past glories. There is not much to tell about our present
life. We look into this symbolic suitcase, where we store those precious
moments we show through the talking. I
often remain quiet. I mean, my present is my son, which is my world. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">There comes
another sunset. A few bubbles for my lips. Some kids playing while these words
take place. It is the soundtrack of the moment. A moment to look, to remember.
Specially a moment to wonder. Am I getting any raise? Will I? The beer gets hot
pretty fast. Faster than my ideas, indeed. The way the woman treated me today.
Yes. Is it true that such rejection is actually over racist purposes? Will my
children have to deal with it? I can’t tell. I was a tourist once. Now I’m a
resident. Hope travels and expectations grows like any other tree. We become
the gardeners of our beliefs. Perhaps
that’s why we should not take drags of our faith into smoke. Our faith has traveled too. The smell. The
decadence. A couple of <i>what ifs</i> with some <i>why nots</i> around. I’m
not that old, you know. My hands never stops following patterns of imaginary beats.
My mind is constantly evocating: songs, names, skins I would like to taste, glances
I would love to catch; for myself, for my own amusement. For my fingers to walk by, for my eyes to marble
by looking closely. I have to take my glasses off to do that. I am officially stepping
into that age when presbyopia and prostate testing are becoming part of any conversation
I may have. Nevertheless I allow myself to draw this picture in my mind. I
closed my eyes. I look up, and then I start placing these <i>ifs</i> and <i>woulds</i>,
then I smile. All these while the notes of a great song is playing through my
earbud. Yes, just one, and carefully. Boss may not like it. This is how I’ve
found this bearable. Too many days doing
the same thing. Purpose must be solid. Mine actually is. This is just a let go moment.
Break is over. Another moment for a few words. Anyone can guess where I am
writing and why I have to put it on hold while I get back to work. A mix of
scents some of them of good food. Meal time. Few voices saying something;
anything. Several quiet glances, glasses off.
I wait. Some smiles over their phones. What could I girl be talking
about that a smile is drawn on her face as she writes? Maybe it’s not about
what but who, and who suggests somebody,
and somebody suggests that the person is not unknown, on the contrary,
it must be someone special. We can affirm that such a smile takes place out of
a compliment, or a funny tale, an
invitation, or a proposal. Is the smile a form of consent? We lost the baby, by
the way. The one who was coming. I want to believe that he just didn’t want to
be in this world. He brought me hope, he brought me faith. He was going to be a
beautiful little brother, or sister. God bless you. Please tell God we were
here eager to take care of you, to love you as we always will, to do the best
for you as we do it for your big brother. Tell God we are sad. Tell God we’ll
be waiting. Another morning. I must have
everything done. I woke up a little late. I’m going to be late for work. Grieve.
I haven’t had time for it. Perhaps this is why I’ve been writing with this sad
vibe so far: I need to grieve. I don’t blame you. You decided to stay with
God. Maybe someday we’ll meet and you
will let me know. First break. I got this blurry vision. People are quieter. I
guess it is early for them. The sounds of the machines once more: a beat
popping up my concerns; what should I do with them? Procrastinate. Money is the
only one resource it takes to sweep them away. What about the sadness? I’m
keeping it. I want to grieve properly. I want to cry and wonder; to then wish I
had, or wish you were, but specially
wish you hadn’t gone. I want to think, if possible, you’re still there, as the
little soul I imagine you must be, giving us the chance to make you a new body,
so you can join us. <o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Orlan Silvahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16466519897125269100noreply@blogger.com0