Private House (Who did it?) By Grok 3

Semantic Framing: Borders as a “Private House”

Your analogy (mine indeed) of a country as a “private house” is a powerful way to describe the concept of controlled entry. Semantically, it suggests exclusivity, ownership, and the right to decide who crosses the threshold. This framing aligns with the modern idea of national sovereignty, where a state asserts authority over its territory, much like a homeowner over their property. The shift from open or loosely defined boundaries to a “private house” model reflects changes in political thought, legal language, and societal organization. Let’s trace when and how this metaphor started to take hold.

• Early Conceptions of Territory: In ancient times, borders were often fluid, marked by natural barriers (rivers, mountains) or tribal agreements rather than strict legal control. The idea of a “private house” didn’t apply because land was often communal or tied to empires with porous boundaries. Entry wasn’t typically “denied” in a formal sense; it was more about conquest, tribute, or allegiance to a ruler.
• Modern Shift in Language: The semantic framing of borders as something to be “guarded” or “closed” emerged alongside the concept of the nation-state, particularly from the 17th century onward. Terms like “sovereignty,” “citizen,” and “alien” began to carry legal weight, implying a clear distinction between insiders and outsiders—much like a homeowner deciding who can enter their space.

Historical Origins of Border Control as a Legal Issue

The notion of legally restricting entry into a country didn’t exist in a formalized way until relatively recently in human history. Here’s a timeline of how this developed into a legal issue, focusing on key moments, regions, and actors where possible:

1. Ancient and Medieval Periods: Loose Control Over Movement

• In ancient empires like Rome, Egypt, or China, there were no formal immigration laws as we understand them. Movement was regulated more by practical concerns (e.g., taxation, military service) than by legal prohibitions on entry. For instance, the Roman Empire allowed many “barbarians” to settle within its borders under certain conditions, often as laborers or soldiers, without a concept of “illegal entry.”
• During the medieval era in Europe, feudal systems tied people to land and lords rather than national borders. Travel was restricted by class or serfdom more than by state laws. However, city-states and kingdoms sometimes expelled specific groups (e.g., Jews during the Spanish Inquisition in 1492) or restricted trade access, which were early precursors to entry control, though not yet systematic.

2. 17th-18th Centuries: Rise of the Nation-State and Sovereignty

• The concept of a country as a bounded, sovereign entity—akin to a “private house”—solidified with the Treaty of Westphalia in 1648. This agreement, ending the Thirty Years’ War in Europe, established the principle of territorial sovereignty, meaning states had authority over their land and people, free from external interference. While this didn’t immediately translate to immigration laws, it laid the groundwork for states to claim the right to control who enters.
• During this period, European monarchs and governments began to view populations as resources (for taxation, labor, or military power). This led to early restrictions, often tied to economic or religious motives. For example, England’s Navigation Acts (starting in 1651) restricted foreign merchants and sailors, indirectly controlling movement for economic reasons.

3. 19th Century: Formal Immigration Laws Emerge

• The 19th century marked the beginning of modern immigration law, as industrialization, colonialism, and mass migration prompted states to formalize entry rules. The “private house” analogy became more literal as countries began to define citizenship and exclude certain groups.
• United States: One of the earliest notable laws was the U.S. Alien Act of 1798, part of the Alien and Sedition Acts, which allowed the government to deport foreigners deemed dangerous. Though temporary, it reflected growing concern over who could enter and stay. Later, the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 explicitly banned Chinese laborers, marking one of the first race-based immigration restrictions. These laws were driven by federal authorities under pressure from labor unions and nativist movements.
• Europe: In the UK, the Aliens Act of 1905 was one of the first modern immigration control laws, targeting Jewish refugees fleeing pogroms in Eastern Europe. It was a response to public and political fears of overcrowding and economic competition. Similar laws emerged in other European nations as nationalism grew.
• Who Did It?: These early laws were typically enacted by national legislatures, often influenced by economic elites, labor groups, or populist sentiments. There wasn’t a single “who,” but rather a convergence of state interests (protecting resources or identity) and societal pressures.

4. 20th Century: Passport Systems and Global Standards

• The widespread use of passports and visas—tools to legally control entry—solidified in the early 20th century, especially after World War I. The League of Nations in 1920 began standardizing travel documents, turning border control into an international norm. This was when the “private house” model became fully entrenched: countries required formal permission (like a guest invitation) to cross borders.
• Post-World War II, international agreements like the 1951 Refugee Convention (under the United Nations) established legal frameworks for asylum, but also reinforced state rights to control entry outside specific humanitarian cases.
• Who Did It?: At this stage, international bodies like the League of Nations (later the UN) and national governments collaborated to codify border control. Individual leaders or politicians often shaped specific policies—e.g., U.S. presidents like Calvin Coolidge signed restrictive quota laws in the 1920s—but the broader trend was a collective shift among states.

Semantic Evolution of “Allowed to Enter”

• Pre-Modern: Words like “foreigner” or “stranger” carried cultural or social connotations rather than legal ones. Entry was about hospitality, tribute, or conquest, not law.
• Modern Era: Terms like “alien,” “immigrant,” and “illegal” emerged in legal and political discourse, especially from the 19th century. “Allowed to enter” became tied to state permission, reflecting the “private house” idea where the state, as “owner,” decides who belongs.
• Legal Codification: By the 20th century, language in treaties and laws (e.g., “visa,” “deportation”) normalized the idea that entry is a privilege granted by the state, not a right. This linguistic shift mirrors the practical and ideological move toward exclusion as a sovereign act.

Why Did This Become a Legal Issue?

Several factors drove the transition of border control into a legal matter:

• Nationalism and Identity: As nation-states formed, defining “us” versus “them” became central. Legal restrictions on entry reinforced national identity by determining who could belong.
• Economic Concerns: Industrialization created labor competition, leading to laws protecting domestic workers by limiting foreign entry (e.g., Chinese Exclusion Act).
• Security: Wars and political upheavals (especially in the 20th century) made states wary of espionage or unrest, prompting legal controls on movement.
• Bureaucracy and Technology: The ability to document and track people (via passports, censuses) made legal enforcement of borders feasible, turning a once-theoretical right into a practical system.

Who Determined This, If Possible?

There’s no single “who” behind the global shift to treating borders like a private house, but rather a series of actors across time:

• Monarchs and Early Governments: In the 17th-18th centuries, rulers like European kings began asserting territorial control as sovereignty emerged.
• Legislatures and Politicians: By the 19th century, national parliaments (e.g., U.S. Congress, British Parliament) passed specific immigration laws, often influenced by economic or social groups.
• International Bodies: In the 20th century, organizations like the League of Nations and UN standardized border control practices, making them a shared legal norm among states.

 

Feel free to draw your own insights in the comments section

Best regards, 

Syllabus

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

  

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

 

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

 

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

I

Am

Up

To

Think

That

This

Beat

May

Take

Me

To

You,

For example.  

Mindset brainstorm

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

Thirteenth Page (and last)

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

Twelfth page VI

 

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

 

 

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

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

 

 

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

Twelfth page V

 

Thursday, don’t throw me back again, please!  Saturday morning: nothing in my bank accounts… the hell with it, it's Sunday morning now. I couldn’t postpone the wills to sit on the water. Duty called. Cartoons are on, so I expect to finish what I started. I’m hearing some complaints. I guess I have to cut. I have to cut in some many ways; either literally and figuratively. Let’s start with this literal one first.  Hold the line, selected by me. It was rainy all day long.  Boundaries testing and its nonstop actions.  I’m alone now. I saw a couple of pictures, a couple of a set of pictures; both of them of vacation time; two different families, both living here, both Venezuelans. I’m not sure if this is just pure envy, or if I ever have a point, but it seemed kind of a show off, and up to this point, a show off is just vulgar. Only that vulgar provokes. Vulgar always provokes. So I’m not immune to other’s good times, and I have worked a lot not to be so. I am talking from my podium of poverty,  as usual of course. Poor envy although vulgar, specially when it’s vulgar. I want to be vulgar too, I just can’t afford it, and I haven’t been able to since so many years. I want to taste, we all do. Only that we can’t,  so we have to drown this feeling with wine and words, and a new chapter of House Of The Dragon. It’s Sunday night after all, but it’s hasn’t been easy, there’s so much going on, but this is always,  every time, anything is something to worry about, to think of, and to probable turn into something we will postpone to live one more day. It’s exhausting, and nobody cares.

 

Another week. I need to get the Alprazolam.  I’m worried.  It’s in moments of sudden that we feel we don’t belong, that we are forcing something is not meant to be, that we will never fit in. I guess it happens to all of us. I have to be better, to get equal treatment.  Did we know it before we came? May be we did, but verbs feels different in first person. The fiction is over, I have to get back to the reality and go to bed. Financial blessing,  I’m still waiting for you.  Only child syndrome for writing and only child syndrome for thinking. Well, not really. Perhaps for writing. I come here when I feel alone. The TV is on. I’m waiting for the CBD to replace the Alprazolam.  Nothing has happened yet. Yesterday was different,  I boosted it with wine. I even forgot about my debts for a while. The CPR course was fine. It was better than expected.  I really thought I was going to blow it. I should trust myself a little more. I would like to, it’s just that repercussions have been coming up and showing off, so now I realized they were all mistakes; missteps, wrong moves I made thinking they were going to bring me back to stability, and I can’t be more disappointed from these results. At least I can lecture myself through words.

 

Home made meat loaf, I love it. Wine is waiting for me, I need a partner in crime, my partner in crime. I don’t feel like taking a shower. Desire is suffering,  I just read.  What if you don’t like what you see? What about it? Coexist is paramount when lacking resources, specially when you just want to be left alone. It’s a space not everyone can afford. So Time then it’s not the greatest asset but Space as well.  Wednesday.  Wednesday I’m in love. Let’s see for how long.  It’s Thursday now,  both countdowns have started; the first one will reach zero next Sunday.  The election day. A good part of the diaspora remains skeptical, specially those who have made a family abroad already, those no longer work  in factories or production lines. Those ones who are not waiting for an asylum interview or a court hearing anymore. Those ones have moved on, or so we can presume. The hearts have their own reason, so nothing is settled yet, but what I do presume is that the skeptical ones are not the majority.  The majority is waiting, expecting,  and basing their next moves upon election’s results. My heart is beating harder every time I think about it. We have one month left. That’s the drama of us; the uncertainty of the next encounters. When? Where? How? And ‘if’, especially if…  If and Why with a bunch of becauses; becauses with no solid reasons. I only followed my heart, and my heart likes to play. I don’t.  Not when it comes to feelings. So I guess that either you play or be played.  I need more wine. Not really, I’m just tired, and I will never get when people drown themselves inside the phone. I’m tired of being this way alone. Something is broken. I don’t know what. I’m just tired and tiredness makes you make up things to keep yourself uncomfortable.  I am uncomfortable, and tomorrow I have to work.  The future is a foreign land. What a title, Ghost! You really got me. Sadness needs space and time; two assets in this life. Two assets not everyone can afford, so being sad can be kind of a luxury sometimes, this time at least, and even more than being happy. Happiness can be found sometimes,  sadness needs a momentum to acknowledge it. I’m not in the mood to acknowledge.  I want to have Sex and forget, but even sex needs time, space, and an interested partner: interesting,  indeed. 

 

I would like your opinion, but you wouldn’t dare. Maybe I wouldn’t dare. I just want to get the hell out and move on with all my complexes. The air conditioning is off. The bill was extremely high. Poor happenings, as usual. When will this stop? I don’t know. Bearing: a verb for the poor. I hate this sort of poverty.  Maybe I hate the company,  who knows! I don’t even know myself anymore.  I just want to keep on drinking. I’m getting  close… despite of the routine, despite of all these disappointments. Disappointment is not for poor either. We have to keep going. Our survival depends on that. So why do we want to survive? That’s a good question, as a matter of fact. How do we say in English when a fruit is not ripe? I don’t know  in Spanish we say verde, yes, green, and maduro, or madura, when it's ripe. In Spanish fruits have gender, the mongo is male, for example, the banana (in Venezuela; cambur, and only in Venezuela) is male too.  The strawberry is female, and we use it when it comes to pretty girls. Again, only in Venezuela,  as far as I know. 

Twelfth page IV

 

A glass was broken. That’s always an impact. Like a gun shot. Everyone stops, freezes.  Are you ok? I’m not but I’m not talking about that. See you later. I wonder if you’re going to be into rocket ships when you get to this lines. I love when you say blast off. I love the spaceships you build with your tiles. It’s a beautiful hobby. Outer space. Inner being. The floor is lava. Countdown. Countdown to cheer me up. Boobs on TV. I’m sitting on the floor.  Temperature is fine now. It was terrible yesterday. Procrustean Syndrome, or our intolerance against all these statements. My idea is the one that must prevail. I have seen it a lot, including on myself. I think I’ve said it; we want an audience,  we want to be flattered,  we don’t want consensus or debate… not really though. We’re developing somewhat intolerance to the curiosity born out by getting to the bottom of something. Some of us call it overthinking,  or include it to the habit to overthink. So, it is conceived as a flaw: not trendy one, therefore it can’t be used on Instagram. Financial aid: here I am. Don’t be afraid to come. I’ll be grateful.  I am always grateful.  Let me welcome you to my world, to my outer, to my inner and to my most. Join me in my quest to uniqueness. It has been a lonely road. We must find the path to stability; we are in the right time and at the right age. Give me a chance, I don’t want anymore breaks.

 

Until the end of the world in my ears, yes, in both, why not? I’m in the bathroom alone and nobody needs me right now. A Friday Wednesday, a third third indeed. La parole lontane or the words from the distance. Most of our Spanish is distant now, mostly enclosed by technology, and all the subjective burden it carries with it. Temper tantrum, carried within only. If I could just be back a few steps… who knows!

 

Monday morning. I need coffee. Not a good holyday to celebrate, au contraire, it would have been better to come to work. No music, faster breathing, feeling desperate, let’s just wish for a happy day! Be more in my ear now, and we were more indeed. Now, parenting time.  Tuesday morning.  One of those video answers from a potential second job. I keep applying hoping to get something I don’t have time for. Need pushes in so many different ways. It’s kind of like a damaged feature of the car for which you’re forced to change the way you drive entirely.  There’s no money for a new car, for a new life. We’ll see. Hope has power indeed. Here I’m still standing.  Saturday morning.  Several days have gone by. Geometry,  the Geometry of things. Understanding the shapes to get a sense of limitations of one thing from another.  The spiral and the feeling of living everything again from some distance. How is the shape of the map? Our map, our distance. Layers and planes: platforms; what shape should it be? It’s fascinating seeing such developments, I read it helps understand our place where we get to be. Perhaps I wasn’t that good with geometry, I’m not sure I understand my place here, and I’m kind of sure you aren’t either. Yet, here we are, figuring out. Sunday morning. Air conditioning at its maximum due to this summer heat. We can’t rest like we think we should under such circumstances.  Motor town: Motown, I’m getting it. I started getting it: thirty minutes drive to take us to the pool and thirty minutes to get back home to pick what we missed, then thirty more minutes to go back to the pool but not before stopping by and get some chips to finally chill two ours and a half later, and only for a couple of hours to go back home again. Just a day of during summer. I’m not complaining.  It could be worse. We can always add a sudden event and spoil the whole plan. At least we could chill for a couple of hours. So it was a good Saturday after all. Not for everyone,  of course. The poor, when trying to please, they have to let someone down. I guess this is because of money and time equation in life. Poverty is about struggling more for having a little of both. I failed.  My plans failed. My heart failed. It was so full of hope, so full of faith but it turned out an impossible. It was just a delay. I borrow money to buy some time. The poor don’t get to buy time. The poor can barely buy brands, TV brands,  social media brands, and live under the illusion that self realization will emerge from money spent on things that don’t worth time.  Eighteen years on Alprazolam and I can’t just get a prescription in this town. It seems that I have to get along with my anxiety like it were some sort of hot chick horny for myself with all my overweight included. My belly grows as big as my disappointment. I guess I have to keep on failing…. Until I stop. If I ever stop. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’m just thinking about In the end: I tried so hard…

 

Wednesday night. A flat tire during the day and some money I don’t  have just spent. What the hell! By the way, what are you doing in Hong Kong? It is Hong Kong, right? How about Israel? Best regards for you both. I appreciate you. I try to hold you both with my words. Not everything has to be grief.  I try not to, and I know it looks like I don’t, but I do. I do. I do wish, I do desire. I do hope and expect, and I’m still waiting. I got this scar on one of my finger toes but it’s healing now. I’m looking at some places of Belgrade; some images before a Rammstein concert I’m about to watch. I think it’s not a good quality sound but the images were worth it. I can see they are coming down from some sort of elevator on stage. Belgrade gave me hope. Good night now. Tomorrow will be another battle. One battle per day. I have lost today’s but I can listen to rock music now, and I’m drinking my wine as usual. Hopelessness here tastes better. That’s perhaps one of the differences between both countries. 

Twelfth page III

 

Some people: not lawyers ones, tend to make these jokes about lawyers,  about how greedy they are and things like that. It sounds funny among lawyers with jobs and money, for those who remain poor and working on something else, it doesn’t make any sense.  I would like that greed for myself but I stand on the side of the ones with no money. So, jokes about lawyers, not on me. Sunday afternoon.  Soccer game: fútbol,  the way we call it. A beer in my hand, not now, of course. I a writing.  I have some headache and the pain in my ear is coming back again. I’m worried. I can’t help feeling worried. Let’s make a pause.

 

To please. How hard is to please! Perhaps it’s not hard, it’s more like subjective, changing. Pleasing has a lot to do with mood, and mood has some to do with money. We will end up complaining about lack of money in every single idea of this text. I’m trying to avoid it, but this comes from the heart, what can I do? I’m trying to keep it as organic as it can be, but organic is mostly monotonous, and truth is often boring rather than uncomfortable. We want it to be exciting,  outrageous,  but life is more a constant phase. Constancy is what we seek, even when thinking about adventures. We wish a place to find shelter in storming times. Safe scenarios to make opinions. We want our life to be a theme park, with unlimited time and turns for every attraction.

 

Life. How I remember it, Gabo, how am I telling everyone about it? My wife’s uncle said: every poor has a story to tell, only no one cares. So, here I am, serving this nonsense as an interesting story. I can’t hold my impulse back. I just put words as some sort of necessity.  Monday morning.  A little behind, from what I see. Enrollment blast. Blast off indeed. Problems are making me lose focus on my job. I need to drink. I need to drink to avoid this overthinking.  I’m nervous and the day hasn’t come yet. What if it does? It will come, what I don’t know is how soon. I need enlightenment,  enlightenment for the extra money that doesn’t come. Too much adrenaline for a quiet life. Oh son! I hope we can laugh together by the time you get to read these words. I hope to much. I’m a hamster in a cage; showing my desperation for others’ amusement.  Like a circus freak show. Sorrows to entertain. Sick time. Tim off. I have to cry this out. I need a moment alone. See you later!

 

Confessions from a toilet.  That should be the name of this text. Afternoon is going by. It’s still sunny and it’s quiet too. The noise lies within my head like wearing headphones. Nobody else can tell what I’m up to. I am just contemplating, thinking about women perfume and women skin. How my tongue wants to take a walk over your body. Caracas again. Tense news. What an English to describe things, right! I wonder how you guys will get this. We meet halfway, as at work. I say something and they take one part and discard the rest. Which rest, sometimes I wonder. I laugh. Let’s just take a bath.

 

Cancel culture,  not on Maduro. I mean,  who has accepted him as a legitimate president? According to the public opinion and particularly  on social media, he has no popularity at all. We have to remember that the only thing that made him a candidate was when Chávez said on that December, that if something happened to him (he died a few days later and was declared dead three month after that) followers should support  Maduro, and just like that, the man has been ruling the country for ten years so far.

 

Why the internet service is this expensive? Are those messages for me? I’m not sure if we’re changing platforms,  if we meet in another reality. I’m only conscious of this one; where La Vinotinto made it to quaters of final of this Copa América. It’s good to share this joy. It’s our symbol nowadays.  Who knows! Maybe we’ll see Venezuela on the next world cup. I mean, why not, right?  Thursday night. A night before getting paid. Let’s project something good. Faith is powerful,  Faith is beautiful, I just watch; contemplate. There’s nothing else but focus. Debate night. I don’t know. I’m still hungry. Let’s just get some rest. 

 

Sunday afternoon. Pasticho de berenjena for lunch. Home made meals gets me. That’s how I know I’m old. I was trying to come back and start correcting this and I couldn’t.  At first I felt bored since I realized that it’s too much work, and I have no choice but doing it. You might get lost or tired just trying to understand me. It’s not fair. Then I got scared. Scared of going back again to those words, to that world. The world of the back and forth, of the push and pull, of the in and out.

 

By the way.  I believe I got my answer.  I’m not sure if that’s fine with you. My generation became adults following the propaganda of the uniqueness and originality. I’m not sure how good was that to the market, but it seems it worked out for the governments and political movements. Social media has been used to turn such conception back down, and they succeeded.  Nobody wants to be unique anymore. Nobody wants to set a path to go somewhere anymore. Everyone is eager for results. All my Venezuelans are hopeful thanks to La Vinotinto,  especially those who usually don’t watch the games. The sense of victory is more important than watching and believing a process of development.  If the team had lost, the comments would have been like: the same shit, the same disappointment,  but in none of the cases the support came from the beginning.  I’m fine with it. I’m not despising it. Popularity has a lot to do with it. What I want to say is that the concept of uniqueness is now shaped by social media insights (Some could claim TV used to be just like it). We talk about sports only if it’s trendy. We talk about jobs only if it’s happening on social media. The people don’t want to read but have read it already. That means, the process has lost its charm. Siddhartha might have no point in this era. Not even Coelho’s Alchemist. It seems there is no time for any attempt of a journey. Even advertisements aren’t as they were. Branding. We all want brand ourselves and become assets for how we look, or what we say, even for what we ignore, and we believe we might get paid for it since this wave of influencers all over. I don’t know any of them yet. I won’t change my mind until then. I guess if it's happens, I will have to rewrite this. So be it! But for now this is what it is. The kids aren’t alright in my ear. Simulation theory, go for it! Let’s get physical is Dua Lipa singing now. I agree, by the way.