Fourth Page

 

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; dis-expected. 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: The unbearable lightness of being. 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. Let’s go, let’s do it. Tomorrow we’ll see! 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 how of such a what, therefore I better work on my why. 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: the guy wrinkled his face. 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: make ends meet. 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: cualquier culo echa sangre, 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 see you next year. 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. 

Third page VIII

 

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: saudade, 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.

 

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 plays 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 open mined 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!