Sixth page V

 

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,  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,  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.

 

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  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,  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,  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…

One sigh, then silence,  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,  making a last phone call before the show; this show, showing up and on despite the thoughts. Perhaps that explains the silence. Enjoy the silence with Depeche Mode.

 

Almost noon. Restroom first.  It’s hard to call it restroom after I-don’t-know-how-many-years calling it bathroom.  That is a lot of a second language thing, just like Where have you been. 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. The Sound of Silence is another song, or so I think it is. The thing is that this symphony has more to do with little cough,  a sneeze from time to time, and steps; back and forth, in stereo mode: “surrounding me, going down on me” – 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,  so here I am. It’s quiet, it’s early and Friday, by the way!

 

A statement has come for visit. I’m not sure that I want it to be part of my perception,  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,  by the way. I hear them say my words will be only mine and that’s why I remain quiet.  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  our own understanding.  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.  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.

Sixth page IV

 

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? Enjoy the silence 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. Ghost 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. The answer lies within, 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. Guarenas, Guatire, what a couple of places. Maracay, Coro, 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 The Esequibo 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 opinioners  have been posting pictures of empty voting centers. Let’s see what the clowns have to declare at the end of the day.