Sixth page VI

 

Wednesday. A month later, a month of drowned thoughts that never learned to swim. Here I am at the shore of my cavitation, waves of advice come and go. There’s too much to pay and too little to earn. I’m kind of addicted to bad times, they’re always close, alongside. Wine, always wine. I’m kind of waiting some help to knock on my door like a relative from Venezuela, who magically managed to get through against all odds and made it here. It’s the way we are; picturesque, that’s the most suitable word for us. We need to go back and across the entire family, neighborhood,  childhood, just to give an excuse of why we’re coming late for work, for example. Caracas, sometimes I think about you. It’s hard. There are a few names I like to evocate, names I wish I could,  names that never meant to be, names that my social media brings up, names, names and moments: I’m smiling right now. I’m smiling at the fact that I’m about to be evicted. Eviction is quite a word. TV is on. My boy, my everything. Something has to happen.  Wine is almost over. Winter is gone too. I reduced my spectrum,  I have even less people to talk to, to vent, to speak my mind. I’m just stacking words, building a train of nonsense going on the railroad of what I’m thinking when I’m sitting on the toilet, and I have to get a shower, by the way. Let’s rest. Worries are getting me and I need ideas, money,  but I don’t have any, and I get paid in two days. Isn’t it ironic, don’t you think.  I’m disregarding of everything I just wrote lately; not because I’m not feeling it but because I don’t remember it, and I don’t want to go ut supra to be in context again. Today, I don’t care. I was thinking what if this is ever published? What sort of story this should be? This is a diary, not dairy, despite my intolerance, which I’m not, I mean, I might be, but I don’t care, I love dairy products,  but this is, in spite my thoughts, a Diary: the Diary of a settlement in the world of an immigrant. An adaptation of a new life, mixed with middle age crisis and first time parenthood; a man in his forties finding out what he left and how to keep going on without it. Nothing really promising,  nor original, but very Venezuelan indeed, and that means, that what’s missing will never matter as long as we get with this comfy place (literal or figurative) available, on hand, to stay there for a while, so we can smile at our sorrows, and fight back again. Wine takes me there, mostly, Cerati too. A Letter to Elise again in my ears: I love it! Thanks God It’s Friday! At work, but my myself. Voices floating, but I’m here… nothing wrong with that! Evening is greeting, a child program on TV, everyone in their own thing. I was thinking about reading a book, I may grab it but it will not work. I might have to cut it, so let’s stay with the phone. Wine time is coming. I wanted to leave here this thought I’ve been dreaming about and, it is that I kind of feel how some pieces of me start parting from myself to my son; it’s quite an honor, actually, to be honest. Will some of me live on in him? Is that how we remain in this world after we die? If so, do we die at all? What if every dead person is just spread out in people who got something from them? Wasn’t something like that this Prince from Oscar Wilde? I tend to think this is also how we talk to God: by writing and letting go whatever flows and burns behind social smiles and focused silences. There is the noise: nothing for me except the glass of wine. Shapes, the time of shapes: circle, every circle seen is declared. My son sees it as a shape, and I see it as a reflection. An answerless reflection,  by the way. I didn’t get to read and I knew it.  Night time. A movie, perhaps. There are some cookies and a bit less than have of a bottle of wine. Silence is here. It suddenly came. I thought it was only in the office but it seems like it cane hiding in one of my pockets.  I really need to figure it out. A rainy Saturday,  inexplicably amusing. Everyone woke up in good mood today. The smell and the taste of coffee has taken over, lips are having somehow a good time. Alright, let’s keep going: pieces of us. Features (rather than skills, but it can be just aspects, I guess) have started to transfer: it’s a wonderful feeling.  It also means that the time to get totally transformed is coming. I just wish to accomplish a few things before that. God, please, let me stay here, healthy, and working for such things. We could say, assuming that I might have a point, that puberty is the time when you start collecting for the next generation; childhood is when we collect for ourselves. Then when adulthood comes up, and it’s more like struggling back and forth with the time left and the expectations still unmet. We’re keeping the good mood. We’re going to have difficult times, again, but here we are, happy, yes, great! Let’s drink to that! Presidential elections are on the schedule: here and there, the clown decided to run again. First, a war threat, then carnivals, and now the anticipation of the elections. That’s Venezuela, and the people keep with the hope, the good mood. Perhaps that’s why I am how I am, I can’t tell. Come undone is sounding, I have two bottles in my system at this time. It’s time to stop, indeed, A view to a kill sounds now: dance into the fire then, or whatever it says… Sunny, early, time change. I noticed that because of the microwave; probably the only device not connected to the network.

 

This is Wednesday.  Evening.  Everyone is angry. Anger is kind of like a rain falling and getting all wet. Despite the umbrella, despite the boots, somehow it gets into your socks… and it’s never selfish.  We always want to share it, to pass it through.  I need to write this before I forget it: fulfillment is a place, a place we build over the years and,  once it has some room, once we fit in, we start understanding that what you didn’t bring is because you never needed it. I hope to be able to show that to my son. I want him to build his place for fulfillment, somewhere he can leave worries out and forget for a while, because obligations will always wait, but a pause is good from time to time, and thus, if he gets hurt, he can use it to feel better again. I will try my best. So Anger, Anger needs to be shared, that’s the only way to transform it. I must go, by the way. I feel like I need to close my eyes and hug my parents, tell them that I love them, pick up my wife and tell her it’s going to be fine, that we need nothing but ourselves. I have to get back to work. I love this job! Napping, trying but anxiety tends to take over. The need to be inside any feed on social media is, let’s say, dumbing me up. Fortunately I believe whatever wisdom I might have collected,  is probably already passed to my son. That’s narcissistic, to be honest. Who isn’t in these days! We need to consider we are presenting our lives as a slide show full of wealth understood as good. We have already talked about this before. Let’s go back to resting. I should get some sleep. It’s not Sunday yet. Saturday evening indeed. Daylight is lasting a bit longer, so we can take a walk before it gets dark. It’s good if we intent to open a bottle of wine. Cheers already! Time is becoming wind and as wind It’s touching my face, making me close my eyes and forget where I step. Music is playing chaperon, then I’m not alone. I open my eyes, and I’m already in my living room; having a glass. I was evocating, as I try to do when I’m alone. Time again, like I just said; it has its power, and now it’s becoming light, indoors light for a indoors contemplation. Cronos is how they call you, right? Well then: thank you, thank you for everything.  I know I’m not grateful most of the time but I do appreciate all, and I actually can tell when it’s you. Night has fallen. There is some discomfort. I wanted to complain,  to make an scene out of it but then I realized; why, what am I complaining about, whatever bothering me has always been there, and it didn’t come out of nothing I haven’t done previously to make it happen. So I just remained quiet, as always; keeping the bitterness to myself to drown it with the wine I’m drinking,  or digest it with all the junk food I have to then feel regretful for it. My belly won’t stop growing with regrets, and time, time won’t do (and there’s no need, actually) won’t do anything to stop it, or delay it. This is all on me.  Tuesday morning. An arepa is put on. I think that could be the most suitable way to say “montar” in the context of cooking for an arepa. So I’m putting on an arepa for my son before leaving.  I have to work. It’s cold. Unnecessarily cold. I write while I wait for the engine to warm up. There are opinions about this but it is already an old habit and this is an old car too. Let’s go. I used to feel kind of like a poser when wearing sunglasses but now, now I just got used to it. I might still look a poser but I just don’t care anymore. The value of the benefit overcomes the shame from the shyness.  Puberty issues, I know. Now let’s get back to work. Not before a coffee,  of course.

 

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.