Tenth Page VI

 

Pardon my mistakes indeed. Vulnerable,  I can’t stop feeling this way. Words get me hard sometimes. I know what else should I be doing… looking for another job, perhaps. I didn’t,  I haven’t.  I’m still holding on the idea that resources somehow will come by the time I get almost drowned.  I don’t want to feel like I’m drowning in any way. I want to feel the boring and beautiful comfort of playing the music I want – because I have made the right space for it – drinking what I want – I’m not a snub, I don’t drink expensive – and none of extra worries because what I make is fine to cover it all. Is it too much to ask? To wish for? Come on! The Motivation paradox: this is so tough on immigration matters, I mean, how often can we relate that if I can then you can and vice versa? It’s easy to follow that lead and end up lost or resentful.  Time is an asset here. My ear, the pain. It is taking that side of the teeth and I get this discomfort when chewing. It makes me swallow before chewing enough.  That’s how our body works: a located pain affects it all.  The failure trap; yes: the unnecessary need of saying than we learn from mistakes.  We do correct, and improve,  but it is always a constant to rely on. Many times it’s bad, and long-lasting. We question if we have failed. I question if I have failed. Chávez said: pero tenemos patria, as some sort of mantra to accept all the disaster in exchange of a so called independence: what independence, I Have always wondered. From whom? And the government wanted a war with Colombia, a war with Guyana. They couldn’t even made Trinidad pay due respect but that’s another story.  It’s Tuesday night. Time for bed. Sunlight has finally gone. Two ibuprofen for the pain after a beer. I’m neither sleepy nor relieved from the pain. I can’t open wide my mouth. The air conditioning is noisy. Too much power. It’s hot outside.  We always have to complain. I complain of so many things, like my bank account,  but I prefer to say a little and see if I can have a good fuck. Like I said, I have a lot complain. I felt this smell of rotten meat inside my mouth and I now hesitate if it comes from some food that never went down to the stomach or it is a sign that I better hurry with this. I don’t know. It’s time for bed. We’ll see.  Flushing the toilet; that is the end of every paragraph.   Parabola is sounding on TV.  The ear is hurting less but it is somewhat draining,  so it’s kind of disgusting. Not to me, I mean, we stand our own fliuds, right? The thing is when it comes to stand others’. We learn to stand, even enjoy, our couple’s. But it’s something we cultivate with time. It’s part of the life. I have mostly enjoyed. Wednesday sunset. It’s not entirely dark. I made this time, so I can serve a few words. I had a lette gathering of Venezuelans not so long ago. We were wondering if there was a single person we know who is still there and doing good. We started asking each other: who do you know: a friend, an aunt? We realized nobody is doing good. Nobody is doing like, so good. Nobody is, for instance stable. The people we know are mostly falling into three sort of categories.  The first one is those who maybe ever once had some contract with the government,  or whose families had it at some point and it worked out for a time. Those are the ones who might have held some money during a specific moment, those might have traveled once or twice from time to time. Those are the ones who still celebrates birthdays when they get paid. This is not a large group. The second category is more about those who never got emancipated, they still live and sometimes even depend on their parents. Those are the ones who might go out from time to time always considering their limitations. I have seen them go out for  drink a few times during the year. The third category is the saddest one: those who believed and stayed hoping for better times. Those live in anger nowadays, in resentment.  I know some. I feel bad for them.  Nevertheless,  it’s not that I’m in a better position so I can afford to feel sorry. I actually feel sorry for myself. I have stated more than once that what happened there was a purge, and we were forced to get out since we were at the wrong side of it. Fortunately for me, If I stayed, let’s say that I wouldn’t be writing this, for sure. Part of the population had to go. We didn’t know it then and when we knew it, we didn’t want to. Eventually we had to accept it and go on. No eggs. I totally forgot. Moring doesn’t start right when the routine is abruptly changed. Not a good sign. We’ll see. Not bad yet but I don’t truth this calm. Something will come up. There’s always the potential argument about lack of money,  about working a lot to have so little. Poor people master these things: attitude over adversity. Only that adversity is overwhelming because of the basics; you see, the poor tend to be forced to struggle with tiny pleasures such as having a steak or buying a dress in exhibition. For the poor these are matters of overthinking. We don’t know if that money is already compromised. Pleasing such desires are bold, so then a discussion about it will surely come up.  I’m still surprised. Nothing yet. Today is to commemorate, to pay respect. I hope you have her, God. I hope you have them both. No more changes of that kind, please. I just need a little push. Bless us all. Thank you!

 

Tenth page V

 

Phones on the table. Do you guys do that? I might have done it a thousand times. Do you know the message you’re sending by doing it? Is it true then? I don’t think that there is a single person sitting on my table less important than whatever might happen on social media. So why? Addiction,  perhaps. Lack of sex. I don’t know, but these things have to be taken care of. On the other hand, this is how we are now. Some of us even argue and fight through the phone with people we have not seen in years, with people we may never see ever again. The passion is conducted over apps. Perhaps that’s where our energy,  our potential,  is being drained though.  I feel like I don’t want to do anything after work. I only want to drink and rest, so who knows! There is definitely something going on! The night came with beers and strawberry pie. Halestorm on TV. It sounds good.  How hard is to be programmed for commitment! There’s always something inside pushing to bear and accept a lot. People who don’t feel this attached are gifted, only that they don’t know it as such. In a marriage,  for example.  Committed freaks will remain quiet at any bit of offense only to preserve the illusion of peace. Only to maintain the commitment in perpetuity.  Others just replied go fuck yourself and get some sleep in peace.  You will find a thousand reasons where commitment is heroic but such heroism hurts. It hurts and it weights. Words are not enough to let go. Tomorrow is another day, another battle, with less money and the same debts. Perhaps it’s because of that: having too much to worry about allows yourself to let pass more than you’re supposed to (if you’re supposed to indeed or at all) These kind of things can’t be unlearned. They are like tattoos from childhood,  from life itself. So is the mindset of us, the Venezuelans. That explains a lot of ourselves.  We need to talk more, to get to the point we can embrace or sorrows and not hiding them as they were a sign of weakness. Vulnerability has never meant weakness in any way. It’s totally the opposite: it is brave to accept it and talk about it.

 

We are afraid to trust. We don’t want to trust. We prefer sexist jokes and pass as assholes rather to open ourselves up and be vulnerable.  Like I said, those are our hidden tattoos.  I have a lot on my own. I know how it feels.

 

Summer is coming.  Today it seems to be warmer, less gray and rainless. The sun is already welcomed.  The birds are telling everyone.  It’s time to get up. Last night beers make it a bit difficult.  Perhaps the magnesium: two pills every night is recommended.  Perhaps both. The belly keeps growing.  I guess the steps count has to be much higher,  specially now that the working time is seated on a desk. Some discomfort in my back: a middle age thing. Cosas de pures, my friends would say. I’m always imagining better times. I woke up with such an attitude today. Let’s see. As always God, you know my spirit is already in your hands. I’m just documenting it. I hear coughing.  I don’t think it could be to worry about but certainly it’s a sign I have to hurry.

The president of Iran died from a helicopter fall down. The media made it the first thing to read when opened any app. At least that was my case. Iran was very popular, very often discussed about when I was living in Venezuela.  Chávez made big alliances with them. The Venezuelan cars come from Iran, for example. Now the gas too, from what I’ve read. I stopped finding out about Iran since I moved out. I guess if I were in Caracas,  this would be big and conspiratorial. Everyone must be talking about it by now. I’m not there. I’m here and I wonder if the president would have been Maduro, would people celebrate it as they are doing now over Iran’s? How shall we process such a feeling? I mean. Is that what my people are expecting? It is interesting to think about it. Most of the people who moved out have considered at least once. Nevertheless, now that I’m bringing it out, the very sentiment might have been inoculated through the government propaganda: Maduro has said a thousand times that there was a plot to kill him. So the idea was born out of a statement and raised as a thought,  as an idea; then the social media do its magic: influencers, opinion debates, fake news, clickbait, catfish, framed images of any type, even made up past stories. Whatever works out to redirect the people’s attention at will. Now I’m getting nuts. We were programed to leave the country. It might have been a dark experiment. It might have been a part of a plan. I thought for a while that it was a purge. People like us don’t fit under the current regime, but I have sensed some randomness in our community. I have met a few people to share common grounds with. At least nothing further than coming from the same country.  Even the city; I haven’t met people from Caracas as from other placed of Venezuela. My ear again. How interruptive it isgoI feel proud now. I’ve made it to 60.000 words text now. I thought I was going to quit at 40.000, but here I am: counting 60.000 words of paja, or how I think it is called in English: to talk crap, or shit. And I intent to keep doing it. Pardon the mistakes.