Fourth page IV

 

Read a book, listen to a whole record, go on and watch a movie. Go ahead a pick one by chance, something,  someone you’ve never heard before. Give it a chance, give yourself a chance to go on something you never saw on social media, and then sense it. Make your own impression about it: a terrible movie, a boring record, a very bad novel, place, time, picture, exhibition,  it won’t matter because, each and every single one, will grant you with a piece of space for your thoughts and perception to float, to flow, so be it. Afterwards you pick a place and sit, talk to yourself and smile (or cry) alone. Then get your shit together and get a job, or go to work if you have one. It doesn’t sound like a plan to you? You can always go back to your scrolling, just give it a try. I try. I read some today. It felt great. It felt like a trip when you pay nothing ad you can get anything. O want some delusion here: there is this girl gone crazy for a guy. I haven’t seen that before, I mean, I have lived a life where women always have the say; watching that is really impressive to me. Sunday night. To some, we are in autumn already. Yesterday it rained the whole day. It was kind of like an entrance for the pumpkin season, but today, tonight, summer says goodbye on some fresh air despite of the dark. Tomorrow we’ll see. I feel like I want some coffee. And I had it, as I’m having one right now. It’s cold, the weather,  not the coffee, but a cold summer-like, which means there’s no need for any sort of coat. Friday and Saturday were colder. Almost no stars in sky, I can’t even see the moon. It’s thick, I don’t know, not Foggy, but dark blue gets me this thick sense. If I could get a piece of it, – a piece of sky – at least  a piece from the one I’m starring at now, it would be thick. Lamps on the streets are on. Lamps of the apartments across; not. Is it too early? I don’t think so.

Light bulb of the balcony needs to be replaced.  Dark and cold became friends. I could join them by wearing some coat but I guess I’m opting stay indoors out of my lack of mood. Why?  I guess – again – because bad news tend to hit harder lately,  not because of their impact; their impact is something different to place in thoughts: that requires a different angle.  I’m talking about how often, or how many, depending on my will to count them, or pay attention to them. I tried counting first, it’s just not working,  I mean, I get tired of it. There’s some weight to carry while thinking about them, and, during this traffic jam of thoughts, the effort of counting them, let the others vanish too soon, so there’s a little spot for reflection; and I need to come around. Light bulb replaced. This one is white, it gives you this sense of office now. I think I like it better in yellow. The yellow light gets me, I don’t know, warm, takes me back in time, takes me to Caracas,  on 1985, or 86, when I was in our elementary school. This one, on the other hand, takes me to an office, and I just realized I miss them both. Break time. Breakfast time but since fasting, the break’s got to wait a little longer. A little longer I must wait indeed for some news to come. And they will. I just need to give myself to delusion meanwhile: I see you see me, I see you see me behind that I-don’t-care-about-you gesture in your face. I know anger can be a mask sometimes,  a suit we feel like we need to dress due to the this fear of exposure.  Feelings must be kept in the mouths of silence. In the steam that comes out and rests around the glass right after a sip of wine. That moment, that look up trying to find it, and not getting it yet… that look down trying to let it go, and carrying with it still. At home. Quiet. Walls speak: a TV on, at some other apartment, a video on the phone perhaps. I feel like I need to shave but I tend to drop it right before the bath. It’s like this nutrition program: I just had an Ice cream that I shouldn’t have had.  Let’s play Depeche Mode for this moment and enjoy the silence. There’s plenty of time for whining in words (written thoughts) specially during this story, a story nobody cares, to be honest. 

 

It was just the perfect opportunity, and I just wasted it. Why? Well, here I am: the car won’t start. It was like that since yesterday evening.  I made here to pick up my mom and then it didn’t start anymore. Two people came for help. The first one tried to start it. He really wanted to help and I just felt and feel graceful for it. If you hesitate of God’s existence,  think again. Unfortunately,  it didn’t work out. I joined one of these car companies that provides roadside assistance. They never came. I got a call from them at 1:00 AM. I saw it at 5:00 AM. I was already at home thanks to the second man who stopped by and tried to help as well. Since he could not get the car started, he offered himself to take us – Mom and I – home. Like I just said. God is there. I’m in the workshop now, but let’s go back a few hours. I texted my boss to let him know I was going to be late today (which I’m still, and I guess I will be for the rest of the day) He didn’t answer but I assume he got the message. I got to the parking load where I left my car, right where I picked up my mom yesterday. I tried again, maybe 20 times more, and nothing happened. I called for a tow service. The second one was the one who took me to the workshop I’m used to take my car. The guy there refused to check the car, he claimed they don’t do that, so he suggested another workshop, and we went, and there was no one there. I told my tow driver: I’m lost, I’m not from here, I don’t know what to do, Do you know some place where I can take the car? He made a call, got a number. I called, and here I am, writing while waiting. Unfortunately I didn’t bring any boo and it was actually the best chance for it. I’m going to leave my whole salary here. Taking care of a problem means delaying another, that’s how life works for me, for us, I took my boy in my arms yesterday. I took a bath with him, I started to cry, he started to laugh and that made me think about God again. I have one of his angels right in my arms, so hope came back again. Today I feel broke – I am broke – but this story is not over. For now, let’s just state that I wasted the perfect opportunity for a good read, but on the other hand, I got a good one for writing. I don’t think I’m going to have one like this for a long time, but who knows! I’ve written a lot so far, despite the fact that no one is going to read it, my son will, I know, so it will worth at the end. Let’s still wait and do what most people do in cases like this one: scrolling up and down on social media. 

Fourth page III

 

My little man is still sleeping. I’m loading myself up of hope thanks to him. And it’s real, you know! Today it wasn’t that bad with the deliveries. I had it in a good pace. Still cloudy, and raining. It’s a bit chill too. I’m on the floor, on the carpet. This type of apartment has a carpet all over the floor. So here I am, with my little man, which is climbing the sofa over and over while I watch him and smile. I feel like I want a glass of wine but my wife and I decided to take a break (it’s Sunday) but who knows, she just went to the supermarket. Let’s see. She came back empty handed. It's time for a shower. The walls of this apartment sound like there were someone else taking a shower behind them. They talk, from what I can hear. We never feel alone. Actually feeling alone is more prompted towards being with people who don’t care about you, rather than being by yourself though. Chill. Bad mood around. It’s Monday but that doesn’t make any different from whatever day. That has more sense back home. Tuesday: dark, chill, black coffee on hand. There was a store in my dreams. I don’t remember what it was it about. Still early. I thought I could have a bit more of something to state, or wonder about and writing it here, but I just remain silent in every way. I don’t know what to do. There is this strategic move I should be smart enough to make it, but it overwhelms me. It’s like it is further from my capabilities. I hate it. I hate hesitation from myself. I feel bad enough already when realizing I’m repeating the classic pattern of not being with my boy, only because I have to work. That’s enough from a punishment. Sometimes I think that if something ever happens to me, these words won’t go public. I’m halfway from whatever goal I set up in my head, but I’m not sure how long will it take me that other half. I guess I have to honor my roots, go public incomplete, and keep going with the flow. Going with the flow is actually what I’ve been doing so far. The flow has taken me to work more and more. The flow has me worried about the car and the debts.

 

Yesterday,  I just felt tired for delivering. I forfeited it. I felt more like going published and so I did: I started posting this tale. I thought at first that I was going to slow down this impulse I’m having for writing, once I get to post the first page, – or chapter, whatever suits best – but it turns out that I’m still on it. I want to keep placing our thoughts as part of this narrative. Dark; We better get used to it. From now on, every morning is going to look as it looks now, only colder with time, and it will remain so until next summer; not even next spring, I think. More black coffee then, and more clothes for having some time here in balcony: yes, the balcony.  In order to keep ourselves writing, light must be on. That makes us one of these yellow ships floating in the dark. Like the one I’m in front of, like the one whose silhouette I have wondered about. Two more I can see at the back. Two little ones I see coming closer; it’s a car, and then another one: people going to their jobs, or just parking outside, until the school bus picks up their kids. This is the type of complex with gate bars at the entrance, we get a special magnetic key to enter, and there is a sensor that opens it when coming out. It has its timing, I guess for safety purposes; it takes a few seconds to open up, that means we have to wait to go out. If it’s not six thirty yet, you will have a few cars on your way out from those parents waiting for the school bus. It’s better to wait until six thirty five. Anxiety doesn’t like that. Anxiety is always interesting. It is always good to bring up. Clear, it’s clear: dark, but clear, the lead voice is on the engines. We get this sense of factory, of production lines, while having a coffee. I guess working is always in our heads. I was talking about that yesterday: working is so present on songs’ lyrics, not like in my culture, that there are songs for not working actually. On the other hand, it came to my mind these guys from On The Road; I think they don’t work in the story. I don’t remember it well. That’s why I tend to refrain from quoting, since I may mix references. We better stick with each other here and leave the wise ones alone in their pages. Again, dark and clear with machine sounds. A Slipknot song we could evocate out of this sensing. The coffee is a plus, weather is not warm at all. Evening at last. Nothing special to bring up, maybe a couple of things to break down. Illusions pops as wine fades, my mouth tastes the last one while my mind plays with the first one. Let’s declare: better times are coming, despite the desperation. My boy plays with his pacifier. I wonder and realize in the meantime. Hope has its own language, then I smile. I forgot if I’ve ever mentioned it, but we live near the airport,  so every few minutes we get to see (and hear) the airplanes. When it’s dark, kind of like now, airplanes look more a bit like spaceships, or so I see them, and they add some momentum to this sort of symphony I whiteness every time I sit by myself in the balcony. If this were a rock song, the airplane passing sound would be the epic drum fill, like the one in Tom Sawyer. It doesn’t look that dark today. It’s a bit cold, but enjoyable. First break with no eating yet. I was thinking about the word break: it is so not our culture, just like this combination: go by. I don’t go by the standards you break down for me. I have my own way, and expectations will met in both. This would be the kind of sentence a machine translator might not help you with. I just checked it on Google, and it turns out that it actually works pretty well. I’m heading to the obsolete. Let’s get there in good mood then, it will be unavoidable,  so why worrying or getting mad, right? A gray rainy Saturday. It doesn’t seem to be a joyful day. Let’s see. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t, but real life tends to be less dramatic. I had a bit of wine. I didn’t feel like having more, not even as usual. One glass, one glass was fine yesterday. Today looks better out there. It looks more for a nice walk. It’s Sunday. Again, let’s see. Now that I live in an English speaking country, I’ve been getting more than I used to from songs and movies. I’m not going to lie, remember,  we meet halfway, but what I’m trying to say is, that although I don’t get to understand fully like a native speaker,  I get more every time, and that more is putting me in a position of – I guess – realizing that there are quite a lot of songs whose message is leant to express the feeling while high, or on something stronger. I have nothing against it, but it makes me smile from time to time when getting it. By the way,  there’s something I need to leave here. I don’t remember if I already had done it, but just in case, here I go: we need to work more on our capability to give space to our thoughts to flow. Thoughts need to flow. They need space. A good way to make that space bigger might be by reading more fiction, so we train our head to create platforms on which we can develop our stories, or whatever we may be getting from a lecture: the more, the better. A bigger space helps us get how tiny things can be and therefore realize that not everything, in fact; almost nothing, is about us. Two people whispering around, for example.  They might be talking about anything, not exclusively about us. That is important.  We tend to spend too much energy on others, on things we think they are about us, and that’s because our platform (if I can call it so) is not big enough to let those thoughts vanish on the oblivion. It’s like smoking in a closed bedroom. We’ll get intoxicated, and so will happen with thoughts. Let’s make them a bigger room, a bigger space. That might work as an antidote for the excessive scrolling – and depressing vibe – on social media. I made an experiment on myself.  Too many people having the greatest time everyday and every time… honestly,  that is just sad. Imagine the pressure we get to be under, that we have to share only good things. Imagine spending your day, looking for something great, something that may last no more than ten seconds, most of the times, in an attempt to marvel  several people’s eyes who just don’t give a fuck about you. And on top of that, living with the anxiety that comes out when others post nicer things. The never ending comparison match. 

Fourth page II

 

Breakfast for lunch. An hour of exercise earlier. It’s been a cool Saturday so far. Now it’s time to work. And it was fine too. I’m holding a glass of wine thinking that I’m going to take a bath with my son in a few minutes. I haven’t taken it yet, I’m about to, but I haven’t though. Sunday morning. Cloudy.  It looks like it’s going to rain. I think I’ve missed a couple of details: you see, with this obsessive-compulsive habit of scrolling the phone screen – because we just can’t (and don’t want to) stop doing it – it is very common for anyone to fall onto a monothematic stage, to a point of self limitation,  which is actually moved by the trends of social media. We don’t choose our topics, we remain inside a loop that keeps us repeating the two or three variants of that subject we probably were not thinking about, and perhaps, if having something to say of it, it wouldn’t fit with the previously established variants I was referring to. In fact this very writing is a proof of that. Then, back to the never-ending topic, I wanted to add, based on my opinion, that the change of the establishment, talking about the factors of power, brought up what we’ve been calling dictatorship. Why? And here’s my guess: a left-wing-like system will always be less democratic due to its essence,  which in my understanding, goes by the increment of rules from The State, to seize more control over the nation (and by nation I mean everybody else) The democratic appearance was given by the allegedly free speech from the media,  and the size of the industrial park. The new regime changed that. They reduced the industrial park by setting up a bunch of economic measures and procedures, forcing several owners to find abroad a place to work under more suitable circumstances. They promoted a series of new laws that made payrolls simply unsustainable for the private sector. In order to keep the nation going, the government had to sponsor pretty much everything in every aspect. That’s what they wanted, they wanted to be above the private sector. As an employer you weren’t able to let an employee go unless you had a reason that fit the criteria of the law. Such a thing is going get different angles, I know. But there is the undeniable fact that owners prerogatives were undermined,  making it subjected to question the worth of having a property, where sovereignty is not fully so. And I’m just cherry picking here. They wanted to control the currency exchange: a terrible mistake. It takes a lot professional analysis to make the world understand that phenomenon. I don’t have the words. I was just a victim like every single nor high range officials, or friend of those, in Venezuela. And those are the ones I wanted to mention in the first place: those people have found the best money and power match at the cost of the nation. In other words, we lost the country to make those people rich. Now what we have left is our disposition for a job in another country and make ends meet with it. The morning is almost over.  It's raining.  It’s been raining for a couple of hours,  maybe.  Schedule is set. I’ll be on duty in the afternoon.  Let’s hope the rain to stop then. In the meantime,  I’m having my son here with me. He’s sleeping right over my chest. I remember when he fitted whole,  that was barely two years ago. Now his legs are out, his arms are out, and eventually, I’m not going to be big enough to have him this way, so I just enjoy it while I can. There is a kind of synchronicity between the fan spinning and his breathing.  I’m always getting those type of sounds like they were the music of the world, perhaps not the world; that sounds like too big. Let’s say that’s the music of the environment, the environment I’m surrounded by. There is a beat and I usually tend to get it. Sometimes I think that we are driven by it and the fact that we can listen to it is a proof we’re not entirely on our own, and that there might be a chance that someone is setting that up to make us function somehow. Some other times I think that it is just my obsession to find songs anywhere and everywhere. There are times in which I think it is a useless capability, but once in while I think it is going to be part of brighter future. Once in a while I think I’m not going to remain poor, and that the things I’ve learned and thought may be worth to pay for, so I can teach my son a sensitivity to understand the world from there, and not only from social media standards. The sound brings words, words that acquire a shape to become a message,  a message that comes up to share it, because we are here not only to do as told, but to create and explore, explore the untouchable and make up our own language out of it. Only that it is not happening now. I mean, it is happening, but in my head, and it says there; there and in these words. Most of the time I’ve got to go to work. In fact I’ll be working in two hours from now, so I’m helping my crazy thoughts not to vanish in the oblivion, by keeping them here and whoever decides to give them shelter while reading them if ever get to it. Thus I have space to worry about my situation and work hard to get through it. 

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.