Blog dedicado a la redacción de escritos, en su mayoría originales. /Blog focused on original writings mostly
miércoles, 20 de marzo de 2024
HIdden
martes, 19 de marzo de 2024
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.
jueves, 7 de marzo de 2024
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.
miércoles, 13 de diciembre de 2023
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.