My dad went in search of THE book and never came back

My dad also dreamt of writing books. One was enough, he would say. With one book, all would make sense. One day, he went in search of THE book, and never came back. I would have preferred if it had been a pack of cigarettes. Clichés make me feel warm and cozy. 

On which I become productive. Well, sort of.

I have it! I can't believe I forgot about my life-long dream. Writing a book. That will productive. A book about… About… Hum.

I will get back to you on that one.

Who would have guessed accomplishment would feel this empty

-Change my old Razr phone for a blackberry or iPhone and tap inane notes on them continuously and manage (love this word) my… hummm… agenda.

-Subscribe to all new media and technology feeds and pretend I read them.

-Subscribe to FourSquare and pretend I have friends going places with whom I can network.

-Learn to knit my own black sweater.

-Learn how to paint nails properly as to look polished with perfect manicure instead of slovenly slut with chipped nails.

-Learn how to look poised so people will think I’m reliable and offer me responsibilities I don’t really want.

-Beg and bribe to become a contributor for the college paper despite being a foreigner.

And my favorite:

-Go to vernissages to network and feel artsy, therefore, becoming a full-fledged (and accomplished) poser.

I just made a list, which many sites cite as the fist step to a more productive life. Hurrah! I finally accomplished something!

Hum.

Who would have guessed  accomplishment would feel this empty.

On being more productive

So, talking about being productive… I’ve being doing some (productive?) research. From the more than 17 million hits on the net about How to Be More Productive, I come to the conclusion that  “Writing advice on productivity” should be tip number 1—although it’s mentioned in none of the million lists.

I am followed therefore I am

Sometimes I get despondent and feel that I should be more productive with my life. I never thought in those terms when I lived in Venezuela. There you are supposed to survive first (no easy task, let me tell you) and then eat, party, go to the beach or protest against the government… or protest against people who protest against the government.

But here, it seems life is measured in achievements.

And when I contemplate my life in those terms, it falls short. More than short: like really, really short.

Even if I put all the books I've read in one huge pile.

Most of my friends write at least one lovely pretentious blog where they explore deep and intellectual stuff (and contribute to another dozen), they then tweet about what they wrote and rehash it once more on the dozen profile pages they manage. And, of course, they take classes like “How to become a brand.”

For them, "followers" and "likes" are the measurement for achievement.

I have none (OK: 2, but they're good friends and follow me out of pity.)

Worst.

I want none. What is wrong with me?

"You are 19” Uncle M tells me. Yes. I agree. I’m 19. But so is everyone else… and look at them!

A single thought

—So why are you single? I ask Marta one long, boring afternoon we spent spotting artists-wannabe in Washington Square.

—Because I want to, she replies calmly, not defensively like most single chicks no matter the age.

Crap. One of the few women trained at birth to master The Rules, and she doesn’t give a damn.

A child of The Rules

My friend Marta is a child of The Rules. That’s how her adventurer-Spanish-mother-to-be caught her Jewish New Yorker husband. She has told Marta the story 100 times. And when Marta said to her “But you were from Spain? They don’t have Rules there!” she answered, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” Which I guess means, “If a city is full of neurotic sheep-like morons, you must act like one in other to catch one.” But is it really worth it? Becoming even more of a moron in order not to be the only moron alone? Marta certainly thinks so. Her fate (and birth) rested on it.