Sick of the TV and last night's encourage and disappointment.
Sunday, 11/14/04 - 10:17 pm.

I hate the fuckin' TV. I hate it. My brother turned it off at 12 o'clock, and he didn't turned it off until 4. In all that time, I had lunch, I worked on the computer, took a nap and welcomed Irene and Victor, who were here to work on a research.

They left at 6, when queer eye for the straight guy was beggining. I watched that, and then I had to sit through three disgusting hours just to catch the old performance of The Beatles, 40 years ago, on the american music awards.

Now my dad has taken over the tube, and is looking for a movie. That's two more hours. I am so sick of the TV, of that loud background buzz. My only hope is that my dad will start falling asleep in 20 minutes or so.

I wrote this last night, when I came home from the vigil. It was ok. My friend Ern was remembered during the mass, and we ran into my brother's ex-girlfriend. It's the first time we've seen her since they broke up, so she was crying. She got a big haircut, and I remembered that saying "out with the old, in with the new" (I hear it often on queer eye, and I've realized that show isn't as banal as it might seem...they take many elements from psychological therapy). I guess her old haircut represented her relationship with my brother.

Anyway, here it is, what I wrote after I came home last night. Good night.

I cry for november the 16th, around this time...or maybe later. I was only four years old, but it hits me so hard, so much stronger than anyone would believe.

They'd laugh at me if they knew I cry for that.

I've gone to the Garden of Roses twice or thrice. I'm not strong enough to go there often. There's one for each victim, planted where the bodies were found by the gardener the morning after. And he also found his wife and daughter inside the house. I stared at the roses, and my mind faked a flashback: combat boots violating the university at midnight, one hand knocking violently on their door, while the other one held the rifle.

He opened the door calmly, my brother had explained to me.
Didn't they know they were coming for them?, I asked. They could've escaped.
They knew. Very well.

When you do the things they did, you just know.

I wanted to cry on the way back home tonight. It weren't my feet what was killing me. My dad was so hopeful, but I was so disappointed. The children that were raped and then burned alive are something that can be easily forgotten with a cigarrete and a bunch of drunk guys that'll be your friends as long as you have alcohol.

[at the vigil, I saw people, MANY people, more interested in booze than in the crime of the jesuits, and that saddened me endlessly]

On the way home a ten year old approached the car when the light was red. He was begging for a penny. Sorry, I don't have any, my brother said, visibly ashamed. Only later I remembered I had some snack in my bag, and I wanted to go back to the kid and give it to him, along with a hug (I bet he's never had one in his life).

There was a man in rags, sleeping in a porch, on the concrete. He had his hands between his legs, trying to warm himself up. Useless, considering this is the coldest time of the year.

Our Father, who art in the streets, they started to pray at the mass.

I felt like crying during the mass, many times. It was moving and encouraging. But it was disappointing, too.

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