I saw it on here maybe 6 months ago. It was about sending his gf home to her abusive father and him sending her back to him with welts on her thighs.
I want to read it again for some reason and wonder if he expanded it at all.
Pic unrelated
Looking for a passage written by an anon
father with hickies on her neck*
Fuck sorry
Hey anon. That was me lol. Can't believe I caught this just before it slid off the board.
It's funny. I've been wanting to write a book about those travels since I experienced them almost a decade ago. Kept on putting it off. Maybe I'll start now. Never thought anybody would notice, or care.
Do you have some kind of email? If it ever turns into a full length book I'll send you a copy.
Passage in question:
>When I first moved to Argentina I ended up falling head over heals for one of my students, lets call her Maria, a beautiful 17 year old from the village. Her father was actually a successful inventor, he'd created some heating mechanism for commercial cattle farming in areas with subzero climates, and had made a lot of money off of it, but ended up losing everything in a corrupt real-estate scheme involving a crooked judge and provincial politics. Typical rural shit. He was a complicated man, and whenever I would send Maria home with hickies on her neck he'd send her back to me with bruises on her arms and face. The poetry wasn't lost on me, and I found the tragedy of her family history and the deep black wells of melancholy in her eyes extremely erotic.
>Anyways he ended up as a carpenter and a heavy drinker and was given a small chunk of land by the local Peronist chapter in exchange for him and his families unwavering political support. Considering these were the same milieu of people who scammed him out of his land, I always thought this was a bit sketchy, but Maria was an ardent Peronist so I ended up attending all of their political rallies in order to have an excuse to play grab-ass with her when she wasn't handing out guiso and pamphlets. The speeches were always rousing, and the Peronist party itself a fascinating example of populist politics done right.
>When Maria wasn't attending rallies or at school, she worked at her families food stand, a small burger and pancho kitchen set up next to the highway. I was always following her around like a love-sick puppy in those days. So on the night of the election I was there with her brother and some mutual friends from the local highschool. When they announced that Macri (a Columbia alumni, as luck would have it) had won, a whole caravan of Frente para la Victoria supporters got in their cars and paraded around the town, honking and waving Argentinian flags. Argentinians, as a rule, don't easily discuss politics (although you can usually tell by looking at their soccer jersey, Boca being FPV supporters and River being Peronists), so this spontaneous outburst of partisanal pride was rare. Maria's brother slammed his hand down on the table in disgust and shouted "callate, hay gente con hambre aqui", which he was quite pleased with and got a chuckle from everybody.
>It wasn't until later, when Macri assumed power, that I understood what he meant. Previously most food staples were held under strict price controls, once these were removed milk, eggs, and beef soon became luxuries for the poorest Argentine laborers. Hyperinflation set in not long after that. Some days I would go to the grocery store and prices would have increased by 30% overnight. The Kirchner government wasn't perfect, in fact it was extremely flawed in many ways, but it provided a comfortable standard of living for everybody. Argentina still hasn't recovered.
These are some fragments I wrote years ago:
>Being unaccustomed to the intense heat of the Chaco, my life consisted at that time mainly of sickness. Often a walk too long in the sun would result in large blood and puss oozing boils breaking out all over my skin. Once at infected boil under my armpit traced a dark purple line which traced a vain along the whole length of my arm until it reached my palm. I was sure that I would loose my arm, and even after several cycles of antibiotics. it left me unable to move my fingers properly for several weeks afterwards.
>Somehow I didn't care. The heat, the sun, the brambles which surrounded the small municipality and the lazy going ons all produced a profound apathy towards everything. Maybe this is what kills me. Tant pis. Tomorrow will be just as hot as yesterday, and the day after, and the day before, with me or without. It's the long periods of security and comfort that really get you, that let the echoes in your head reverberate until they're jangling in your ears and burning every nerve in your body.
This I guess would have been the opening, I was pretty young when I wrote it so it's a bit amateur-ish. Definitely need to do some revisions...
>When I was young I had a mind to see the world with eyes wide open. To travel to far off lands. To taste and touch and hear and see wonderful things. And experience every sweetness that life offered. To learn incredible secrets. To know beautiful women. To understand the world by throwing myself into it without once turning back or looking away.
>It was during this youthful fever that I found myself living in Argentina for several years, in the northernmost province of Formosa, where I sometimes worked as a substitute teacher. It's a strange land, Formosa. So flat that staring out across the chaco gives the impression of being looking out on the ocean, without a single mountain or even hill in sight. The sky is bright and warm, full of gold in the mornings and red in the evenings, reflecting the heat of the plains. When it rains, the sky dumps all its contents at once. In half an hour you're standing in water up to your knees watching the clouds part. Before the rainstorms, the lightening. Storm clouds, like dark mountains moving high over the earth, which rumble and flash with power, before letting down not a single bolt but an entire column of light and lightning, lighting for precious seconds at a time the whole horizon with the intensity of sunshine. During the dry season it is more common to see small dust tornadoes, which wind slowly up empty fields and dusty alleyways, breaking windows and flipping over chairs.
>My job consists of teaching two english classes is the morning. On tuesday and thursday I stay after school to help a student suffering from short attention span, but the rest of the week I have the evening off to observe the senior girls volleyball practice or walk along the costenera and smoke and watch the boats go by. Once I went to see a race there between several speedboats. It was one of those humid kind of of days that sat on the city like a hot damp rag and lasted well into the early hours of the morning.
how did you find the job, if you don't mind me asking ?
also, where in formosa were you staying ? i'm currenly living a very similar life just across the river, in Paraguay, and your writing resonates a lot..
It was through the American Field Service. To be honest I wouldnt recommend them, except as maybe a resume builder.
I was livng in Laguna Yema. Its a tiny town, with maybe 5,000 people. Nice place, if you ever get the chance you should go.
>i'm currenly living a very similar life just across the river, in Paraguay
Asunción? Always wanted to go to Paraguay, never got around to it. The culture and history is very similar between them and Formosa. Seems like a beautiful country.
Used to have a spiral notebook that I wrote in fairly often, I know there's more fragments and memories written down there but currently don't have any way to access it.
If it ever turns up I'll post some more passages. It covered a couple formative years of my life, 2018-2019 I think. Lots of good stuff in there.
Actually going through my old writing turned up a kind of creative writing/short story from years ago that turned into a copypasta for a while. You might enjoy it:
https://archived.moe/lit/thread/13835549/#13837200
and starting at:
https://archived.moe/lit/thread/13835549/#13840296
>That's the long and short of it. Some facts omitted, some distorted. In the end, I find it hard to refute the pessimists. Life is best experienced from a distance. Misery is all around, and for all my whining I've escaped relatively unharmed compared to most of the people I know. If I'm smart enough to quite while I'm ahead, to keep my head down and avoid commitments. Happiness is inside me, I tell myself this because I've seen enough of life to realize it won't be found anywhere else.
>Now I'm comfortable. I'm attending a small community college in a different state. I study as many languages as I have classes available, and history, and read literature in my free time. I will start work at a nearby bar soon, which will allow me to fund my studies and have the bare minimum of social interaction required for sanity. Beyond this I hold my breath for nothing. What would "enjoying life" accomplish? Melancholy, a constant chasing of desires without cessation or end.
>I don't know if you read my story or not. It doesn't matter. It was nice to type it all out. Nobody knows these things about me, just bits and pieces. Most of myself I keep to myself. Now I can return to being nothing. Maybe someone will read this and find some wisdom in it. Maybe it was an enjoyable story. All of it is lies, invented on the spot. Now I'm tired. I'll sleep. Tomorrow I'll be someone new, someone fresh, but I'll still be reading and I'll still be writing.
> 2018-2019
I was in Argentina at the same time while Macri was being elected, and I think it was more like 2016-17 when that was happening.
You've got some nice writing there, btw.
>I was in Argentina at the same time while Macri was being elected
No shit anon, which part? We would have been there at the same time. The notebooks I'm talking about started a year or so after, and cover two years of my life, but they have a lot of reminiscing and reflections of that period.
And thanks, I appreciate it.
Oh shit thanks bro! And thanks for the bumps. Randomly waking up at 3 with a hangover just want to reply before the thread dies. Email [email protected]
I forgot the girl’s name is the same as my ex but it is good, I will have more to say later on when I have time.
Just got to work I have a few minutes. I think the style of this betrays a perspective that is inspirational to sensitive masculine personalities. Its pessimism is a type which comes from someone who isn’t nostalgic for a life they haven’t lived, but mournful of a life which they did leave. In lit terms it isn’t incel pessimism but comes from one who is likely handsome and charismatic, but whose positive characteristics have lead them to experience the real world in all its grotesqueness and disappointment. It seems to me like the voice of someone who is more intelligent than average yet not an intellectual/nerd, who loves and appreciates beauty, but who is all too aware of life’s and their own shortcomings. It is a masculine kind of pessimism which doesnt complain and is not overly sentimental. Perhaps I’m projecting, but I’m just trying to get out how it feels for me to read it. It isn’t masterful but it is good and the perspective is perfect in my opinion. It is closer to celine than Houelly. I am going to incorporate this into my own writing.
Live not leave sorry my heads in the clouds today
Thanks. It really means a lot that someone out there enjoys my writings. Ill send you an email later today when ive got a bit more time. Really appreciate the words of encouragement
For sure, looking forward to it
OP again. The second link especially shows that your style and talent seem pretty consistent. You should write a full novel, man. I would read it at least.
Bumping for OP before I go to bed.