infosoldier.com

This will be a cheerful post, I promise. There's been too much doom an gloom here lately.

And the next one will be completely technical... But the one after that? It's a secret!

I wish I had gotten one of those Amazon partner deals (you know, sell out). Because I'm gonna tell you what I'm watching, what I'm reading, and what I'm playing. You know, trivial stuff. With not a hint of political stint.  read more »

Writers should learn writing, by writing about what they know. And I will write about working in the government of Puerto Rico. There will be a certain negative connotation to the tale. An yet, negativism does not represent me. Rather, the negative feeling you will get is the very same thing I try to get rid off. My writing, and your reading, providing perhaps some needed catharsis, some healing process that I need to get over in order to go on with my life. I've taken some artistic license by subtly interweaving fact and fiction. The following paragraphs may not reflect what is, but rather what it feels like...

I work for a major government agency. This blog may very well be taken for an excuse to get myself fired either consciously by the agency or unconsciously by me. But I warn you, it isn't. I just want to do the best I can, but it seems that isn't possible right now. The conditions at work don't lend themselves to that...

The morning commute to work is sometimes light, more the often heavy. Ironically the later I get out of the house the less time I spend in traffic. Everyone's got a car; it's a necessity.

After weaving and woving my way to work I have the luxury of picking a parking lot, mainly because of the people that have "left". I go inside, mark the time. I've officially arrived. After an hour of frantic traffic a maze of cubicles greets me.

I sit on my chair. I mean the chair that belongs to the people of Puerto Rico which I am allowed to sit in. Too many government employees mistake the tools they use for their property. I believe this to be one of the causes for government corruption. When people start thinking "this job is mine" or "this computer is mine", they tend to think they can do anything with that property. Anyway, to my left, and to my right, more cubicles; in front of me another row of cubicles. All of them are empty.The light fixture overhead flickers and dims. Flickers and dims. A small lizard can be seen through the translucent plastic. It has been there for months. It hasn't moved for weeks. It's dead, Jim!

Perhaps it's a sign... Perhaps it's me... And all the while, the light flickers and dims.

Time passes. I lose track of it wondering where it went. When it went. I see no one. The telephone rings. Startled, I look frantically for it in the deserted space of my L-shaped cubicle desk. I pick it up, my mind at the ready, and assume business-like speech. People still remember me, they remember I can help.

I do. I advise how to tweak that piece of code, or that configuration file. I tell them how to get rid of a nasty bug, or how to troubleshoot certain hardware. And afterwards, ever comes the question, "What else are you doing there?". I avoid it as best I can. They know... I get up, it time for the coffee-break. And I remember, before I came here I never took one, not a single one. Now, now it mandatory. Not because I'm told so, but because my mind demands it. Not the coffee, it demands that I get away from my cubicle for ten minutes. It wants to get away from the small lizard that doesn't move, and from the flickering light.

I get coffee anyway, wondering when the price will go up. And then... I just blank away

I return to my post and make my weekly reports, trying to convey that I do work. I feel guilty.

Time passes... But I make no effort to grab it. I exchange a joke with the clerks. My mind quickly snapping to attention as I try to be funny and do the intelligent joke, intelligent. It's almost time for lunch. The light flickers... Mightily it tries to be steady, but fails.

Lunch time is a highlight. I sit with people both funny and bitter. Mostly, we don't talk about what's wrong. We mock each other with jokes and engage in verbal jiu-jitsu. But in their eyes I see they despair. Is it because they work here?, or is it this modern illusion of civilization that we live in? We joke and laugh nonetheless. But inside, deep inside, we don't know ourselves or we deny ourselves. The truth, as they say, is too hard to face.

Once lunch time is over I return to my cell. I remember the interviews where they told me what they expected me to do. Something grand,exciting, full of responsibility. They aren't here anymore; the plans lost in the wind, the words stirred to dust and left to dissolve in the rain.

I start to engage myself in a personal project. I have open-source applications that could save the government millions. I work on my own web sites and apps; a CRM application, an web-based event management database, others still in their infancy. But I don't go far, it is forbidden to use paid time for personal stuff. I start; and just as quickly I stop. I don't dare to break the rules. I construct a tale in my mind. And I hope I don't forget it by the time I get home. I look up, but there is no god to watch over me. Only the flickering light. Flickering madly now, as if in warning.

...get out now! get out now or despair!... ...get out get out get out... ...get out now, or else...

I'm my mind I am strong. I make my resignation letter, polite and professional. I leave with my dignity intact. But alas, life is not like a movie and the end is not nearly so happy.

Also, I am a coward...

I leave finally. Broken, dulled, filled with despair... I absorb the pain. I must not let my family see. My pride demands that I hold like a man. Like a what? But surely no man exists that lives like this. I am no man.When I finally reach home, after another hour and a half wasted in traffic, I sit down again. I've sat for the better part of a day but I force myself to do so again. This time it's for me. I write and post and furiously publish. I hope...

That someone will come along and understand, just like the flickering light...
The information soldier waves the white flag...
Filed in: PuertoRico Government Fiction RandomThoughts Writing

I'm dismayed. The media outlets related to the USA discarded puertorican independence activist Filiberto Ojeda Ríos assassination at the hands of FBI agents as: "a shootout" and/or a "gun battle". In my mind, when I picture "a shootout" or a "gun battle", I see one or more groups of men engaged in a firefight. But the truth of the matter is simpler... We will never know.  read more »

I'm just another one of those "colonizados". I don't know nothing about patriotism, nationalism. I know even less of the fight, such at it is, for independence here in Puerto Rico. I'm getting mighty curious, however. If you've read this far, I guess you would want to know why...

Today I learned that Filiberto Ojeda Rios was murdered (ain't no other way of calling it, really) by the FBI.

Let's call strikes, strikes and balls, balls; as they are:  read more »