13 06 2010

A specter is haunting Havana. The Phantom of Havana itself.

Now that the State is pecking Havana-Countryside around the capital, the city at night is blurred, ethereal, strange, a little Artemisia-urban and a little Mayabeque-rural.

People unconnected to places leave to breath the prison air of this city with a 3xKilo economy.

The feel the edge. They sit on the edge. They go to the wall, the shabby wall that contains the other side of the sea and, incidentally, the so familiar specter of the United States.

While the State moves the political prisoner pawns, the little citizens of gas fade into the landscape or the rusted place of the post-revolutionary night.

I also go out into the streets. They are utterly unfamiliar to me. I am the penultimate Cuban who doesn’t cheer up, not even when el Morro goes dark.

This Havana refers to the village taken by the English, a party of edgy whiskeyless whores with cracked carbines in their colonial crotches.

This future fossil Htmlavana 2.0, no frills, of repressed shooters never brings her work to a close.

This village vilified even for this long-standing lack of God.

So, overwhelmed to turn to home, exchanging taxis and buses like an impossible metro map.

Finding with great difficulty my wooden house at 125 Fonts in Lawton.

My mother snores the nightmare of the just. She’s beautiful in her 74 years. She looks dead.

A phantom corrodes Havana. The phantom of Havana.




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