16 02 2011

CUBA, CORAZONCITO ROJO Y ROTO…, originally uploaded by orlandoluispardolazo.

Spanish post
February 14 2011

6oices v6ices vo6ces voic6s voice6 voices6

15 02 2011



6oces v6ces vo6es voc6s voce6 voces6, originally uploaded by orlandoluispardolazo.


From Havanada, mon amour….

(Includes unpublished dossier on The Body as Resistance and

Insubordination, as a tribute to the Cuban political prisoner, Orlando Zapata

Tamayo, on the first anniversary of his Martyrdom.)

Translated by: T

February 14 2011


14 02 2011

14 February 2011

This Is Not the Novel of the Revolution (8)

13 02 2011

(… CHAPTER 8 …)

Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo

She meowed.

On the other side of the shutters. A tame meow, muted. In an almost human language.

She meowed several times, scraping the porous and thousand year-old wood from 1910.

2010 just ended and she wanted to come in. That was her preferred way of slipping into the room, always at the break of dawn. Meowing to make herself visible, to make it clear that she was sleepy and cold, to reclaim that she was in her feline right, that she was herself and no other promiscuous cat from the neighborhood.

She meowed several times and waited with silent courtesy until Orlando would stand over the bed and open the shutters. Black and white, skinny, over-exposed and in high contrast, neorealistic except for her Manga-style gaze. It was she. Vasumitra Superstar. The same cat Orlando had claimed years ago when she was barely a fetus, a baby soaked in car grease, her skin half-eaten alive by leaf-cutting ants.

Vasumitra Superstar. A collage of a name that meant nothing specific. Two words taken from the night shift of the Chaplin Theater by Ipatria, two words meowing from the start in a garbage can at the entrance of the Colón Cemetery.

Vasumitra Superstar. Among the flies and the trash behind the Institute of Cuban Cinematographic Art and Industry. Among rolls of films with fungus, revolutionary outtakes tossed from the ICAIC archives, and tetrapaks from the dollar pizzeria at Zapata and 12.

Vasumitra Superstar. Then, simply, Vasu.

Orlando stopped above the bed. He released the latch on the shutters. Vasu entered without greeting him. This once, he didn’t caress her from the top to bottom of her spine, as was his morning custom. And the two fell immediately asleep, warming each other with the paired circulation of their blood.

Asymmetric hearts. Purring lungs. Successive sprays of salbutamol between sleep and dream. The racing heart of nightmares. Nails shredding skin and sheets. Vasu’s telepathic whiskers shortcircuiting Orlando’s unintelligible beard.

She meowed. They meowed. Then there was a silence without genus, transhuman.

Then it was nothing. The digital tic-tac of the cell phone, inaudible. Nokia of the night on the nightstand. Mute neurons liberating their sea of molecules and forgetfulness. Rude flashes in an unmixable combination of species.

Unheard of mammalian genetics. Uncivil Darwinism.

Orlando Superstar jumping on four paws from the flight of stairs above the French tiles of Lawton, making love to screams of savage pain. Vasumitra interrogated for hours in a National Revolutionary Police station, without understanding well those meows from Lieutenant Colonels Ariel and Alina, catlike secret agents of the G-2.

Translated by: JT

February 13 2011

This is Not the Novel of the Revolution (7)

13 02 2011

(… Chapter 7 …)

Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo

Dreams of death. Dreams of shit. Political nightmares of statelessness.

Close your eyes and open your mind. Crack the skull. Dreaming does not cost anything. Dreaming dreams of a Havana deserted of Havana.

White matter on the sheets. Semen, brain, liquid, gel and associations of anticoagulant ideas.

The reality is diluted in unreality. The Revolution is absorbed in its own rhetoric. The images are unimaginable. And they hurt. It hurts even when they no longer hurt at all.

It is not necessary to inhale the spicy and always adulterated smoke of the sweet hemp leaf prohibited by the current Penal Code and a Socialist Constitution in perpetuity.

It is not necessary the frothy jar of mold jug shit by Cuban livestock. Nor bell-like flowers like girls’ skirts with caterpillars pedaling in their twats, suicide girls with petals and pistils and pollen instead of a penis. Cliterature. Shaman girls. Amen, Om.

It is not necessary the disposable needle and yet invariably contaminated with HIV. Human Imagination Virus. Death can be another dream of freedom.

Orlando dreaming dreams of death on the bed. Dreams of shit through the blinds that are blades to chip the early-bird sounds of his neighborhood and city. Lawton, Havana. Political nightmares of the too much country that never was. Cuba, America. Short circuits of synapses beyond State control. Cheap oneiterature.

Sweating, naked.

Tension joints, tetanus muscles. His body tries to sleepwalk. His knees are shaking. His face grimaces. He breathes badly, through his mouth. Havanitosis called dyspnea. Worse dreams the exorbitant orbits under his eyelids. In the neck, a cold that is pure lack of solidarity. REM of the Revolution. It’s called delirium.

Orlando delirious sleeping. His temples on the verge of imploding.

Dreams of Cuba, of course. Dreams where the island turns until it sinks in slow motion or is the sky spinning out of control, the stars tracing rabid circles of light in the nerves of his collapsed retinas. Orlando is in a state of shock. In a State of shock.

Dreams with Fidel, indubitably. There was a time when every dream was filtered by the sacred pentagramaton, founding work of the Cuban calendar and the rest of our vocabulary. VoCUBAlary. Everybody now:  Gimme an “F”!   Gimme an “I”!   Gimme a “D”!   Gimme an “E”!   Gimme an “L”!  What does it spell?!

Orlando no longer knows what it spells. His lips move and he hears everything in the dream, but he would not know how to say what the star says, the star of five blunt letters and even a gun, olive-gray uniform and telescopic sight and post-comandante degrees.

Dreams with his dead mother who of course still has not died. Mother and Revolution eternal. The contemporary bodies of María and Fidel. The fear of old age in both. María praying in the church in Lawton, Fidel behaving viciously in the Plaza of the Revolution. Childlessness in both Mephistophelean mummies. Orlando doesn’t recognize anyone in the dream, because it is precisely these two who are his last acquaintances. María who gives birth to Fidel. Fidel who is aborted by God.

Dreams with JAAD far away, so close. JAAD mirage, JAAD generation of writers who calm neurosis with pills, prizes, passports to think a little less of our sex every day. Pleasure rotted in lack of soul. Orlando who doesn’t remember the game of these gone acronyms of another century already. JAAD.

Dreams with Ipatria close, so far. Ipatria hopeful and ill, Ipatria truly alive and beautiful pixelated if you try to name her as if there were music in pronouncing her syllables. I-pa-tria. The madness of a trainload of electroshocks in the basement with cockroaches in the loony bin, while a mediocre technician sticks a gloved finger into the dry depths of her vagina, and then she laughs and asks softly with Ipatria eyes, please, no. Orlando his throat also dry in the dream from too strong a desire to kill or be killed.

Dreams of love. Help me, help him. Isn’t that sufficient? Enough.

Dreams of the exquisite corpse of the Revolution. Do not let him keep dreaming, do not let him go, do not leave him, no.

Dreams of his fucking death, while Orlando asks them meekly with sleepless eyes from within the dream, please, no. It is sufficient, but not enough.

Translated by T and anonymous.

February 9 2011

Pigeon Blisters

13 02 2011


Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo

With no eyes (the preferred organs of sacred sacrifices). With a gag of a stick inserted in her beak (reminiscent metaphor to executions in Cuba). Crucified (historic prank that no beast except for man in a savage state would commit). Exposed on a street post like a public menace (as a feathered Christ, and no less defenseless and innocent than the original mammal).

There are moments when being Cuban leaves me with a death void in the chest. If we are capable of this against a little pigeon, what wouldn’t we do as a people against other people when Armageddon (Arma-G2) descends on Cuba?

I take a look around me. No one gives a fuck. I repeat this to scandalize the prudish censors of the Internet, like Eduardo Fontes in his lieutenant-colonelism auditorium of the Minister of the Interior. A fuck. No one gives a fuck in this humiliation of hate crime of humanity. Not one policeman in the neighborhood would have the guts to touch this spell, to show any pity for the corpse. Not one Public Health technician will protest on the basis of hygiene, nor on the psychological impact on children who will now see all this wickedness, as it rots up there.

The Cuban political police should be censuring this kind of act instead of cornering the emerging beauty of freedom of expression. I wonder what would have happened if someone had drawn an innocent graffiti with that pre-deluge word: FIDEL.

Please forgive me: I am insulted. I don’t know if this little bird was bled to death in the name of a god of hatred. I don’t know if some hominid drank its blood to save himself from cancer or to curse another hominid. I only know that our anthropology is criminal. Low-down. Abusive. With no democratic or educable future. Full of fear and—especially—full of shit. Dictatorial to death. Another half-century of vile violence still awaits us. Trust me. You will see.

I once wrote a love poem to a blonde girl. Rhymed verses, as it’s the norm when we lack the air to break the rhyme. Her little bird—a parakeet, also yellow—had just died. It dropped dead out of sorrow in its cage, a week after its adored blue bird lover died of distemper. It was 2007 and my blond girl-love was also dying of sorrow. We buried the desolated bird in a little soulless park at Alamar, the so-called Hanoi, and it was like burying ourselves alive. We had no strength to go on. We were both exhausted from rage. We would have to die to be reborn many centuries later. Or even never again. But that minimal act of posthumous pity for the little yellow bird had left an open door to hope in the midst of the sickening barbarism of the “camel” buses—also yellow—and almendrones, the fat-almond-old-cars, shared taxis for twenty pesos and people with not one pinch of love.

We were not people with not one pinch of love. We had lost even that last pinch of love, which at the moment seemed to us (but it wasn’t, at all) much worse. Sad little bird that D loved….

Today, like all the impoverished citizens of Cuba, just like you yourself without going any further, Landy arrived late to the holocaust of the pigeon. I walked through that stinking corner with dilated pupils to check on a retinal hypertension. If I did not have it yet, I caught it right there, in front of that unbelievable urban Golgotha. Motherfuckers. Blood filled my brain. I repeat, and, please, someone send this line in a comment to the blogger crew of Yohandry Fontana or Eduardo Fontes or anyone like them: Motherfuckers.

Forgive them, Pigeon, because they know very well what they are doing. And more. They know very well what they—those bastards—will do to us.

Translated by T

February 11 2011

Manny interviews OLPL in El Lugareño

11 02 2011



Manny entrevista a OLPL en El Lugareño, originally uploaded by orlandoluispardolazo.…

February 11 2011