As the communists fuck us we, therefore, also fuck them Today we have paid the famous 600 peso fine with 5 centavo coins (means) or about 12,000 means, the result of a collection gathered by the independent libraries and contributions from friends. They were duly counted by the “poor” workers at the Control Center for Fines in Playa. At the start we had a bit of a problem with them because they probably didn’t have much to do with the motherfuckers at the justice system and at State Security, but after one of them called the police they didn’t give us any more grief. The officials apparently were not informed about what was going on and limited their work to their “soft” routine, asking for ID cards, writing down our names, saying not to take photos, etc… fortunately they didn't have to make the work “hard” with baton blows, breaking some cameras, and putting “tout le monde” in prison. In the end it must be hard to be a nice cop (I’ve never known one); imagine having to comply with all kinds of stupid and unpopular orders and being the most hated person in the place. I think it would have been better if they had helped to count the means, but maybe they don’t know how to count, I don’t know. So between the clink clink of the 12,000 means on the table, the stares of the cops and our jokes, we spent an entertaining afternoon here in the entrails of the monster.
This is an excerpt to a version of the song, Epitaph for Vladimir Visotski by Karsmarski Jacek (Polish dissident songwriter), which includes Ciro Diaz in his latest album, The Blue Slug, that I listened to compulsively for at least two months, especially on the street with my mp3 inherited from a friend who now has an I-pod. (Download the lyrics here) (Download the recording and album cover here) The song (in summary, which runs about ten minutes) is about a desperate artist going through the circles of hell in search of an answer or death, and at the end of his journey there is only loneliness and the weight of the supreme power above himself. So I found myself at times catching the bus across Havana at 12 noon in August under the perennial sunshine and with the distressing feeling of not going anywhere, or arriving too late, or going for pleasure ... I feel that I have already arrived at the eighth enclosure (this is the finale of the song) where there is nothing, and I feel useless and empty, and I look at people without faith who walk along the street and who have so much fear that they no longer know they're afraid, and who have seen so many Roundtables and so many news broadcasts that they no longer know what belongs to reality or just to the TV screen. They cannot discern that they no longer believe, but cannot disbelieve either, and just move along past me not going anywhere.