Text of "diploma": On the occasion of the 40th anniversary of the Directorate General of Counterintelligence and in recognition of the personal activities and results in completing the tasks of State Security.
Taken from the Saga: The Ciro versus State Security
Now there can be no doubt… we have always been deceived… Tell me if this document, extracted from the ultra secret archives of the G2, isn’t verification. In the same folder we found this photo and to top it all off we have his confession.
The fake Ciro Javier Díaz Penedo worked as an undercover agent since 1978, the year he was born. He was assigned to spy on himself and inform about his own activities so that his superiors could indicate what actions he needed to take against himself. Thus he informed State Security about his own concerts and other counterrevolutionary plans.
Claudia Cadelo and Van Van don’t exist, they are the same person: The Ciro. Take a good look at the size of the posts of this Claudia person and then look at VanVan’s, they’re the same length. And absurdly (don’t forget that little word) antagonistic, never agreeing on anything.
So this is how this charlatan tries to deceive us but he won’t manage it because I am here. Me, The Ciro, who has searched out all this evidence to expose myself publicly. And I want you to know that I’m not going to stop until I kill him, even if it kills me.
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.