My mailbox is filled with Christmas, with a strange Christmas of consolation or despair: theories about the “evil”—as I have ended up baptizing it—that afflicts us.I have received messages from the total political-ideological spectrum; some justify themselves—writing me seems to be a major step in taking a position with respect to the national situation—and they send me weird messages for third parties who don’t have time, or who fear, to answer.
Luckily the crowd of anonymous dialoging strangers is not what inspires me, rather it is my friends: my friends and I—scattered, confused, confident, desolate, far away, frightened and alone—trying to save our ties, to find a point that would unite us in the consciousness that from so much wanting to be one has become none.
My friends ask me but I have no answer, they advise me but I don’t want to hear, I explain to them but they misinterpret, they love me but I cannot hug them.We have been Generation Zero, the lost, the Y, the post-revolutions, we all have done nothing.
We should be the monolithic block that immortalizes a revolution made by mortals, however the density was so high that it ended up exploding into atoms over the whole planet: the Generation BIG BANG.We dispersed in a projectile that wasn’t even ours: without Guilt, without Answers, without Faith, The Children of Fear and Distance.
My friends and I tried, GMail knows how much we tried, but we ended up diluted in the turn of the century and guilt… Christ, Fidel, Or the Year Zero?We discoursed about conscience, the market, and geographic fatalism. Nobody knows but for us—children of disinformation—the world is theory and speculation, what is the antithesis when the thesis doesn’t exist?My friends and I are the personal universe, the return to subjectivity, to introspection, to life experience as the height of knowledgeWe understand each other by halves, tolerate each other with tenderness, and do not agree with each other because, deep down, we each speak from the laughable desperation of feeling ourselves to be the last Cuban.
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.