Notes from Cuba

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If I wasn't so lazy I would have written this story a long time ago. I wanted to write it many times. I'd see something like boys playing marbles with an intensity completely disconnected from their crumbling surroundings and go frantic for a pen and paper. Halfway rummaging through my pack of bic pens I'd think, 'naw, i'll write about it later.'

Later is a staple of this place. The bus will come later. The restaurant will get another delivery of food later. The power will come back later. Later is the handshake of this country that seals every negotiation and surrenders any ambition.

When we first arrived we were speeding through the dimly cast streets in an antique Russian Lada headed towards political billboards cursing the U.S. Government. The yellow and black faded car was cozy with the seat springs wiggling their way out of loosened leather seams. The cracked windows amplified the rumbling diesel engine . The exhaust heavy like that of a boat motor. Turning to eachother, we agreed on the smell and the nostalgia associated with boating.

The long field slowly tightened. The palms and agave were replaced by concrete apartments. A slight roll to the left. Izquerda my mouth practiced saying. We careened beneath the blanket of overgrown fronds, aroung the stoic monuments, and into the dark city frozen in it's antiques, rot, and unbelievable life. (to be cont.)