Dispatches from Cuba – #1-7.9.15

DSC_0245 I’m sitting on an old chair as comfortable as the heat here in Trinidad. I’m drinking another Cerveza – a term we all know just means beer in Spanish, but  the way the word feels on my tongue is as satisfying as the liquid itself, while the English word sounds and feels like the consequence of too much of the stuff – and I’m waiting until I feel like writing. The Cervezas are going down quickly in a hopeful rush to beat the heat away, and to lessen the wait. I’m thinking about love and purpose; I’m momentarily unsure I’ve got either, but I know that regardless, the idea alone is more potent than these warming Cervezas, or the Daiquiris I’m going to have when the sun sets (and leaves behind just as much heat). I’m wondering what I’m doing here, and admiring my blooming tan, thinking I would never leave if I could stay.

Being alone and almost drunk gives the air a quiet that lets the stale water, sewer run-off, horse-shit, burnt dirt, petrol fumes, rusted metal, and fresh paint, mixed or masked with fresh flowers and fruit everywhere, the poise to make my head hurt – or again, that’s the drinking and the heat. I’m thinking how poor I am, how lacking of options I am, how powerless I am, then I can only see myself yelling against a din of counter voices in this poverty entrenched country. I’m wondering if all the knowledge I’ve pored over, distills the insecurity about true, crippling inabilities I have in all areas of life that matter most to myself. I’m thinking that no revolution has ever worked because they never last past a generation. The new breed feel distant from their parent’s revolution and yIMG_4453earn to make more changes and more mistakes, while those oldies opposed to the revolution step forward with ginger limbs and manically wise eyes to proffer a fresh take. All they do is change back to a system that seemed less chaotic, yet change feels like movement, because sometimes it literally is, and everyone loves a movement, some movement, your movement over here, to the rhythm of the beat in the sunset light. Oh, baby, ah, yeah yeah yeah. I’m thinking that I’m here to quell the discomfort of turning Thirty in a few days, and that it’s time to get back to the streets for something to drink.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s