August 26, 2010
DIARIO DE ESCUADRÓN PATRIOTA, originally uploaded by orlandoluispardolazo.
August 24, 2010
(this time without visuals)
Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo
Fear was a literary attribute from George Orwell (there is no fear in Kafka, only suspicion) until the Cold War pushed and pushed to overthrow the totalitarian Iron Curtain.
In the calcified Cuba of today, among the digital copies of the film 2012 in every pirated video collection, a blow to feudal cellphones and internet, with the trumpet blasts of Fidel Castro certifying that only a nuclear holocaust would be a glorious finish for his Revolution, paradoxically, fear has ceased to be a genetic defect. Virgilio Piñerahas suddenly aged as an author, since he established his panic before his own Premier at the beginning of Utopia: I only know that I am afraid, very afraid…
But the Cuban fear today is hardly an oedipal justification. Pure paternalism behind a mask as comfortable as it is inertial. This, our features are more recognizable under the disguise: we are more authentic the more we are in character.
Fear is, also, a wildcard because the Cuban exile does not incite us, in Cuba, to go a step further. To blackmail them to they’ll respect our shameless bullshit. In fact, fear is a magic mirror to blame them a little bit for their condition as the Cuban exile, for abandoning us in the unsupported arena of the absolutely obsolete State.
What our nation is now living in could be the true Little Icecube War, a theatrical conflict whose script requires very little correction by the CIA and the G-2, because it is a perfect ruse. A great plot: a trap, this time, genetic. Cuban hypocrisy as a survival instinct recruits more agents than all the intelligence agencies. To abandon this mattress of marvelous lies is, at least, an irresponsible act of madness. The maxim of Saint Solzhenitsyn, back-stitched into the Declaration of Inhuman Rights, today would read in Cuba as: no one should be condemned to live in the truth…
In Cuba, only the foreigners still suffer from fear (perhaps the dead also suffer the myth): it is a reflection of their poor Eastern-European readings and Capitalist-Phobia of being left unemployed and losing a certain status. In questions of paranoia, culture advises: ignorance saves. In particular, left-wing foreigners are particularly terrified to contact dissidents in Havana: most notably the academic Yankee who, without the Cuban Revolution, as well the intuited Ernesto Ché Guevara, would have to kill themselves at the loss of their PhD scholarship.
Still less do the powers-that-be fear. Many are unaware that technically they are in power. They organize their more or less repressive roles and go on vacation until the disturbances of this or that summer pass (enough with the cops at the time of the billy-clubs). The nomenklatura ahistorically inhabits a kind of child labor that at times becomes heart attack labor. As an old class, they are the rearguard of the proletariat. Their fatigue is comparable to the fallen angels among the signers who never sign the next resolution.
Cubans simply don’t want to participate too much. They don’t want to be involved at all. The protagonist is branded a pathetic poseur. It’s the cunning art of the post-political. Perhaps a plot of zero calling. No one calculates what is cooking clandestinely here. Switzerland and Haiti, all already seething but without any racket.
For now, in the absence of constitutional democratic tics, such as a free press and other luxuries that the exile exhibits in the rest of the world, I guess we at least have the right to plagiarize Epicurus: to live in secret, very much in secret…
August 20, 2010
Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo
For August 13, the first ten years without my dad.
Since I was a child I’ve lived in a neighborhood on the outskirts called Lawton. I am the “only child of older parents,” the reason why we barely went to the city center.
In the ’70s Cuba held the First Communist Party Congress (it was already obvious that Fidel Castro would be an eternal entity), and, despite what they say now about that decadent and institutionalized decade, the truth is that I lived in a domestic paradise of two workers as poor as they were in love: María del Carmen y Dionisio Manuel, the best parents in the world.
I never thanked them for giving me the illusion of a childhood.
One day in 1978, they decided to take me to meet the rest of reality. We took several interminable buses and disembarked in our best “going out clothes,” right in the heart of El Vedado: the start of the culmination of La Rampa, 23rd Avenue and L Street (perhaps the L was for Luxury).
It was my father then, who prounounced it, while my mother held my shoulders, as overprotective then as she is today at 74: “Look up, Landy…”
And indeed, there it was. The mass. A needle to tickle the proletarian belly of heaven. A geometric design (distorted by my excitement) that, even to my 7 years, was the perfect metaphor of modernity: a new world, a new tone, a future ignored from our little wood house in far off Lawton.
It was the building with the bluest aura on the planet, whose only difference from the Hilton hotel chain of the ’50s was the sign that I read for myself on its snowy peak: Habana Libre — Free Havana.
We went in.
The doors opened by themselves. Under our orthopedic shoes, we caressed a pasture of carpets (I had to ask what these fabrics were called). The ceiling of the lobby rose in a dome miles above our heads. The light was nice, but nothing national. The voices of the Cubans also (no gestures or shouting). One breathed in the immaculate peace of this phenomenon always lacking, called air conditioning. The bathrooms were bigger than my house. My father bought a newspaper in English also called Granma and promised to teach me to read the exotic argot of the First World.
In 1978 I was suddenly happy in a hotel inherited by Real Socialism.
From 1978 I was also more and more unhappy, exiled in my own land in the hunt for the Unreal Capitalism of that close contact molded in my memory.
Architecture is, first of all, ideology.
When my father died, that tedious August 13, 2000, I wanted to leave him alone for a while in the ugly Luyano Funeral Home (a former site of the Socialist People’s Party) and visit our hotel for the last time. I wanted to cremate his body (even this was impossible in Cuba) and throw his ashes from the roof of the Habana Libre above the empty vision of a prisoner Havana. I wanted to jump myself over the city after my first 29 years of unlikely life (Fidel Castro was then the age my mother is now: 74).
I was left behind without having told Dionisio Manuel “I’m sorry” for many things, but, more than my indolence and his pain, I was left behind without having thanked him for the discovery of the blue at the corner of 23rd Avenue and L Street (perhaps the L of Liberty): a monument where the breeze of the future of the First World sneaks into Cuba.
August 13, 2010
August 22, 2010
August 22, 2010
Claudia Cadelo uploaded, very early, her photo of the accident at Fabrica and Lyuano streets at:http://a.imageshack.us/img826/4273/accidente.jpg. In recent days in August several accidents in Havana involved these large articulated buses.
[Translator’s note: This blog post is a reprint of a series or “tweets” from Twitter — which are combined here into a single text, slightly edited to be less “choppy.”]
It’s dangerous to have so much traffic, especially where the children and grandparents of Luyano live, a poor area where people live at street level next to the hot asphalt. Factory Street is very narrow and doesn’t accommodate so many large vehicles and the drivers go too fast for the area.
Hopefully the injured will recover as soon as possible. The causes of this disaster need to be clarified as soon as possible.
It’s been a black day for Havana and Cuba. Victims taken to the Calixto Garcia Hospital, according to what I heard.
The bystanders started to gossip and even joke, and talk about the black market, life resumes as soon as possible after the tragedy.
In the end the children of Luyano were hanging out the windows to see what was happening inside the bus; the police chased them off without much enthusiasm.
I heard the driver survived the impact but I don’t know where he was taken afterward.
Already the traffic is running on Fabrica and Luyano again, although I haven’t seen any P7 buses go by, perhaps it’s that it’s already early morning and the P7 only runs until midnight.
I also took some pictures, the bus left a terrible hole in the wall of the bakery that could easily collapse now.
In the end the State Security agents disappeared leaving only the police, and people began to film and take photos with their cell phones.
Relatives of the victims were severely affected, some going into shock or even fainting at the scene hours later.
There were apparently victims standing in line at the bakery, or standing nearby, thus the terrible confusion in the neighborhood.
The P7 apparently hit or was deflected by a truck and then was embedded in the wall of the bakery. Even after midnight people remained in suspense about the tragedy which involved fatalities to neighbors.
With the situation under control people are finally returning to their homes, with the news traveling from balcony to balcony. Sadness and misfortune.
It’s dark, the streetlight failed. They quickly brought in artificial lights. They are using a saw and a crane to remove the bus.
My photos are only from a single perspective and don’t capture the human drama, the victims, firefighters, police.
A Security Agent came and we talked and he almost took me away, but I eluded him, and continued watching from several yards from the tragedy. I went up to the balcony to avoid him. He asked for my identity card and didn’t read it. I asked him how I could help.
Then a young one came up and asked me for my license to be a photographer as if the street was the private territory of the rescue workers. The neighbors are in the street. Talking about the events. My immediate source of information. How to help in this tragedy? I tried to take photos. I see the stretcher bearers running in. Police are parting the bystanders to open to the street but it’s not happening quickly. Officers on motorcycles. Military in green. Police in blue. Civil Security. Two hours later the operating is slowing down. The majority of the wounded are in the hospital.
There are many corners taken over by police around the Enna Reforma Rodrigues Municipal factory and beyond. They won’t let you take photos. There is no press.
The neighbors are taking about mutilated bodies. Heads, arms, organs. Very difficult even for the specialized personnel. Families are desperate. Initial victims taken to Miguel Enriquez Hospital and others in Havana. Critical cases. The rescue operation is huge. They also have to avoid incidents and vandalism and disturbances among the people.
Later the Ministry of the Interior activates some kind of special system to help in disasters. They come with young civil defense people, and even high level people.
The neighbors are gathering around, chilling screams, crying, hysteria, panic. The first call was to police, fire and ambulance by phone. There was an impasse at the beginning because the magnitude of the accident was too much for the poor people, but then they were very supportive.
About 8:10 or 8:15, then it was on the TV news. Then they noted that the bus was completely embedded in the facade of the shop and also a family home.
In the shock there were those who heard the frightening crash and ran in all directions thinking it was an explosion in some factory.
The P7 doesn’t normally run on Fabrica Street but rather on Calzada and Luyano, but for some weeks its been detoured while Calzada is being repaired.
Terrible bus accident with the articulated P7 (number 758) at Fabrica and Luyano streets, almost 2 hours ago, situation continues difficult.
Corners of Luyano taken over by police and State Security. Neighbors gathering, talking of deaths. No photos close up. No signs of the press. Two hours later they haven’t taken away all the bodies.
Today, Saturday, August 21, 2010, barely 12 hours after a terrible crash of a bus into bakery, the Luyano Mortuary is full of the grieving families and neighbors in the area, as well as abundant military personnel.
August 21, 2010
Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo
Paid or unpaid, collaborating or not collaborating with technical and artistic professionals, what’s certain is that Cuba is getting along without TeleSur. Fortunately or unfortunately, save in certain “super-authorized” offices, in Havana there is no way to tune in to this great channel whose North is the South and which is supposed to unify the new dawn in Latin America. In telecommunications, Cuba remains in a continental twilight.
But at night a small breach opens in this so-called dike of our Bolivarian brothers. On an educational channel of TVCuba, Walter Martinez appears, summarizing what we Cubans wouldn’t know how to interpret for ourselves. Like a good teacher, or better yet, a nice literacy coach, Walter Martinez unforgettably marks the screen.
Moody and with the throaty voice of a soap opera Latin lover. Enigmatic light of a Hitchcock, terrifyingly anti-hegemonic. Intimate solitude of the magister revolucionarium on the set. And a media patch over his right eye (his mono look is from the left): irresistible symptom that we traffic in pirated information that, in any other way, would never happen on the Island of the Free.
Our WWWalter appears each night with a little of this and a little of that. He doesn’t let anyone talk, but it doesn’t matter: he is the polyglot or he works with a team of translators who move easily from Farsi to Korean to Guarani.
Walter Martinez narrates with objective anti-capitalism the bombings of the day. Democracies dragged down by the Marines. Yankee bases boycotted. Diseases created by companies. Floods caused by the First World. Apocalyptic accidents. Corrupt leaders. Misery close up. And so on and so forth from a shitty post-liberal planet.
A full hour of the Gospel According to Saint Walter. Cuba trembles at his feet, to the point where many change the channel to avoid the worst. Even the Roundtable show is more palatable, in neurotropical terms. Even the rebroadcast of the rebroadcast of some official speech.
The fact is that Walter Martinez is now our ambassador of ill-will and this deserves respect. He’s even spoken, as friend-to-friend, with the re-emergent Fidel Castro. And it wouldn’t come as a surprise of, sooner rather than later, Cuban TV assigns him his own interview program in the style of Amaury Pérez Vidal.
In my neighborhood I’m one of the few who sees, every night, this slice of censored TeleSur. I don’t do it to keep myself informed, which would be ironic, but out of sheer perversion. I have a hunch hat Walter Martinez doesn’t even see us as people, with his one surviving eye. I have the impression that Walter Martinez, in reality, spies on Cubans through the black patch of his empty socket.
He knows something Cuba is still ignorant of. And that is horrifying. It’s called the marketing of paranoia: Walter Mercado falls short faced with the predictions of Made in Martinez. In this effect hooks you on something for which there is no cure before the proletarian screen of your TV.
August 19, 2010
August 18, 2010
PROSPERITY AND KINDNESS: THE OTHER SIDE OF THE COIN of the Enlightenment Marti
HAVING studied in Cuba, in this world of relative certainties they built for us during the eighties, and having subsequently completed a course at the University of Havana, many doors opened in advance.
The fame of Cuban university graduates is recognized and praised, and not undeservedly, in any part of the world. The intensity with which we studied in those years in the High School of Sciences, might seem, to my Spanish colleagues today, excessive, stemming from a mythomaniacal mind — in this case mind — and I prefer to remain quiet about it. Even more, I prefer to silence the stoicism with which we studied; the skinniness of that time in which my uniform skirt was gradually, with unaesthetic tweezers, being taken in while my waist diminished. The years of that invention, surely ineffective, of yellow rice colored with Vitamin B pills. (I don’t know if the vitamin complex would be blended in during the cooking process, which surely would annul the benefits of the additive, or if it was added at the end like salsa, not exactly Creole.)
In those years, the Cuban pharmaceutical company began developing the Multivit, and as my brother had been lying in bed for a few months with an intense siege of something called “neuritis” or “beriberi” (or perhaps it was known with certainty what it was?) I ingested them with discipline and devotion. Vitamins would guarantee that my neurons would continue functioning, and thus I would achieve a high score on the IPVCE exam, and my access to university. The Utopia being developed in the image of space flight, allowed is to replace food with capsules. But hunger was stronger than humans and sugar water preparations were an effective remedy in such cases.
Also,I have to admit, we always had breakfast even if just a quarter of a bread roll, perfectly round and small, at times cut in front of us so we could see that the partition was fair, what we came to call “Marti bread”: “With all and for the good of all.” And at lunch, cabbage soup, the croquettes made with one “macrobiotic” (?!) pig which was distributed equally to thousands of students in the four units that made up the school; and for dinner the same again. It was as if we lived on air.
Instead, we survived expanding our vital intensity to unsuspected limits. We didn’t give up the marches, parades, danced, field work and study. We resisted and asked the body to withstand double sacrifices: that we wouldn’t faint and we wouldn’t fail, that our fevered heads about support our projects and goals. The year 2000 was ours, and we were building a better and more prepared society. No doubt.
Wasting away was the quixotic ideal of the revolutionary left, the intellectual dreamer, the vanguard of bohemian transgressive. The belly would distinguish from the hoarding and pedestrian bourgeoisie of the refined aristocracy; it was, from the time of Cervantes’s text, the symbol of baseness and ignorance. As the gentleman tells his squire: “I, Sancho, was born to live dying, and you to die eating.” To live dying, to die eating, a pun too well-known by Cubans and sung as a hymn of war.
The Revolution leased out, by dint of food hardships, this well codified semiotic. In those years, the belly could be the footprint of a diversion of resources, illicit enrichment. Today it is the corporal mark of bad nutrition, the return of bread, rich sauces, while anorexic Europe boasts of its defatted food.
I remember on one occasion, we were promised that the semester’s pig would be given to the most outstanding group of the school for their members to have a party and invite their relatives. To promise this in 1993 was like announcing a day in paradise with a round-trip ticket. The group chosen was ours, after we had excelled in all the challenges of the competition. And days before the fiesta they canceled the invitations to our families — because only the city fathers would have the privilege of attending — and bit by bit we they were gilding the pill until from that pig we barely saw the croquettes. Faced with our protests, the director shamed us, “Arguing about a plate of cracklings!” and adding, “The true revolutionary does not live to eat, but rather he eats to live.”
I swear I repeated that phrase many times as a talisman against gluttony. And I searched for it in Marti’s work without finding it, until one day I found in The Miser by Molière, with an erudite footnote that said he was a Latin adage: “ede ut vivas, ne vivas ut edas.” In the play, one of the characters, Valerio gives Harpagon cooking lessons on how to make a dinner with little money: “We have to serve things that one can eat just a little of and be satisfied at the beginning… Some good beans, a little cake with chestnuts.” Infallible method: A plate of black beans!
Instead, the phrase of Marti that can be read in every Cuban classroom was that which prescribed what the purpose of culture should be: Freedom. To be educated is to be free.
Culture and freedom are terms written in determined contextual repertories of the Marti maxim, anchored in an ahistorical eternity, signifying almost nothing. They are two of the most productive concepts inherited from the control technologies of Modernity that, established as absolute, have obscured the ideology through which such signs become operative. The Enlightenment belief supposes a free will anchored in knowledge, but today we know that just “knowing” is the domain in which we are instituted like predetermined subjects, and that free will has ceased to be, long ago, a tangible possibility.
In any case, following Foucault, culture is a space of intervention and resistance — where the micro-physics of power is exercised — precisely because it is the network where systems of social identification are built. Freedom, in contrast, is, however minimally, that moment of resistance, of permanent tension that makes us constantly moving, as subjects, toward the absolute but always unattainable aspiration of power: the immobility. And as we move, we cancel the perfect definition.
The resistance — and the freedom — in the present moment we are living, strictly speaking, or primarily, comes through the resistance of the body. I am not speaking of official resistance, that asked for in exchange for collapses and massive holocausts, but the daily resistance, the only way to guarantee a minimum of freedom, and that includes, as strategies, the bazaar, the black market, improvisation, the scam. The search for alternatives to finding ways to live and parallel or compensatory happiness. To resist and resolve. To resolve to continue resisting. (Seen like this, the culture understood as erudition doesn’t guarantee, in the national terrain, any liberty. Other type of culture is imposed to manage to survive: the “struggle.”)
In the article “Traveling Teachers” from which the Marti precept is extracted, the idea of a human telos directed toward satisfying the desires of the body — the previously mentioned “live to eat” — is also repudiated: “Most men have slept on the ground. They ate and drank, but did not know. (…) Men are still eating machines, and relics of their worries.” Indeed, if we reverse the sentence it would say: when a relic of worries — among them, and critically, lack of food — torment man, he becomes an “eating machine.”
The obsession with the lack of food was what made us talk all day about impossible foods and sign in unison at the movies faced with a succulent scene. In Paradiso, the food leads us to a huge spinning mill that we barely dream faced with the appetizing proliferation of ingredients and dishes that mingle in the “gossá familia,” this metaphysical orgy in which entails all pleasures. Our table, small and dingy, no long assuming an enjoyment that promises a long-lasting, detailed tasting of unexpected combinations: new species, new textures and rhythms of swallowing and, what is most regrettable, no longer reconnects as the purest of religions: it does not encourage conversation until that state of light in which the dialog fills the ear like a crustacean fills the mouth. Colonel Cemi said, around the laden table: “The pleasure, that is for me a moment of clarity, presupposes dialog. (…) Without this dialog we’re invaded by a sensation of fragmentary vulgarity around the things we eat.”
With anguish, I recognize in Paradiso the mirage that counteracts the radiant poverty of Lezama, the real hunger of the writer, as Reynaldo González remembers in the program of Amaury Pérez, “With two that is wanted.” According to González, when he took his piece of meat, he went to the house of Lezama and sacrificed it in feeding not just the “spirit” of the teacher.
It happens, however, that we return to Marti’s phrase that combines culture and freedom to comment on a serious sin of omission. The phrase, in reality, is a kind of syllogism with three indispensable propositions that concatenated: “To be good is the only way to be happy. To be educated is the only way to be free. But in common human nature, one must prosper to be good.” Or, and it’s the same thing, prosperity would be the basis of this ethical edifice in which, after reaching well-being, one could be good (and, thus, happy) and learned (and, thus, free). “And the only way,” Marti continues, “open to continued and easy prosperity is that of knowledge, cultivating and taking advantage of the inexhaustible and indefatigable elements of nature.”
Close the idea, and return the role of knowledge, in this case, applied: culture is associated in its etymological sense to cultivate, fertilizing prosperity through work and the effective enjoyment of the goods we possess. This would make us prosperous and, again, free and good. (Marti, in turn, does not advocate that the farmer abandon the furrow to become learned; that the fields be filled with the invasive marabou weed while the minds are cultivated, but that a kind of “traveling teacher” goes to where the workers are, offering alternative knowledge.)
That goodness is related to prosperity (the bonanza) is not a contradiction — as revolutionary ethics almost always claimed, confident in the formative value of misery — though neither is it an a priori. But individual fulfillment offering prosperity (and not exactly for the well-being involved, but for the process of finding well-being) might make us better, but this feels like something out of a self-help manual.
We remember that the word “prosperous” comes from the Latin properus-a-um, endowed with the prefix “pro” (forward, in favor), and the Indo-European root spe. The Latin word spes (esperanza – hope) contain t same root. Etymologically “prosperous” means, then, going toward the expected, or as expected. Prosperity is the favorable course of an action or performance the success of a business and no, necessarily, an enrichment that embarrasses of discredits the owner. Rich, or wealth, however, come from the archaic German riks — the origin of the word reich — and have the Indo-European root reg (rey — king — regent); which means that in this case, the link between Power and peculiar seem to be contained in its origins. Villagers could never be rich — nor the farmers Marti refers to in the cited article — but they could be prosperous.
What my present colleagues don’t know is that the learning itself came to us with blood, or better yet, with hunger, and when we had to read so many books it helped to forge us as philologists, lying on the bunks of the dorm at F and 3rd with barely any toast and some tea in our bellies.
To have studied in Cuba was a real privilege. To have been a student of brilliant professors who throughout my life tried to make up for what the body lacked with the illusions of culture. They also gradually grew thinner; some seemed to expire after the lesson and continued to cling to their barely paying jobs. I remember our joy in some “little jaunt” we would have coincidentally sent some professor who never traveled on, so he could “recover.” On his return he told us proudly he had saved a lot of money and so was able to buy some books that were needed for the Department. And in fact, he might have gained a few pounds, barely changing his usual clothes, from some used clothing store, just like ours.
Today, much of what I owe to him, is not my enjoyment of the letters, but my quixotic taste for teaching (hard-fought labor, as everyone knows, with wealth, but not necessarily with prosperity), is not on the faculty. And I’m viscerally sorry that the students don’t have the opportunity to know the lean body and feverish agitation of Salvador Redonet; the almost mystical consecration of Ofelia García Cortiña; the folksy simplicity of Amaury Carbón,with his white, almost transparent, guayabera; the strength of Nara Araújo, full of farewell projects, and others many of whom have died in recent years, in full harness. Or the clueless genius of Beatriz Maggi, the stoic resistance of Teresa Delgado, the humility of Lupe Ordaz, and so many others who have retired or withdrawn from the institution. To their classes, one had to go, even when all you’d had to eat that day was a packet of peanuts bought from the nearest seller.
Now, I don’t know if with the plan for “emerging teachers,” some child could appreciate, in twenty years, the education received and the initial stages, the most important. I don’t know if the mere fact of having studied in Cuba will continue to be praiseworthy. I don’t even know what the motivations are that today drive young people to study: I suppose they are not the same as they were for us, or perhaps better. I trust that the profession that formed you could be exercised in society and that, once you have reached competency, it opens the doors to you to reach the necessary and earned reward. The prosperity that, according to Marti, would make us good and happy. That which does not conform with an old norm in which one has to decide whether to feed the body or the spirit.
August 11, 2010
Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo. Reports from the horde on the ground.
Claudia Cadelo. Leaders of an alternative revolution.
Eduardo Laporte. I do not know what the dogs have.
Melkay. The best selection of the world.
Wendy Guerra. Between Perseverance and Virtues.
Ivan de la Nuez. The Near East.
Reinaldo Escobar. The scope of cyber-dissidence.
Emilio Ichikawa. Paper and screen.
Jorge Ferrer. To write a Cuban blog (Decalogue).
Yoani Sánchez. That one will never return.
Antonio José Ponte. A childhood without comics, an adolescence without pornography.
Juan Abreu. Pissed / Anal bleach / Nyotaimori.
Miriam Celaya. Open letter to the BBC.
Maikel Iglesias. Pinar del Rio City.
Jesus Diaz. Requiem.
Luis Marimon. The death of Yumurí.
Mirta Suquet. Prosperity and goodness: the other side of the coin of the
Miguel Iturria. Martí: spirituality and political manipulation.
Ernesto Morales. The happiness of the long distance runner.
Ena Lucia Portela. Hurricane.
Dimas Castellanos. The limits of inaction.
Yoss. Close but far away: the universe next door.
August 6 2010