Everyone around does it. To burn it is a pleasure. Smoking recovers speech hijacked, first by the country’s despotism and later by their own paranoid personalities. Smoking they fornicate (the smoke blocks them and forces them to look themselves in the eye during pleasure). Smoking founds their mercenary Made-in-USAID projects (according to the official press). Smoking founds the future. Smoking God ceases to be an abstraction to materialize in the peace of the Almafari. Smoking they are off-key or they film (sleepwalking but never zombies). Smoking they hope for the Hollywoodesque end of the world by 2012, but pleased (and with eyes paradoxically red) that it would conform to the end of the Cuban Revolution in 2012.
Cannabis cubensis. Sweet hemp of dreams. Sepia smoke, dry and sharp. Coughing. Laughing. Zero vision of Messiahs. The most adulterated sting in the world. If indeed it’s not just guinea grass dried under the unbearable island sun. Who cares. The effect is the same. Life. Desire of wanting to do something. Anything. Resistance. Lucidity. Outraged dignity. Significant intimacy against mindless collectivized tedium. To be free at least during the biochemical arc of human respiration.
The Cuban State panics. Its machinery has a long tradition of ignorant laws and irreversible repressive mentality, which make up that which they have called our nation. Traffic. Contraband. Consumption. Of the articles and the lost years of countless young people in a jail that will corrupt their bodies and blunt their minds better than any molecule of marijuana.
Everyone does it in the years zero or two thousand, but all know themselves a priori guilty (in the archipelago CUBag it is cost-effective: to criminalize each act of personal choice). Nobody dares to publicly assert their pharmacological rights. No one sympathizes with his neighbor’s joint. And prosecutors’ sledgehammers take pleasure in handing out hysterical sentences against people not only perfectly normal, but most often the exceptional individuals that Cuba will need come the inconceivable event of a change.
And then, probing the ancestral political opposition remnant on the island, we finally find something in common with Corporation Castro. If the defeat depended on such denouncers, there would not be a single inch of denationalized farm in Cuba where one can grow ganja tomorrow. Like the ministerial generals, everyone swallows the exquisite imported toxic alcohols, so they are not interested in approaching this volatile phenomenon, even from the theoretical point of view, much less if it is a practice of poor blacks and the self-assertive (we are not deluded, the policy on Cuba will continue being high-life and masculine and white in perpetuity).
And then, the corruption of the charges against the most vulnerable (and protesters unfettered (and without organizations of three sad treasurers)). A piece of burnt paper may be sufficient evidence before a court that operates out of conviction. The odor detected by a police dog may be enough. The testimony of a pimp or his prepubescent whores can detain a healthy parent as a repeat offender. Our prudish historians should also translate this legacy of hypocrisy. That heredity itself is a melancholy defect. Whoever tries to escape the inheritance will be picked up like garbage in a corner of the pale Cuban dawn. It is called governance (the system does not need subjects, only shadows).
When will Cuban intellectuals be encouraged to launch a debate that is not corrective like those of CENESEX with(against) sexuality? When will the Cuban media confess their feudal drowsiness on a topic that still triggers such sharp views all over the planet? When will Cuban doctors freely read medical books on cannabis? Who will tell the victims of our bloated legislation? Who would hurt the lives, caged gratis for lighting a trashy joint or planting a common shrub in the yard. From where does the water get to hemp? Who will un-bell the ganja?
December 1 2011
