Dead people don’t say what they feel, and they don’t allow others to. They’re the people who don’t grasp that we can be dead by inaction, by disillusionment. A person who expresses themselves out loud is alive. Nor do they fear death; to the contrary, they cling to life and fight for its betterment.
At first I thought that they had trapped a pickpocket; then it seemed to me that perhaps the woman was shrieking at one of those people who take advantage of any uproar to touch us where they enjoy it most. I found my spot at the end of the line, and for lack of anything better to do while waiting for the bus to arrive, I searched out an advantageous spot to find out why the woman was screaming.
No, don’t get scared; I’m not going to ramble on about the collapse of the socialist camp, or the love-hate relationship that we Cubans have with the Russians. I’m speaking of an emblematic site of Cuban geography located just to the east of the capital.
He changed jobs a lot, none met his expectations. There was only one thing what was constant. His brother who lives in California sent the family a video camera. This was his happiness. Cameras here cost a lot; so a person who doesn’t have family abroad or doesn’t travel cannot acquire one.
Livio walks the streets weighed down with depression. He drags his feet as if he was hauling his own body, but he’s so thin you hardly notice. When he comes up to you, all you notice is his energy.Livio is a poet who lives in my Havana suburb of Alamar, a fine poet. He has been left all by himself.
Our young rockers return time and time again to G Street Park, which they share with a number of police officers who are keeping close tabs on the fans. The officers look at the youth with faces wondering “who are these strange kids?”
In our city, youth are as dissimilar as they are in any other country, no matter how much the propagandists insists on dressing them up as all having the same likes and outlooks. But the most insufferable occurrence always has to do with having a good time.
A female friend, tired of fighting with her family to make them understand and accept her sexual orientation, decided to marry. The chosen groom was my boyfriend. At the time he wasn’t comfortable with his life at home since he hardly had any privacy.
The Cuban Friendship Institute (ICAP) used to maintain an apartment in the majority of the buildings in the Havana suburb of Alamar for lodging foreigners, almost all Latin Americans. However, Building D-22 was completely occupied by neighbors from outside of our normal environment.
I don’t know how it all came out, if they ended up in a fistfight or if the conflict stayed confined to aggressive words. Luckily, the moment came when I reached my bus stop and I walked home with the desire to read a story I had written years ago.