Caridad’s Diary

Last night I was visiting at the home of one of my co-workers. We had some coffee with cinnamon and suddenly — like out of a Hitchcock film — we heard a piercing scream. The woman of the house had discovered a “bruja” in her bedroom.

About two months ago Frank proposed that I work along with him in a made-for-TV movie. I’m not an actress or anything close to that, but the proposal was to do the still photography.

That is the private world of my neighbors. They have stopped being themselves — if at some time they ever were — to enter the lives of characters who they have in front of them, those who appear on TV or on some DVD

Up until last week, several of my friends were waiting for the final outcome of the national volleyball team in one of those championships. I like volleyball, but it’s all the same to me if the Cuban team wins or not.

To be a rock fan in Cuban society in the 1980s was like being the son of the Devil, or of God. It was all the same thing; at least for my parents it was all the same: God, rock or the Devil.

Not having one’s own home or money to rent one usually complicates relationships even between heterosexuals, but when this is the case with two women, it becomes all too comical.

“What are you coming back here to do in Cuba?” That was a question I was asked the night I arrived at Havana’s Jose Marti Airport after almost a year in Venezuela.

My neighborhood in Cojimar is about eight or ten blocks from the sea, that’s why I can’t speak about the sound of its waves, except on rare exceptions when bad weather causes the salt water to get inside the houses built closest to the water.