There's a beauty that certain people find in failed journeys. Some people object to bullfighting because it's an unfair sport. It's not a sport. It's a tragedy. And anybody who's pulling for Romeo and Juliet to make it and have dull kids with physiques like slave traders on acct of all the pasta they guzzle down---nah. I'll pass.
The boxing championships are done. And I'm glad. Six hours a day of it was too much. But I've only got another 10 days over here. And I don't like that it's on my mind when I'm bumming around.
This town has a magical ability to get you away from yourself. It doesn't blow you away into somebody else exactly. But there's no self-consciousness here. People move differently. You know how you walk when somebody you love holds your hand, or how you sing when you don't think anybody can hear---even though you'd never dare sing like that even with somebody you were in love with---that's every day with these people. And even though I know I'll never get that---not by a mile---it pleases me alot to know humanbeings still do that. And it's everywhere. And sometimes it's like the whole island, which is shaped like a crocodile anyway, got carried up like a kite in a sky so blue it hurts to look at it and somehow a helluva lot of people have smiles like they've got a hold of the string back down here. It breaks your heart a little.
Ernesto Lecuona was the name of that composer I heard while I was put on hold. I called back twice more and listened to it some more. First time in my life I called somebody I knew wasn't there just to be put on hold. Even there ON HOLD music has charm. Mother fucking Cubans.
I guess disoriented people... and I'm certainly one... admire so much ANYTHING specific. Even quite brutal things like bullfights, or boxing, or Cuba. Even to back a dumb thing feels safer to me than riding a fence on anything. I think Enya and the Enya-crowd should, for the good of humanity, be exterminated. And very very slowly. Some bars play it over here and if ANYTHING makes me subscribe to capital punishment...
But it's time to go. Very quick. Time to go from Cuba to my favorite Cuban. Cubana. And see how that plays out. She knew that composer just from how I described his music. And everything else down here that gets to me. And it scares the fuck out of me. The joke is to reiterate as many times as possible... NO CHEMISTRY, NO CHEMISTRY, NO CHEMISTRY. But then it wasn't a joke when I asked if we'd be okay if I came here. You'll forget me. No I won't. Yes you will. But I didn't. I didn't even really mope, either. And the slippery bit about it, when I get over there to see her... even if it goes to shit or she gets scared or I do or whatever calamity---I can't regret for a second meeting a girl who made trying to find one down here ridiculous.
Which is a wee bit strange. There is something kinda special and pretty about a shipwreck. How else does anybody really describe the feeling of getting to know this place? All 2nd hand info. But then it just feels like home at some point... I wish I knew why.
10-4.
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