The Tears of Things

World War Pink

by The Tears of Things

The banner above (update: here, now) may seem lighthearted, but to us it reflects an infantile reaction to dark, dark times. Pink is pale comfort. All of those screenshots (and many more besides) were taken after Hezbollah started launching their rockets. Catherine's original title for this whole series (see the sidebar), which began around a year ago, rings more true than ever:

It's Not A Rose-Colored World / And Wearing Pink Won't Make It So.

Unfortunately, there will be more to come.

. . . And The Reek Goes On

Okay, maybe next week. Or the next . . . Photo taken July 22, 2006.

[What follows is an update to this posting.]

by Jerome du Bois

Told ya, told ya, now we gotta scold ya.

From today's Arizona Republic:

DOWNTOWN - The Bentley Projects, one of the city's prime examples of downtown redevelopment, will remain closed at least through this weekend.

Big surprise!

The city shut down the historic building last Friday because of concerns about the building's safety, including serious electrical and structural problems and exits that are not clearly marked.

"We aren't going to be open this weekend, but we are working with the city . . . moving ahead as quickly as possible," a Bentley Projects spokesman said Thursday. "We've been able to get permits for some of the work the city requires."

Who is this spokesman, and why is he hiding behind, as the cliché goes, a cloak of anonymity? And if they have been able to get some permits within a week, why not eighteen months ago, when they should have? I'll tell you why: because they didn't think they had to bother. They thought they could shine the city on.

But the downtime is taking its toll on the business owners at the complex at 215 E. Grant St.

"We're losing sales every day," said David Strang, manager of the Poisoned Pen. "That's a tough one."

Brother, you asked for it; now you have to eat it.

Strang said he has events scheduled for the coming week and hopes the bookstore can open by then.

"We really don't know," said Anne Sobczak of the Development Services Department. She said city staff members have been meeting with the owners and their contractors every day this week.

Every day. Talk about special treatment. So the DSD, which probably has a lot of other work to do, must cater to these spoiled brats, who apparently couldn't find their asses if you gave them a mirror on a stick. "Listen carefully: this document is called a Certificate of Occupancy. Repeat after me . . ."

Mayor Phil Gordon said the Bentley Gallery is a "great asset and exactly what downtown Phoenix needs . . . We'll be working diligently to make sure they open as soon as possible without sacrificing public safety."

I guess Bentley Dillard --or sometimes Bentley Calverley, it depends on who you read-- got on the horn to the mayor, who obediently stamped out this boilerplate. Why should the city be working diligently? It's the gallery which should have done its due diligence before it opened. Again, they thought their cachet could carry them. The mayor may be impressed, but the inspectors see past the shine.

It wasn't until the owners applied for sign permits last year that city officials noticed that the building did not have a certificate of occupancy.

No matter what city officials "noticed," and when, the point is not to see what you can get away with; the point is protecting your patrons. Jeebus, even the Ice House, another "historic" building, manages to be in compliance with city codes. If they can do it, so can Bentley Projects --and should have been, for the past eighteen months. Instead, every time they hosted a party there, they put the occupants at risk. They could have used some of the $3500 they charge for each event to get up to code, but instead they used it for other things more important to them than public safety.

La Pionera And The New Mango, Part Two, Section 11: Cristobal, Cristina, and El Chismorreo

by Jerome du Bois and Catherine King

[Mantis here. Cristobal Ybarra-Castañeda (Guillermo Gorgojo's cousin) operates a mobile tienda called Cosas Pequeñas (Small Things). It is a 1955 Ford half-ton pickup, with a camper shell which has been converted by Balthazar "Zorro" Roa from Santa Clara. One aluminum side opens up horizontally, like sideways double doors; the upper part becomes a canopy and the lower part a counter. The interior is faced in pegboards and shelves, his inventory hanging from hooks, with small boxes filled with other items crowding the floor. Every morning he drives it to his usual location on Varela near Zanja in Central Havana, sets up shop, then closes it up at night and drives it home.

Cristobal operates his business in grey-market style. He buys, sells, and trades only small, portable items, including jabas vinyl, candles, light bulbs, lighters, matches, pens, pencils, paper, toothbrushes and toothpaste, bicycle tires and patch kits (he lends cyclists a hand-operated bicycle pump), nails, screws, and hand tools. Some music CDs and cassettes. Bicycle wrenches. Kitchen utensils. Small knives. The inventory changes all the time, from tweezers to toothpicks. A portable gas generator mounted on the roof of the cab can be fired up to power a machete sharpener. He also refills lighters from propane rechargers for a fee. By a special arrangement --bribery-- with the local CDR leader, he operates without interference from the local authorities. By agreement with the CDR, and to keep the Ministry of Health inspectors away, he stays away from medicine, food (except for some juice in a small cooler), coffee, and money changing. (There is a printed sign to this effect always hanging under the counter.) He accepts both pesos and dollars, which is illegal. But several factors keep him in business: he is honest, he keeps a low profile, he performs handy services, and he can drive away any time there is a march for El Maximo, or a large tourist infusion, or a neighborhood sweep of inspections. The CDR, who tips him off to these incursions, accepts only dollars, of course. And Cristobal is a big man, protected by his counter and several hand weapons hidden under it, so nobody tries to rob him.

Cosas Pequeñas is an excellent place to listen in on el chismorreo --la bola en la calle-- the street gossip-- since people come from all over the neighborhood to see if he might have what they need, or to offer him something for sale or trade, and they almost always end up talking awhile. But because his operation is not a state-sponsored commodity venue, he very rarely has a line of people waiting. At the beginning of the year I snuck into the shell one night and placed two microphone pickups disguised as large rivets on the inside roof of the tienda. What follows are excerpts recorded on Tuesday, May 31, 2005.]

[His first visitor, who arrives right after he opens for business, is Instituto Superior des Artes (ISA) student Nelson Prieto, a regular customer.]

Cristobal: Hey, que bola, art student?
Nelson: Pretty good, actually.
Cristobal: Have you been waiting? I didn't see you when I drove up.
Nelson: Just got off the camello. Hot already, eh?
Cristobal: No kidding. Oh, that reminds me, let me switch the fans on.
(A moment later) That's better.
Nelson: Do those things run on your truck battery?
Cristobal: I have a couple of extra 12-volts on the floor here. What's up? Can I sell you some mango juice?
Nelson: No, I'm good. I wanted to ask you --are you going to be seeing Zorro anytime soon?
Cristobal: Yeah, later today, as a matter of fact. He's fixed up a new grinding wheel for my sharpener.
Nelson: Okay, good. I've got a couple of things for his son Beny and Beny's friend Yasmani, and I hardly ever get out to Santa Clara. Could you give them to him for me?
Cristobal: Depends. What are they?
Nelson: Videos. Here, take a look.
(Sound of plastic rustling)
Cristobal: Oh, those little science freaks will love these. . . . I remember Apollo 13. Unlucky number.
Nelson: Yeah. (In English) "Havana, we have a problem."
Cristobal (chuckles): More than one. Yeah, I'll hang on to them. Where did they come from?
Nelson: I really don't know. Jikary Nacional's dad got them somewhere. And here, take this for your trouble.
Cristobal: It's no trouble. . . . Hey, this is a new lighter. You really don't--
Nelson: Take it, man. I have five others.
Cristobal: Really? Five new ones? How--? Wait a second.

[Another customer approaches]

Cristobal: Good morning.
Customer: Hey, you got any batteries?
Cristobal: What size?
Customer: Double-A.
Cristobal: How many?
Customer: Two.
Cristobal: Sure. Pesos or dollars?
Customer: Pesos.
Cristobal: Okay.
Customer (while Cristobal makes change): Say, by the way, do you know anything about something called The New Mango?
Cristobal: Uhhh . . . You know, a lot of people have asked me about that the last couple of days, and the answer is, No. I wish I knew.
Customer: Somebody said there were these little white cards--
Cristobal: Yeah. "We Are Next," or something?
Customer: Yeah. They just kind of appeared. Have you seen any?
Cristobal: No, just heard about 'em.
Customer: Could it be some kind of coupon? Like a Hollywood Buck?
Cristobal: But where would you redeem it?
Customer: Well . . . maybe it's advertising a new dance club.
Cristobal: Maybe . . . but wouldn't it have an address?
Customer: Yeah, you're right. Actually, it sounds political. But what could it mean?
Cristobal: Like I said, I wish I knew. But if it's political, it's probably dangerous, no?
Customer: Yeah, probably. Very strange, though, don't you think? Just the card, no other information?
Cristobal: Who knows? Maybe they're some kind of superfruit, like those giant pineapples from way back when.
Customer: Ai, talk about dangerous talk. . . . Anyway, thanks for the batteries.
Cristobal: Glad I had them for you.

[The customer leaves]

Nelson: You wanna smoke?
Cristobal: Damn! Hollywood cigarettes! Sure, I'll have one. Now you've gotta take a bottle of juice.
Nelson: Okay, sure.
(Sounds of the lighter clicking, clink of the bottle on the aluminum counter)
Cristobal: So, who are you now, Ted Turner? Where did this stuff come from?
Nelson: A Yuman tourist gave Jikary's dad a big tip, and then Jikary's dad gave Jikary some of it, so he raided a dollar store. Got a bunch of stuff.
Cristobal: Tourists . . .
Nelson: An art photographer, this guy.
Cristobal: Mierda.
Nelson: He's going to be hanging out at ISA for a couple of weeks.
Cristobal: Well, if he wants to take your picture, make the bastard pay for it.
Nelson: I would, but this guy's more interested in the moon.
Cristobal: ¡Coño! Crazy American. Sounds like he belongs on the moon. How's the juice?
Nelson: It's good, man, thanks. Speaking of which . . . that guy that was just here, asking about The New Mango?
Cristobal: Uh-huh . . . What?
Nelson: Ummm . . . A couple of days ago an artist showed one of those cards to Jikary and Ana and me at ISA.
Cristobal: An artist? So it's an art thing?
Nelson: No, he didn't make it. Somebody slipped it under his door out in Vedado. He didn't know anything about it; he was asking us if it was an art thing. But that was the first we'd heard about it.
Cristobal: Strange . . . It said, "The New Mango"? "We Are Next"?
Nelson: Yeah. Then, just yesterday, Jikary got one.
Cristobal: Really? From the crazy American?
Nelson: No, that's another story. But the cards are real. I've seen two of them, and I've held one my hands. It's in Jikary's dorm room right now.
Cristobal: Hang on. (Sound of cash box opening and closing) Did it look anything like this?
Nelson: "Haysoos Marimba!" Exactly like that. So you got one, too, eh?
Cristobal: Found it tucked under my wiper a few days ago, first thing in the morning. I thought it was some kind of business card. But who's got business cards, especially in Centro? And it doesn't really say anything --I mean about business, anyway. Why give it to me? It's been bugging us like crazy, Cristina and me. We've been talking about it. But I wasn't going to say anything to that guy. I don't even know him. He could have been some undercover cop.
Nelson: It's been bugging us like crazy, too. It's like a promise.
Cristobal: Like something just around the corner.
Nelson: But what? It's frustrating. If it's from some contra group, what are they after? What do they stand for?
Cristobal: Maybe change --you know, after El Caballo goes to his final pasture. They'll be next.
Nelson: No, El Sapo will be next. Nothing will change.
Cristobal: De verdad. Depressing . . . But, you know (tapping the card on the counter), I'm glad I got this thing. There's something about it . . .
Nelson: I know: like a secret, but a secret secret. The guy who gave the card to Jikary--
Cristobal: Somebody handed it to him? Like, right on the street?
Nelson: Right outside our dorm.
Cristobal: Who?
Nelson: We don't know, some foreigner. Jikary thought he was African.
Cristobal: African? This is getting even stranger.
Nelson: Yeah? Listen to this. So the guy held it out and said, "It's you." Not "It's yours," like when you're giving a gift, but "it's you." Like he was saying "You are The New Mango."
Cristobal: I get it. Like an ID card.
Nelson: Yeah, or a membership card. So I guess you're a New Mango too now, Cristobal.
Cristobal: But I don't feel like a New Mango. I feel like the same old mango I ever was.
Nelson: . . . but do you, really?
Cristobal: ¡Cojones! Yes! I mean, look around! I could run a giant hardware store, with shelf after shelf of all kinds of things! But here I am, holed up in this cave, with a little of this, a little of that, and none of the other things. (Rattling around) Look: a comb --a stick of deodorant-- a box of toothpicks --two screwdrivers! And what good does it do to complain?
Nelson: Sorry, man. I didn't mean to make you mad. Let's have another smoke.
Cristobal: Thanks. . . . I'm not mad at you, kid. It's that New Mango card. It pisses me off. "We Are Next." Oh, que mystico. Who's next? And how? I mean, you raise your voice, you complain about the way things are, they throw your ass in jail.
Nelson: I know, I know. It's almost like a taunt. And it's easy for them to say, right? Because they're not really saying anything. And they're hiding.
Cristobal: Yeah --whoever they are. . . . But, you know, Cristina pointed out that this is pretty organized. I mean, these cards are professionally printed. That's not easy to do. And apparently they're showing up all over town. That's a lot of people. But if this is some secret dissident group, they're going about their program in an odd way.
Nelson: What program?
Cristobal: Exactly. No list of grievances, no philosophy, no leader.
Nelson: No help.
Cristobal: Right. It looks good, they make this big claim, but what are they doing? So what's the use of this little white card?
Nelson: Maybe no use at all.
Cristobal: Right. Still . . . I'm going to keep it.
Nelson: And keep it hidden, eh?
Cristobal: Hell, yes.
Nelson: To be honest --I'm going to sound stupid saying this, but-- it makes us feel special --like we have something most people don't have.
Cristobal: I wonder how many are out there?
Nelson: Yeah . . . That guy that was just here, he didn't have a New Mango card, but he knew what it was. He knew what it looked like, what it said.
Cristobal: So?
Nelson: So maybe there aren't that many out there. Just enough to get people talking about them.
Cristobal: Like we are.
Nelson: Yeah. But I still feel special. Like you said, there's something about having the actual card.
Cristobal: Like a lottery ticket.
Nelson: With real long odds. And what do you win, anyway, huh?
Cristobal: Not a damn thing, so far.
Nelson: But it's doing something to people. You know who Distinto is, right?
Cristobal: The musician? Sure. I've got some of his early stuff right here.
Nelson: Okay, well, Ana Delmar, Jikary's novia --you know her, she helps Cristina at the daycare, right?
Cristobal: Sure, I know Ana.
Nelson: Ana told us she heard that Distinto got a card, too, and now he's inspired to do a song called "The New Mango." He's working on it right now.
Cristobal (after a long silence): That's . . . that's kind of scary.
Nelson: Why scary?
Cristobal: I don't know. It's like you said --it's doing something to people. And you said "inspired." I can't remember the last time I was inspired. . . .
Nelson: Ah. Well, look, I gotta go . . . printmaking class. Say hi to Cristina for me. And Zorro.
Cristobal: I will.

[Nelson leaves. Over the next couple of hours, Cristobal does mundane business with ten or twelve people. Everybody has some kind of news --a derrumbe just three blocks away; another suicide jumper in Old Havana; Raul and his crew commandeered a Vedado nightclub last night; soap opera summaries; a popular sausage maker got busted by inspectors-- but nearly every customer has a question about The New Mango. He gives his standard denial, even to regular customers. His conversation with Nelson has apparently left him feeling somewhat conspiratorial. Around ten-thirty, during a lull, an older man he's known since he was a boy --Cristobal is thirty-three-- approaches with a bulky package wrapped in a big black plastic bag.]

Cristobal: Hey, Henry, what have you got there? Looks like two canned hams.
Henry (chuckles): Better than that. How's Cristina? How's the most beautiful woman in Havana? Busy at the daycare center?
Cristobal: Kids running everywhere. But she likes it, and it's steady money. Lots of dollar people. University visitors. She --wait a minute! What's going on with your grand-niece Dulce?
Henry: That's what I wanted to tell you. She made it. She's gone! The plane left for La Yuma yesterday.
Cristobal: That's great news, Henry. She's been waiting forever.
Henry: Seems like it. We all have.
Cristobal: So that's everybody, right?
Henry: Everybody: my brother, his son, his wife, and now all three of their kids.
Cristobal: What about you?
Henry: Okay, everybody but me. But I'm staying. I'm too old; I'm used to it here. I can't leave Cuba.
Cristobal: Uh-huh . . . So what's in the bag?
Henry: I'll get to that in a minute. But first I wanted to ask you--
Cristobal: --about The New Mango.
Henry: The what? What's that?
Cristobal (laughs): You don't know?
Henry: The New Mango? No --what's The New Mango?
Cristobal (still laughing): I don't know!
Henry: But you just said --Cristobal, are you screwing with an old man's head?
Cristobal (calming down): No, no . . . Sorry, Henry, but everybody who's come here this morning is asking me if I know anything about something called The New Mango.
Henry: And you don't. I see . . . The New Mango. No, I haven't heard anything --but I've been busy getting Dulce ready to go the last few days. . . . Sounds like a soda --or a dance, maybe.
Cristobal: Nobody knows, but they're all asking. Seems like there's these little cards --like business cards-- floating around town, popping up here and there, with those words printed on them, along with a picture of a mango.
Henry: A mango? Huh. That is new. Huh . . . Maybe it's a fancy new fruit market. But why would they need advertising cards?
Cristobal: Especially when the cards don't have an address. How could you find it? It's self-defeating. And who can afford to waste money that way? Believe me, all my customers have the same questions. . . . Anyway, what did you want to ask me?
Henry: If you had any rum. I feel like celebrating tonight.
Cristobal: Yeah, I've got a bottle for you. Good stuff. No shit in my rum.
Henry: I know. That's why I get my rum from you.
Cristobal: It's in the cab, though, behind the seat. I'll be right back.
(A minute later)
Cristobal: Here you go. Pesos or dollars?
Henry: Ummm . . .
Cristobal: Ah, now you're going to tell me what's in the bag.
Henry: Here, take it --but you better unwrap it down on the floor in there.
Cristobal: Ooo, I love a mystery. Okay. (Sound of plastic rustling, then) Henry! I don't believe it!
Henry: Believe it.
Cristobal: Henry! That's . . . eight rations worth, that's . . . sixty-four tampons! Oh, man, if Cristina was here she'd be all over you with the besitos.
Henry: Just send her my love.
Cristobal: I will, I will. I'm gonna have to hide these. And I owe you. You want dollars?
Henry: Dollars are good.
Cristobal: Twenty?
Henry: Twenty is good.
Cristobal: And you can have the rum for free.
Henry: That's even better.
Cristobal: Here you go. My pleasure. But how did you get these? And so many?
Henry: Dulce got them. The state --or the Canadians, anyway-- finally came through, so she took her libreta to the pharmacy and they filled her order, and some of her earlier orders. Then her exito was approved. She told me she wouldn't need those, because you can get tampons everywhere in La Yuma. They even sell them in public bathrooms, she told me. Can you believe that? Amazing. Plus those bastards would probably confiscate them at the airport anyway. So she gave them to me. Tampons mean money, no? And I thought of you and Cristina, the lovebirds of Havana.
Cristobal: I do love that woman. She's the best. This is going to be one less thing she has to worry about for a while. Listen, I have to hide these in the cab. Watch the counter for me, okay?
Henry: I got it.
(A minute later)
Cristobal: Thanks, Henry.
Henry: So what's this about The New Mango?
Cristobal: I really don't know. But everybody's asking. I feel like adding a new line to my sign: "I don't know anything about The New Mango, so don't ask!"
Henry: But then they'd ask even more!
Cristobal: Ai, you're right! Oh! on the back of the card --it's printed on both sides-- they tell me it says "We Are Next."
Henry: Ai, mi madre. That doesn't sound like advertising.
Cristobal: I know, it's-- oh, mierda, here comes Hernando. Step aside for a second, would you?
Henry: Hey, what's with the bat?
Cristobal: I hate this guy. (Starts yelling) Get away from here, you asshole!
Hernando (from a distance): But I'm looking for--
Cristobal: I don't care what you're looking for! Beat it, before I beat you! Don't make me come out there! Go on! Muevete! (calming down) That's right, go suck somebody else's blood.
Henry: Who was that?
Cristobal: They call him Half-Dollar Hernando. He's always getting people to do his dirty work for him. Even stealing. That way he doesn't get caught. I won't have anything to do with that prick. . . . So, what do you think about that New Mango thing?
Henry: . . . I don't know. "We Are Next"? I've heard a lot of promises in my time. Most of them turned out . . . differently. Maybe it's the Spanish trying to stir things up. Remember --when was it, 2002?-- when they tossed the candy at the kids during Tres Reyes Magos? He got all angry and went on TV to complain?
Cristobal: I remember. We all got angry. It was insulting. The Spanish? Maybe. Maybe you've got something there, Henry. I mean, they could afford to print up the cards.
Henry: Sure. Maybe it's a new Spanish hotel.
Cristobal: As if we need another one.
Henry: De verdad. Well, I'll be on my way. I'm hungry for some El Rapido pizza.
Cristobal: Henry, I can't tell you how thankful I am for the tampons. Cristina will be so relieved.
Henry: My pleasure, son.

[Henry drifts away. Cristobal does more business, then eats a sandwich from the cooler. A couple of hours later ISA President Guillermo Gorgojo arrives in a bicitaxi.]

Cristobal: Hey, que bola, compañero?
Guillermo (irritably): Oh, don't call me that. Nobody likes that word.
Cristobal: Ya, ya, ya. Just teasing, cousin. You look a little grim.
Guillermo: Grim? I don't know. Serious, maybe.
Cristobal: At least you don't look sad today, like you always do.

[They are interrupted by the bicitaxi driver, a man named Ramon, whom Cristobal knows slightly.]

Ramon: Whoo! Hot! Those fans feel good right now. Hey, Cristobal, you got anything left in the cooler?
Cristobal: Just some lobster.
Ramon: In that case, you're under arrest. (Cackles)
Cristobal: I got mango juice.
Ramon: I'll take one. And I need a couple of other things.
Cristobal: Here you go. What other things?
Ramon (drinking): Ahhh, that's good juice. . . . Umm, a bicycle wrench. And I better take a patch kit. And batteries for my Walkman here. My music's dragging.
Cristobal: I got 'em. You better go through this box for the right wrench.
(Rattling sounds)
Ramon: . . . like a regular ponchera in here. . . This one's good. . . . You want these old batteries?
Cristobal: What am I going to do with dead batteries?
Ramon: Well, they're cosas pequeñas . . . Never mind, I'll--
Cristobal: Don't throw them on the street! No wonder you need a patch kit. Give 'em here, I'll put 'em in the trash.
Ramon (turning on his Walkman): Ah, that's better. Woo hoo, muevete!
Cristobal: Are those headphones made of duct tape?
Ramon: Hey, they work. I'll take another juice, my friend.
Cristobal: You got money for all this?
Ramon: Here you go. Keep the change.
Cristobal: Keep the change? Are you drunk?
Ramon: On mango juice? No, the gentleman here was generous. Thanks again, sir.
Guillermo: You're welcome.
Ramon (singing): Mango, mango, mango, you make me want to tango. Hey!
(Laughter)
Cristobal: Why so happy, Ramon?
Ramon: Why not? Music is magic!
Cristobal: You're right about that.
Ramon: Hey, you got any CDs?
Cristobal: Some. Take a look.
Ramon (shuffling through another box): Hmmm . . . old stuff. Ai, a compilation of décimas? Who listens to that stuff? No Los Orishas?
Cristobal: Just what you see in there.
Ramon: Okay. . . . Thanks anyway. Gotta go, man. The gordos are waiting. (To Guillermo) I wish all my customers were skinny like you. I hardly knew you were there!

[Ramon dances away. Cristobal and Guillermo are alone now.]

Guillermo: Music is magic . . .
Cristobal: That goofy guy. Feel better now?
Guillermo: I don't know . . . Do you believe in magic, Cristobal?
Cristobal: Coño, you are being serious. . . . Well. I believe --I know-- there's another world, a spiritual world. And sometimes that world acts in this world. But I wouldn't call it magic. What's going on?
Guillermo: A couple of strange things. I've been looking at some monoprints by one of the ISA graduate students, real complex geometric designs, and they're . . . spooky. If you stare at them, really concentrate, they seem to change, to move; they become completely different from what's on the page. Like changing a channel on the TV. They kind of put you in a trance. And it's not just me. I showed them to someone else, and they really seemed to affect her, too. He calls them The Abakua Derivations.
Cristobal: That does sound strange. But I don't know anything about Abakua, and I don't really like talking about it. And why are you asking me if magic's real? You should know, you saw Kiku--
Guillermo: Please. Don't say her name. I mean, I want to talk about . . . that . . . but let's just call her "K," okay? For now.
Cristobal: . . . Okay, cousin. The air's getting heavy here. What the hell's going on with you?
Guillermo: A lot. Those monoprints confused me. And that . . . thing K did was a long time ago, and I convinced myself that it was some kind of trick or something. But then Sunday I went out to Santa Clara because I'd received a kind of message from her--
Cristobal: What! What did you say? She's still alive? (getting angry) Goddamn you, Guillermo! We had no idea! She's Cristina's cousin, remember! You should have--! What kind of message--
Guillermo: I'm sorry! I'll tell you! I just--
Cristobal: Wait! Stop talking! . . . Fuck this, I'm closing up for awhile. Let's go someplace where nobody will bother us. Get that hinge, okay? Good --now get in the fucking cab. Mierda!

[Ten minutes later, in a deserted alley in Old Havana, Cristobal and Guillermo are sitting on the floor inside the locked-up camper shell, fans whirring.]

Cristobal: . . . so you're telling me you've been getting these . . . insect portraits? unbelieveable! --for years? Man, why didn't you say something? Cristina's been carrying this --this sadness about her cousin, thinking that she'd gone crazy and killed herself--!
Guillermo: Hey! I --I was ashamed. You don't understand--
Cristobal: No, you don't understand. With most prisoners, you can find out stuff, even visit them, bring them things. Everybody's always hearing about what's going on with political prisoners, Damas en Blanco marching everywhere, whatever, ya, ya, ya. But with Kiku, the family's heard nothing except this official rumor, from some MININT bastard, that she'd hanged herself with her own hair. That was years ago. We didn't believe it at first --we thought they were just being mean-- but we never heard anything since, and it got too dangerous to ask, so we finally decided that maybe it was true. As you know, she was a very intense person. Now she's just some kind of vague legend: "Kiku the Cuckoo."
Guillermo: I hate that name. Hanged herself with her hair? That's obscene!
Cristobal: And all this time--
Guillermo: But you see, I had no idea you didn't know. I never heard that rumor--
Cristobal: They just told Ermalinda, and Ermalinda told the family to keep it to themselves. Plus, we haven't exactly been travelling in the same circles, have we?
Guillermo: I know, I know. I'm so sorry, Cristobal. With you, whenever I saw you, I didn't want to bring her up because it was so painful to me. And I was ashamed. I mean, you and Cristina, your love is practically famous in Havana, and I . . . I wish Kiku and I had had . . . You two are like a constant reminder --a rebuke . . . If only I had been stronger . . .
Cristobal: I don't know about that. Kiku didn't exactly conform, did she? And you a communist in good standing?
Guillermo: Maybe. But I loved her. I still do. And I didn't fight for her. The point is, that's why I didn't say anything about her to you. Then I got this latest . . . delivery, and I saw the thing was different, and that maybe she knew --somehow-- that Lage was sending them to me, and I took it as a message, or a signal. For me.
Cristobal: A signal?
Guillermo: That she was coming to her senses. Coming back to herself. And I thought, I have to do something. But what? I can't go to Lage --he just laughs at me, the bastard. And I'm pretty much ostracized from the Party--
Cristobal: Good for you.
Guillermo: So I went out to Santa Clara.
Cristobal: To talk to Ermalinda?
Guillermo: To talk to somebody. I don't know Ermalinda, and I didn't see her. And I didn't learn anything about Kiku. But . . . but I learned a lot about myself.
Cristobal: What are you talking about?
Guillermo: I met a woman named Hocabed Hatuey--
Cristobal: ¡Dio mio! You talked to Abuela Hocabed?
Guillermo: You know her?
Cristobal: I know her very well. . . . I see. I think I see. This is why you brought up magic before, isn't it?
Guillermo: Yes. It was more than a "talk."
Cristobal: You and she had a session with The Heap, right?
Guillermo: Yes! Yes! Oh, I'm so glad I don't have to explain about that. So what is this thing? Santeria? Palo Monte? Abakua? I don't know anything about this stuff.
Cristobal: I'd be surprised if you did, compañero.
Guillermo: Oh, please.
Cristobal: It's not any of those things. And by the way, the reason I didn't want to talk about Abakua is not because I'm afraid of it. It's just that a lot of heavy criminals are Abakuans. And police. So this student--
Guillermo: No, I can't imagine he's any kind of crook.
Cristobal: Well, this thing out in Santa Clara is really different. I was brought up with Santeria, but then I met Cristina, and she introduced me to this new way. It started about 1860, and it's been handed down by a few families out there. In fact, it's pretty much limited to Villa Clara; they haven't been interested in spreading it around. There's no priests or congregations. Just individual practitioners.
Guillermo: But what is this "it," this new way? Does it have a name?
Cristobal: Some of the older people call it The Sensitivities. Cristina and I and some others just call it Freestyle. As you saw with Abuela Hocabed, there's no rituals, no animal sacrifices, no crowd of orishas to deal with. None of that primitive stuff. The most important thing about it, for me at least, is that it's Cuban. Okay? It's not some synthesis of foreign influences, the way Santeria jammed together African Yoruba and European Roman Catholic into one thing. Where's Cuba in that mix? Nowhere. Freestyle is a purely Cuban invention.
Guillermo: But what's it for? I mean, there's no leaders, right? no organization--
Cristobal (chuckling): Spoken like a communist. It makes you nervous that there's no program, no manifesto, no heaven, no big answer that will solve everything. For me, when I realized that spirits --human, nonhuman-- are everywhere around us, it gave me strength. They're not here to be worshipped. They're here to help us. And, for all I know, we help them, too. You asked me, what's it for? Well, what happened to you, what was that for?
Guillermo: To make me stronger.
Cristobal: You see? You see how quickly you answered? And --yeah, now I get it-- that's why I didn't see your sadness today.
Guillermo: You're right. I'm not sad. I'm angry. And I have hope.
Cristobal: Freestyle strikes again! I have so much to tell Cristina tonight. I can hardly wait to get home.
Guillermo: I envy you. I hope --yes, I hope!-- I can have something like that with Kiku someday.
Cristobal: I hope so, too, cousin.
Guillermo: So Kiku was Freestyle, too, then?
Cristobal: She would probably call it The Sensitivities; she got into it at a very young age. And she was different. I said before that there were no rituals, but most practitioners use something as a conduit --like Abuela Hocabed's Heap, or Ermalinda and her Escrying Mirror--
Guillermo: Her what?
Cristobal: Maybe you'll find out one day. The point is, Kiku always had a direct connection; she didn't need a touchstone, or an intermediary. She never talked much, did she?
Guillermo: Oh, man . . . Does that mean she was communing with spirits all the time?
Cristobal: How would I know?
Guillermo: She was always disappearing into the countryside. She never told me where she had been.
Cristobal: Like Abuela Prima . . .
Guillermo: Who?
Cristobal: She's the woman who first tapped into The Sensitivities, I hear, long ago.
Guillermo: Did Kiku always know how to . . . defy gravity?
Cristobal: I don't think so. But Cristina said that when she was growing up, there was a kind of private joke out in Santa Clara: "Where's Kiku?" "I don't know. Look up." Kiku was different; Abulea Hocabed sometimes called her a bellwether.
Guillermo: Like a warning?
Cristobal: Or a promise. Of what Cubans could do.
Guillermo: You know, all her art was about Cuba. She was always impatient with art history, the European masters . . .
Cristobal: That's what I mean about Freestyle. You know, Castro and all you communists have always talked about Cubanidad. Cuban identity. What makes a Cuban? Kiku was trying to find it. So am I. I don't think the Revolution was the answer.
Guillermo: Are you saying Freestyle is the answer for Cuba?
Cristobal: There you go again, with "The Answer." Freestyle isn't for everybody; it's just a tool. Not everyone can be a sensitive. I'm not. Cristina is. Kiku was --still is, I hope.
Guillermo: . . . A bellwether. A warning. Cubanidad. I keep thinking of that night that Lage took her away. . . . Were you there?
Cristobal: No, I was in Santa Clara. But I heard about it.
Guillermo: There were three symbols on that wall: a red star, a dollar sign, and a mango. She tore down the first two, and the mango was next, but Lage's men--
Cristobal: Wait. "The mango was next. . . ." Guillermo, I want to show you something . . . (rattle of the cash box) . . . Look at this--
Guillermo: Oh, yes. So you got one, too?
Cristobal: You know about The New Mango?
Guillermo: About as much as you do, I guess. I don't know where they're coming from. Lage is real nervous about it, I hear.
Cristobal: On the back it says "We Are Next."
Guillermo: It sure does. . . . But there's no way Kiku could be behind--
Cristobal: Of course not. That's not what I'm saying. But maybe somebody's picking up where she left off. The New Mango is part of Cubanidad. Just today, I heard that a stranger actually handed one of these cards to one of your art students, and he said, "It's you."
Guillermo: So . . . We are The New Mango.
Cristobal: We are The New Mango. The answer isn't in the Revolution, and it isn't in the dollar. We aren't "economic soldiers." The answer's somewhere in us, in Cubans.
Guillermo: But I don't know what I am!
Cristobal: Hey, be patient, cousin. The seed's just been planted, hasn't it?

[After they talk a little more, and after Guillermo buys all his pens and pencils, Cristobal drives Guillermo to ISA, then heads back to his spot on Varela. Balthazar "Zorro" Roa is already waiting there beside his army surplus Jeep.]

Cristobal (after opening up again): Hey, Zorro. Thanks for waiting, man. I had a . . . kind of emergency.
Zorro: Everything okay?
Cristobal: Yeah . . . yeah, everything worked out okay.
Zorro: You sure? You seem kind of distracted.
Cristobal: I'm fine. Just some unexpected news. How's it going with you?
Zorro: Oh, keeping busy. I got that grinding wheel done for you. Take a look.
Cristobal: Oh, man, that's beautiful. It glitters!
Zorro: Industrial diamond dust.
Cristobal: Where the hell did you get--? Never mind.
Zorro: Had it lying around, doing nothing. We baked it in layers, so it ought to last a long time.
Cristobal: Man, you're a genius.
Zorro: Nah, Beny's the genius. I'm just a tool-pusher.
Cristobal: Bullshit. You're both geniuses. By the way, Nelson Prieto dropped off some videos for Beny and Yasmani.
Zorro: Yeah? What have you got?
Cristobal: Right here.
Zorro (rustle of plastic): Good, good. New stuff for the hungry minds . . . Space elevators? That's really new.
Cristobal: Hey, how's Yasmani holding up? He really got the heat on him for that "Abajo Fidel" poster, didn't he? He made the newspaper.
Zorro: He's doing okay. Hanging around the farm. And, guess what, our famous artist, Rosa Blanca Azul--
Cristobal and Zorro (simultaenously): --you know, La Pionera--
(laughter)
Zorro: --Yeah, she's coming out to talk to him.
Cristobal: Really? What the hell for?
Zorro: I don't know. Maybe because he made the news. I guess she's supposed to get him back in line. Because of the Prodigy Program. You know how it works; somebody up there at the Plaza got interested. Maybe it's a legacy of the Elian extravaganza, too.
Cristobal: That's scary. Catalina must be worried.
Zorro: A little. Beny asked him about it a couple of days ago. Yasmani thinks he can talk his way out of it.
Cristobal: I hope so. He's a smart kid, he doesn't belong in a nickel mine. And it's not like he's the only one thinking what he wrote.
Zorro: He's not the only one writing it, either. On the way into town, I saw it spray-painted on a Vamos Bien billboard. There was already a crew of army guys there, peeling, peeling, peeling . . . (Chuckles)
Cristobal: Hey, speaking of Olivas, here comes Erasmo.
Zorro: Good, I was supposed to meet him here.
Cristobal: Hey, tatuador, que bola?
Flash No More: Keeping the needle sharp, Cristobal. Hey, Zorro, sorry I'm late. Got hung up at school.
Zorro: No problem. We were just talking about Yasmani and La Pionera. You think he'll be okay?
Flash No More: He'll be fine. I'd be worried if they sent some heavy politico out there. But her? She'll probably just go on about the importance of art to the Revolution, and he'll agree with her. Even though he doesn't even want to be an artist.
Cristobal: He doesn't?
Flash No More: No, he wants to be a fish, like this guy here --Cousteau. This video must be for Yasmani, eh?
Cristobal: That's right, smart guy. So, how's the tattoo thing going?
Flash No More: Pretty good. The licensing helped; all the tatuadores are breathing easier.
Cristobal: And the government gets its fees.
Zorro: And the tourists pay for it.
Flash No More: Except I don't tattoo tourists.
Zorro: Well, you said it; you're the exception.
Cristobal: Why don't you tattoo tourists?
Flash No More: Because they're not Cuban. Plus, I'd have to talk to them. Plus, they all want a portrait of Che. I wouldn't do that for a Cuban.
Cristobal (chuckling): I see.
Flash No More (to Zorro): So, did you bring the new boards?
Zorro: I have them in the Jeep. And Beny sharpened all your glyptics.
Flash No More: Good. I almost wore them out on that last series. By the way, they're out there now, making the rounds.
Zorro: That'll be interesting.
Cristobal: Wait. What the hell's a glyptic? What are you guys talking about?
Flash No More: Woodcuts, for my printmaking work at ISA.
Cristobal: Printmaking? Like . . . what did he say? . . . "monoprints"?
Flash No More: That's right. What did who say?
Cristobal: That last series you were talking about just now: what was it called?
Flash No More: The Abakua Derivations. A series of twelve.
Cristobal (softly): Ai, mi madre . . . So you're the one. I should have thought of that.
Zorro: Okay, now what are you talking about?
Cristobal: I just had a long conversation with Guillermo Gorgojo. That's why I was late getting back. He mentioned those prints. Erasmo, they're really messing with his head.
Flash No More: They are? Good.
Cristobal: He said they change when you look at them. He also said he showed them to someone else --he didn't say who-- and that person was affected, too.
Zorro: They're working!
Cristobal: What's going on, guys?
Flash No More: A kind of Freestyle, I guess you'd call it. I just set up the patterns, and the viewer activates them. It should work differently for different people. Zorro helped me with some of the Abakua forms; he also suggested the title.
Cristobal: Ai, mi madre . . . That's a scary name, Zorro. Aren't you afraid of . . . retaliation?
Zorro: No, my old Abakua friends will leave me alone, like most people do. Besides, a lot of the diagrams are combined with the other patterns. They're not really Abakua.
Cristobal: Then why that title? People are afraid of Abakua.
Flash No More: Exactly. Abakua is a metaphor for things that people are afraid of, but don't want to talk about, don't want to name. There's been too much of that kind of behavior for too long on this island. I want to expose it, to drain that fear of its power.
Cristobal: I see. That's a big ambition. So you gave them to Guillermo to publish?
Flash No More: Oh, no. I didn't give them to him, anyway. I just lent them to him for awhile. He'll show them to others --he already has, no?-- then we'll just see what happens.
Cristobal: What are you guys up to? Is this some kind of contra thing?
Zorro: What, are you loco? You think art can change things? Think of it as an experiment. Like that old psychology thing, what do they call it?
Flash No More: A Rorshach Test.
Zorro: That's it. Erasmo, we have to go. We have that other stuff to do.
Cristobal: What other stuff?
Zorro: Just other deliveries.
Cristobal: Oh! How much do I owe you for the grinding wheel?
Zorro: Don't worry about it. That was fun, and like I said, the materials were just lying around.
Cristobal: Thanks a lot. That thing ought to last forever.
Flash No More: I'll see you around, Cristobal. Say hello to Cristina for me.

[Zorro and Flash No More leave in the Jeep. The next excerpt relevant to this narrative is Cristobal's conversation with a friend of Cristina's, named Angela, a cleaning maid at a tourist hotel, who ran up just before Cristobal closed up for the day. Angela's son is one of the children Cristina takes care of at her day care center.]

Cristobal: Angela! Hey, catch your breath. You need a ride to pick up your son?
Angela: No, I got him already. He's at home with my sister. Hoo! I'm glad I caught you. Are you in a hurry?
Cristobal: Not at all. You want my last mango juice? On the house.
Angela: Sure. Thanks.
(after a moment)
Cristobal: So what's the big urgency?
Angela: I have something for you --for Cristina, really-- she's the first one I thought of-- if you want to buy them, that is-- but first I want you to know: I'm not a thief.
Cristobal: I never thought you were, Angela. (Then, teasingly) Besides, Jesus keeps you honest, doesn't He?
Angela: De verdad. As does Our Lady.
Cristobal: So what is this treasure? more fashion magazines for my beloved?
Angela: No, a lot better than that. Let me tell you the story first. About a week ago I was cleaning one of the big suites --some rich California tourist. She was such a slob, and she had so much stuff, and she was always leaving it everywhere. Clothes, shoes, cosmetics, jewelry --even food! Every time I went in there to straighten up, I had move things out of the way. Anyway, she finally checked out, and went back to California, thank the Lord. I was getting the suite ready for the next guest, and I found these . . . things. They were cosas pequeñas, little things, just laying there on the bathroom vanity next to the empty shampoo bottle. I had a lot to do, so I wrapped them in tissue and put them in my pocket, and went on with my cleaning.

When I was done I put all my stuff back on the cart, got all the dirty linen in the bag, and checked around to make sure I didn't overlook anything. Then I sat down on the bed and took the little things out of my pocket. I thought I should take them downstairs immediately and give them to the concierge, to forward to the California lady. But, Cristobal, the concierge is a Communist, and I know for a fact that he's a thief. And these little things were valuable.

So. If I turned them in to him, I knew he would just pocket them himself, to sell later, and if the California lady called the hotel, or wrote a letter about leaving them behind, he would blame me. I would lose my job, maybe worse. And I had no way to find out her address, to send them to her myself, since I'm not authorized to get into the registration computer, and I wouldn't know how anyway.

But what if I kept them, and the California lady called, and they didn't know anything about it at the front desk? Again, the concierge could blame me for stealing them, and I'd be in trouble. I started to get mad at the California lady. Why did she have to have so much stuff? Why did she have to be such a slob? And how could she leave these things behind? So I sat on the bed and looked at them. They weren't new, I could tell that much. Parts of them were worn-looking. Maybe she was just tired of them, and didn't want to carry them around anymore --even though they wouldn't take up much room in her six bags of luggage! Maybe they carried bad memories, I don't know.

So naturally I prayed. I sat on the bed and closed my eyes and prayed, and for some reason in my mind's eye I saw Cristina--

Cristobal: My Cristina?

Angela: Yes, I saw your beautiful Cristina's face smiling at me. I thought, Well, that's no answer, but it calmed me down, and I had to get to back to work, so I put the little things back in my pocket. I decided to just hang on to them, and if worse came to worse I would have them to return. I figured, well, a thief would sell them right away, wouldn't they? So if I still had them it would help convince them of my honesty.

Now it's been a week, and nothing from the California lady. I think she's forgotten all about them. And my son, my little Jesus, has a birthday coming up. He hasn't had a party for two years, and most of my earnings go for food and housing, and this year he starts school. I need to buy his uniforms. And I remembered that I saw Cristina in my mind when I was praying. So I've brought these little things to you, for her, if you want them. Here they are.
(after an audible gasp)
Cristobal: ¡Ai, mi madre! Gold earrings . . .
Angela: The gold hoops are real gold, and so is the threading. I recognize the style --that webbing-- from fashion magazines. They're called "dream catchers." Very popular in America, but years ago. That's one of the reasons I knew they weren't new. And the hummingbirds on top of the hoops are blue enamel inlay.
Cristobal: I'll take them. Of course I'll take them. No wonder you thought of Cristina. It's like they were made for her.
Angela: Thirty dollars?
Cristobal: Oh, no, Angela, that's too low. I'll give you fifty, twenty-five for each one. It wipes me out, but I don't care, they're worth a lot more. Dio mio, what a day! Cristina will be ecstatic!
Angela: Cristobal, that's too much. How can you afford it?
Cristobal: Little things add up. Plus, we have Cristina's income, too, from the day care. You should know, working at the hotel, how . . . unpredictable the economy can be.
Angela: You're right. Sometimes blessings fall right into your lap. Like those earrings . . . Little Jesus will be so happy! Oh, one other thing before you go. Do you know anything about something called The New Mango? Everybody seems to be talking about it.
Cristobal: Ai, mi madre . . .

[After a brief exchange, Cristobal closes up Cosas Pequeñas and drives to a dollar food market, where he buys rice, beans, yuca, and a little pork. Then he drives home. He chains and locks the sheet-metal garage doors from the inside, and enters the house by the inside door.

The large living room of their home is also a licensed day care center, so MININT has it electronically wired, especially since some of Cristina's clients are foreigners attached to the University of Havana. Actually, the government is so paranoid that if it could afford to, it would wire the very trees in Fraternity Park.]

Cristina: Is that you, my love?
Cristobal: None other, my darling. Here, let me help you with the table. . . . Looks like you have everything else put away.
Cristina: Well, there's these Legos--
Cristobal: Forget the Legos for now. Come here, let me hold you. I've missed you.
(a short silence)
Cristina: I love you, Cristobal.
Cristobal: You're my life, Cristina. I love you, too. I wouldn't know what to do without you.
Cristina: You'll never have to . . . What's in the jaba vinyl?
Cristobal: Stuff for dinner. I'll put it together. You just relax. You run around all day chasing kids. Here, sit down. I'll make you a mojito.
Cristina: Oh, all right. But could you put those Legos away first?
Cristobal (chuckling): Okay, my dear.
(a few minutes later)
Cristobal: Here you go. And here, why don't you look through one of your fashion magazines while I get dinner started? then we can visit for a little bit. I have news.
Cristina (sipping, then): Mmmm . . . . Thank you, my love. News? La bola en la calle?
Cristobal: Something like that.
Cristina: More New Mango stuff?
Cristobal: Better than that.
Cristina: Really? What?
Cristobal: Later, my darling. For now, just let the day go, eh? Relax . . . enjoy your drink.
Cristina: Okay. Okay . . .

[Half an hour later the two sit down to dinner and start sharing the happenings of the day.]

Cristina: . . . Mrs. Posada had to go home early because her back was bothering her, so I had my hands full for a few hours. Angela's little Jesus needed a lot of attention. He seemed depressed, poor little guy. I was worried about him. Then I got a break when Ana came over from school. She seemed really happy, and full of energy. Apparently she got a new supply of insulin. I didn't get much of the story because the kids kept interrupting us --something about Jikary coming into some unexpected money-- but it was good to see her strong. I worry about her. It must be terrible to be a diabetic here, when you never know if insulin is going to be available. And you need it all the time. And she's all alone, with no family to help her--
Cristobal: She's got Jikary. He's devoted to her, like I'm devoted to you. And Nelson's a good friend, and a resourceful guy.
Cristina: He's all alone, too, isn't he?
Cristobal: Yeah, he's an orphan, a street kid, but he never became a jinetero. Too much self-respect. He got himself into ISA on his own talent. I admire that.
Cristina: I just hope he finds somebody to love.
Cristobal: My darling, not only are you the most beautiful woman in Cuba, you have the biggest heart.
Cristina: Oh, you . . .
Cristobal: Don't worry about Nelson. He's got personality to burn, and he looks like Andy Garcia. He'll be fine. This new generation --I don't know, they're different somehow. Not so . . . beaten down.
Cristina: You know what everybody was gossiping about today?
Cristobal: Do I get to guess?
Cristina: No. . . . The New Mango.
Cristobal: I was just going to say that. Same here.
Cristina: Really?
Cristobal: Really. What were they saying?
Cristina: Well, like with us, they don't know anything. They were asking, mainly, and speculating. One thing I noticed: they mostly avoided politics. They were talking about products --shoes, juice, a new perfume--
Cristobal: Perfume? I didn't hear that one--
Cristina: A new dance . . .
Cristobal: Yeah. Henry had an interesting idea. He thought maybe it was a new Spanish hotel.
Cristina: That's a good one.
Cristobal: But I don't think so. I had a long talk with Guillermo Gorgojo today, and we concluded that it is political, but not the way we usually think of politics. It's not an us versus them thing. It's about all of us. Cubanidad. You see? We're all The New Mango.
Cristina: We're The New Mango? But we don't have anything to do with it. And who's putting out these cards?
Cristobal: People who realize it. People who see it.
Cristina: But what does it mean to be a New Mango?
Cristobal: That, I don't know. Food for thought, though, eh, my love?
Cristina: You mean, they just want us to think? Huh . . .
Cristobal: Like I said, I don't know. And I don't want to go around in circles. Besides, I have a couple of surprises for you.
Cristina: Surprises? Oh, darling . . .
Cristobal: Let's clear the table, okay?
Cristina: I'll clear the table. You go get the surprises.
(a few minutes later)
Cristina: Wow! That's a big bag!
Cristobal: Look, I know it's not very romantic, but . . . here, let me open it . . .
Cristina (after a stunned silence, she begins to weep): My love, I don't know what to say. Not romantic? Are you kidding? Thinking of my comfort, my peace of mind?
Cristobal: Well, you know what I me--
Cristina: "Super!" Wow! I can run around all day with these things! Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! (sounds of kissing) You're the most thoughtful man in the whole world!
Cristobal: Well--
Cristina: Oh, this is great. I can't believe it. There's so many. Where did you get them?
Cristobal: Long story. Can I tell you later?
Cristina: Sure. Of course. Let me put these away in the bathroom--
Cristobal: While you're in there, could you put your hair up for me?
Cristina: Put my hair up?
Cristobal: Please? It's another surprise.
Cristina: In that case . . .
(a few minutes later)
Cristobal: Here, darling, sit down. Close your eyes. . . . Okay, you can look now.
Cristina: Oh, Cristobal! They're beautiful! They're more than beautiful! Do you know what these are?
Cristobal: Your friend Angela --she's the one I bought them from-- she called them "dream catchers."
Cristina: That's right. They're very special.
Cristobal: From California, the land of dreams.
Cristina: Where the movie stars come from.
Cristobal: You're more beautiful than any movie star.
Cristina: Oh, you sweetie you . . .
Cristobal: Try them on. I'll get your hand mirror. (When he returns) Yes. I was right. They look fantastic on you.
Cristina: They do. And they feel great. I've never seen anything like them. Thank you, Cristobal. You are romantic. . . . I'll bet there's another long story to go with these, too.
Cristobal: There is. I'll let Angela tell you that one. I'll tell you this: she knew they were for you. They were --no, actually you were-- an answer to prayer.
Cristina: Really? That sounds mysterious. Sounds like Angela, too. Come on, tell me. I don't want to wait to hear it from her.

[So he does. When he's done . . .]

These blue hummingbirds . . . As soon as I saw them, you know what I thought of? You know who they reminded me of?
Cristobal: Yes . . . Yes, I think so.
Cristina: Cousin Kiku. Poor Kiku . . . her symbol. I dreamed about her just last night, you know. She was flying.
Cristobal: You did? She was? Umm . . . Darling . . . there's some other news I learned today. It's . . .
Cristina: What? You got really serious all of a sudden. Is it bad news?
Cristobal: No, it's . . . it's good news, it is . . . It's just . . . I was shocked . . .
Cristina: Cristobal. Just tell me.
Cristobal: Kiku's alive.

[And, in a rush, he tells her what Guillermo has told him. After her shock, and her anger at Guillermo, and her tears, she begins to calm down.]

Cristina: What can we do? We don't even know where she is. We need to--
Cristobal: No. Don't you see? We're not supposed to know. I know she's in hell, but we have to keep it quiet. It could be dangerous for her. Let Guillermo see what he can do. He told me he knew somebody --he wouldn't tell me who, but somebody powerful-- who might be able to help. I say we trust him. He wants to see her free as much as we do.
Cristina: Poor Guillermo. . . Cristobal, do you see what these earrings mean? I'm glad you told me how Angela got these. It's fate. There are no coincidences. These earrings were meant for me. They're very much more than special; they're magical. Kiku sent them to me. You know how powerful she was --still is. Yes. These may be the conduit I've been waiting for.
Cristobal: You mean like Ermalinda's mirror?
Cristina: Yes. Or Abuela Hocabed's cards. . . . Colibri azul . . . (She begins to cry again) Oh, little bird, little bird --I've missed you so much . . .
Cristobal: Come here, my love. That's it, let me hold you. . . . It's been a heavy day.
Cristina (sobbing): I'm tired. . . I can't even begin to think about what she's gone through. . . .
Cristobal: Shhh . . . enough for now. Come on, let's go to bed. Here, let me take off the earrings. We'll hang them from the headboard, and see what they catch tonight.

The Reek Of Entitlement

Damage control. Within a day, the "Unsafe To Occupy" sign comes down, the "Renovation" sign goes up. Photo taken Saturday, July 22.

by Jerome du Bois

Today's Arizona Republic reports that Bentley Projects has been shut down because it has failed to comply with the most basic city occupancy and safety codes, even though the owners have been warned repeatedly about the violations for almost a year.

Phoenix wrote the property owners three citations for doing work without a permit, for occupying the building without the appropriate certificate and for not correcting unsafe conditions.

Part owner Bentley Dillard whines, "We've always been willing to do that," sounding like a teenager who's been told ten times to clean up her room. Willing isn't doing, dear.

Our own disastrous experience with Glen Lineberry, Lisa Greve, and Bentley Projects convinced us of their dishonesty. (Catherine King's six-part series of that sad saga begins here.) But we had no idea that Bentley Projects would treat the safety of their visitors so cavalierly, and put the artworks onsite in jeopardy. I don't know if Lineberry and Greve are still part of the Projects --neither are mentioned in the article-- but I vividly remember how proud they were showing off all the construction and expansion during our own tours of the place. And all along, apparently, they were cutting corners while cutting out walls.

It's also hard to believe that the owners of Poisoned Pen and Arcadia Farms, both of whom have been around a lot longer than Bentley Projects, would have knowingly allowed this state of affairs to persist as long as it has. Perhaps, like us, they were kept in the dark with smooth reassurances that everything was fine.

Why do these people think they're above the law? Bentley Projects even got outside money to help with their renovations:

Phoenix . . . helped finance the art gallery with money from a federal program that aids businesses investing in low-income areas.

The whole thing reeks of entitlement attitude --as if desperately slummy downtown should just be damned grateful the Scottsdale snobs would even deign to be there. Why should they have to comply with these silly codes? That stuff's for places like Honey Bear's BBQ and Schlotzsky's, isn't it?

Then, naturally, Kimber Lanning has to get her big mouth running.

Kimber Lanning, a leader in the local arts community, said this situation is a symptom of a much bigger problem that small-business owners encounter when they move into such decades-old warehouses.

"It's not possible to have a cultural and vibrant downtown until we make these older buildings more accessible," Lanning said. "We're not asking the downtown inspectors to pass things that are considered unsafe, but we can cite a million unreasonable demands."

A million, huh? I believe the number was three, all of them about public safety. Lanning's own Modified Arts, which opened in 1999, was still in violation of at least two of these codes in August of 2005. (I don't know if it's in compliance now.) And when the city tried to enforce them, that infamous First Friday, the downtown clowns got all up on themselves about it, calling the officials fascists. This was over two years after the tragic "Great White" fire at The Station in Rhode Island, where 99 people lost their lives, and over 200 were injured.

It really isn't hard to imagine some poor art patron at Bentley Projects, rushing to find an exit during an electrical fire, getting crushed by a toppling Jun Kaneko sculpture.

Nobody's above the laws of nature. And, Lanning, if you're "not asking the downtown inspectors to pass things that are considered unsafe," then shut up. They're doing their jobs.

SEASON OF THE WITCH

Fashion art photograph taken July 14, 2006. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form.

Posey In Porcelain

Flower Arrangement and Photograph by Catherine King. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form.

David Dauncey Backpedals

[What follows is an update to this posting.]

by Jerome du Bois

Phoenix artist David Dauncey should have quit while he was behind; instead he feels the need to share more of his mind. And with embarrassing results, because he comes across as a vacillating, contradictory fool.

We don't know why he sent his previous (duplicated) message in the first place. There we were, cruising along, singing our song, when these emails came out of the blue, fizzling as badly as North Korean missles. Now he tries again, and again with two emails, both identical to the other. What, does he have ADD? or does he think saying the same thing twice doubles its weight? Mystifying.

The reader may wonder why I bother with him at all. Three reasons: he reveals glaring tells in his admissions and omissions; he reflects the thinking of the local zeitgeist; and these tells justify his new nickname. I'll reproduce the thing verbatim after the jump, then fisk it.

He writes:

a couple of things. i read your blog about every three years or so, then i move on to other things that are more stimulating than bird photography and ghostly motes (in my opinion). i am neither barbarous or cruel, nor am i a twit. i really don't give a fuck if your wife shows her face or not, however glamorous it may or may not be, and if i did have a photograph of her i would have to be bereft of things to occupy my time if i chose to deface it. as for my comment regarding your 'old man', it was intended in a 'tip-of-the-hat' manner, but yet again i really couldn't give a hoot either way. this is the part of the e-mail where i am supposed to pitch some wild physical threat at you and your wife involving dark allies and socks filled with golf balls, isn't it? i have seen some of the more vulgar replies before in your track-back sections, and this, frankly, is just not my style. it would be petty.
p.s. david 'dingaling' dauncey is so jauntily '5-year-old-girl talk' as to be rendered amusingly pathetic when dribbling out of the corners of your face. maybe you should be nick-named jerome 'poppy-doop' dubois? catherine 'kaka' king? fucking pathetic sounding aren't they.

To fisking:

a couple of things.

But he ignores the first thing, his objection to our characterization of Kimber Lanning as "Stenchworth." Why does he avoid even mentioning her in this second message? I did go on about her, after all, since we believe she's a key player in keeping the Phoenix art scene debased and unhealthy. But not a peep from Dauncey about it this time. One wonders why.

i read your blog about every three years or so

We've been blogging for a little longer than three years, so the one or two times --according to him-- that he's checked in, he must have a done a lot of reading.

then i move on to other things that are more stimulating than bird photography and ghostly motes (in my opinion).

Whatever floats your dinghy, dingaling. Besides Catherine's beautiful parrot photographs and the amazing paranormal captures --she will be posting a major piece about this subject soon-- we've published gorgeous flower arrangements, my Portraits of her, and digital net art; and we've covered illegal immigration, Islamic depredations, antisemitism, anti-American artists, Cuban art hypocrisy, our ongoing Cuban novel, and what we call The Rebarb. We can see why these substantive and serious subjects wouldn't interest your superficial mind, and we're not aiming to stimulate the likes of you.

i am neither barbarous or cruel, nor am i a twit.

Your own words indicate otherwise. We'll let other readers decide for themselves.

i really don't give a fuck if your wife shows her face or not, however glamorous it may or may not be, and if i did have a photograph of her i would have to be bereft of things to occupy my time if i chose to deface it.

This contradicts your first message, though, doesn't it? If you don't care, why make that presumptuous and peremptory demand? Who the hell do you think you are, anyway? You're a lightweight, man. We've seen the other things which occupy your time --old typewriters, white shoes ("they got no soul," Catherine comments)-- and they are a waste of good paint.

as for my comment regarding your 'old man', it was intended in a 'tip-of-the-hat' manner, but yet again i really couldn't give a hoot either way.

So, again, why write it in the first message? And this comment is typical of the Rebarb attitude: call somebody an "arse," then follow up with a little bandaid of make-nice, as if the insult was never delivered. Don't you even know what your brain is doing?

this is the part of the e-mail where i am supposed to pitch some wild physical threat at you and your wife involving dark allies and socks filled with golf balls, isn't it? i have seen some of the more vulgar replies before in your track-back sections, and this, frankly, is just not my style. it would be petty.

I think you meant "dark alleys," not "dark allies." Too lazy to spellcheck yourself, I suppose, which shows how much you care about your own words. And you're the one with the dark allies, anyway.

I admit I get vulgar when someone threatens my wife with bodily harm, and if it ever did get physical with anyone, no matter the outcome, the attacker would find out what their bones look like sticking out of their skin. I'm long done with tolerance.

And "vulgar" from a guy who calls me an "arse" and a "patsy," and throws the tired word "fuck" around? Pot, meet kettle.

p.s. david 'dingaling' dauncey is so jauntily '5-year-old-girl talk' as to be rendered amusingly pathetic when dribbling out of the corners of your face. maybe you should be nick-named jerome 'poppy-doop' dubois? catherine 'kaka' king? fucking pathetic sounding aren't they.

as to be rendered? dribbling out of the corners of your face? Jeebus, you're a terrible writer.

Yes, your scatological nicknames are as pathetic as the stripped gears of your worn-out mind. But "dingaling" was carefully chosen. ("Pissant" was in the running, but didn't alliterate.) It's meant to convey the capricious shallowness, the completely unserious nature, of your psychology. Even a bird flitting from branch to branch, its head jerking this way, then that way, is more consistent than you. And probably smarter, too.

"Todd, Marc and Me"

Todd, Marc and Me. Photographed July 4, 2006. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form.

Fitted, fully-lined waistcoat by Todd Oldham, made from pieced madras squares overprinted with black arabesque pattern, spread collar with deep V-neck, pewter and rhinestone shank buttons and welt pockets; Marc Jacobs jeans, Kenneth Cole boots, vintage silver-and-turquoise jewelry. Aviators from Target. Bag handmade by the model from self-worn Levi 501 jeans leg fringed from one piece, with silver-toned pony beads.

Here is a layout of the entire ensemble, displayed on an American heirloom quilt.

David Dingaling Dauncey

by Jerome du Bois

We get some strange emails. Not long after I trounced the free-for-all OnePlace Church for disrespecting Jesus of Nazareth, a Christian-marriage group told us to "stop preaching hate," claimed we were pro-homosexual (as if we give a damn about gays one way or the other), and "requested" that we take our blog offline. Oh yeah, right away. It's as if they read only every sixth sentence or something. Then somebody else tried to enlist us as their stalking horse for some agenda they have with Beatrice Moore, who they called "Betty Ann" for reasons of their own. (We call her Stale Cake, by the way.)

Now along comes local artist David Dauncey, just this morning, with a semi-coherent missive. Two of them, actually, almost identical, ten minutes apart. In the first one he hid behind the moniker "dpd_jam" and wrote "queynts" in the subject line. Maybe it's dirty British slang, but if so, it's lost on me. The internet tells me this word (spelled "queint") dates back to Chaucer and may mean either "quaint" or the past tense of "quench." As a subject line, though, it's a non sequiter. The text body is even more weird.

Verbatim:

referring to kimber lanning as stenchworth is just plain weak.and old.and gray.and bald.and show your wife's face you arse,we all know what she looks like.

In the second one, he decided to use his real name, changed the subject line to "tits on a bull," (!?) and wrote:

referring to kimber lanning as stenchworth is weak.and old.and gray.and bald.and show your wife's face you patsy.we all know what she looks like.respect to your old man and his service.

Let's get that last out of the way first: If you had any respect at all, you transplanted British twit, you would refer to him as my father. (Oh, and kudos to your erstwhile compatriots, who can't even legally defend themselves against their own criminal citizens, and bend over every time British Muslims push on with their evil agendas. Wankers is the word, I've heard. In the ongoing war of civilization against rebarbarization, they're as useless as . . . tits on a bull.)

Now, about the rest of it:

Kimber Lanning has never written to us to complain or object to the nickname Stenchworth. Dawdling Dauncey, in the meantime, is about two years late with his objection, since we haven't used the nickname in all that time. (Our posts about her are still the #2 and #3 Google for her given name, though.) Catherine came up with the nickname because she felt that Lanning's name for her record store stank, and to use it was akin to inviting some junior high-schooler to hoot "Made you say it! Made you say it!" And Lanning's store on Camelback Road is stenchworthy. The storefront is completely covered in steel mesh, like a crack house, the glass behind it still carries the faded letters "grand opening," and gangsta grafitti is sprayed all over the mesh. Maybe this champion of local business should change the name to Eyesore.

So we think the name is still timely, and Dauncey's objection is just plain weak, and old, and gray. ("Bald" I just don't get. Are the drugs frying your few remaining brain cells, old sod?)

I've already explained that Catherine keeps custody of her features on the internet because we know what some local yokels would do with such photos. They have already tried to show us their twisted hearts and infantile resentment by disfiguring one of my Portraits of Catherine --which backfired on them, as it should. You think I'm going to let that happen with her face? If you all know what she looks like, you dingalings, what other reason could you have to see her face except to caricaturize it? Stenchworth has no problem exhibiting Colin Chillag's disgusting paintings of men with their faces blown to bloody bits by shotgun blasts. What hatred of humanity must inhabit their hearts to promote snuff art. I believe nothing would stop them from doing the same to my beloved Catherine; so I won't give them the chance.

I wonder what prompted these emails now, and not before. Going over our recent postings, at first I thought it may have been my "Portrait Of The Phoenix Artist As A Tired Cliché." But on further reflection I think, instead, it's the banner just overhead, "Silver Tressellation." (I'll repost it to our Digital Art sidebar when we change the banner.) There's something about Catherine's poise, her glamour, and her glorious and abundant hair --which has never known any artificial coloring-- which bothers nattering nitwits like David Dauncey, and brings them out of the woodwork.

So in the spirit of nicknames I'll dub him Dingaling, because he's a little man, a silly man, petty, barbarous, and cruel.

Somebody Always Pays For Freedom

Purple Heart earned by Alan du Bois, with a background of some of his V-mail to his beloved wife Marjorie. (Designed and photographed by Catherine King.)

by Jerome du Bois

I sometimes wonder about my father's reasons for going off to fight in World War Two. He didn't have to, and it took him almost two years of trying before he could put on his Marine uniform, when he was thirty years old.

Maybe it was because he was on Oahu on Pearl Harbor Day --he saw the Zeros flying over the golf course-- and felt the threat more immediately than someone in, say, Omaha. He had just started a family and a career, and everyone in Hawai'i feared an imminent Japanese invasion of the Islands. Even when that fear went unrealized, and his family was safe on the mainland, he tried to join.

Maybe it was because he grew up in the aftermath of World War One, when the American proverb, "Freedom is never free," had been tested the third time. The du Bois family had fought in the Revolution and for the Union in the Civil War as well.

David Hackett Fischer, in his book Liberty and Freedom: A Visual History of America's Founding Ideas, summarizes the attitude after Pearl Harbor:

Before December 7, 1941, many Americans believed that their freedom was safe and secure in the New World, far from the tyrannies of Asia and Europe. After the Japanese attack, American attitudes were never the same again. A determined enemy, deeply hostile to a free society, had projected his power across the widest ocean in the world and struck a heavy blow without warning. The lesson was very clear. Friends of liberty and freedom must always be alert, and stronger than their enemies.

At any rate, he went to fight in the Pacific Theater. He put himself into the line of fire so often, and so deeply into the mouth of Hell, that he earned five Purple Hearts for his wounds, and two Silver Stars and a Bronze Star for his bravery. And for the rest of his life he suffered from migraines, spinal pain, and the aftereffects of malaria.

But he never let the horrors he had to witness get in the way of his determination to succeed, his rather coarse sense of humor, his enjoyment of life. He had good reasons to celebrate his freedom. He paid for it.

FLOWERFULL

Arrangement and Photography by Catherine King. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form.