guaguanpiano

visto en el Guamá

crónicas marcianas

caricaturas de TRINO

SIN imaginable

si en algún momento de mi vida hubiera yo sentido admiración por este despreciable tipo, hoy me sentiría tan timada, ofendida, indignada al leer estas líneas de las dos últimas llamadas "reflexiones" del autor --esos escupitajos que de kilométricos ahora son jeroglíficos eructados con el peor fecal aliento bucomental de un dictator que a sus 86 años está ya acostumbrado al aplauso gratuito, a la lisonjería falsa, traidora y destructiva resultado de la cobardía derrotista de todo un pueblo hecho trizas por los miles de errores e ideas caóticas que ha tenido el susodicho en 54 años--, quien las firma sin la menor intención de aprovechar las últimas bocanadas de aire que le quedan en este mundo para rectificar hacia su país y pueblo con un tilín de dignidad para salvarse un tin del peso de esa "historia" --que lo juzgará sin la menor compasión absolutoria-- que pronto dejará atrás como la peor época  de la isla de Cuba, de las tantas que ha tenido desde que un cegato navegante la llamara las más fermosa... 

y si yo no fuera una cubana más que lo odia --alguien que piensa que estos parrafitos son simplemente las salpicaduras de la explosión por autocombustión de toda la petrificada mierda acumulada en su bolsa de colostomía, derritiendo así el grueso depósito de la cagalera de mentiras, manipulaciones y egopedos de su soez reino como dictador supremo de mi país durante más de medio siglo-- y fuera entonces yo cualquier europea, latinoamericana o tal vez mexicana más o menos de izquierda que lee todos los días La Jornada, considerado uno de los mejores diarios del que sería entonces mi país (por no decir de toda Latinoamérica, yo una ciudadana plural de todo un continente que se enorgullece de que ese diario sea representante de la libertad de prensa y de expresión que sé, pero no divulgo por temor a que me llamen "de derechas", que el dictador cubano no concede en su país a su gente, a su prensa), yo entonces, ciudadana del mundo sentiría tanta vergüenza ajena, tanta lástima hacia los cubanos y tanto asco hacia ese símbolo degenerado en pronosticador de devastadoras guerras, ese ícono politiquimierdero que sólo sabe culpar y nunca aceptar el propio error, ese pasquín de lemitas de sociobaratijas y postura comunista de pacotilla con cuero mercedes benz en el asiento, ese caudillo embarrado de sangre hasta la médula quien burlándose ante el mundo, se cree con absoluto derecho de que le publiquen cuanto disparate se le ocurre en la prensa libre de mi país ficticio sin que ningún editor, libre-pensante-demócrata, levante la voz y diga "sabes qué, ésta no, pinche güey"...

pero no, yo sólo soy una cubana más que lo odia y lo desprecia. y que aquí quede dicho, otra vez.

roAndo

ROA in Miami @unurth : more by ROA

saboreAndo

suin a la colombiana

aniversario guamañanga

Periódico Guamá, el órgano oficial del que ha partido, cumple 4 añitos... aquí su primera portada, de las mejores entre muchas extraordinarias y muévete, con Guamá, siempre en contra de toda opresión

cornelizLAdesliza

Cornelis_Cornelisz_van_Haarlem_-_Een_monnik_en_een_begijn_-_1590

ponmeLAmano

Manolito Simonet y su Trabuco tocan Macorinacon Nicolas "Pescao" en solo de violin, en Roma junio 2011

conGAylineS

SUMmertiME

prudenciaCONLAprensa

damiselas encantadoras...

cubaencuentro Berta Soler: “Lo más importante es que el cardenal nos pudo escuchar”

Yoani Sánchez ‏@yoanisanchez #Cuba "Tengan mucho cuidado al dar declaraciones, q la prensa todo lo manipula" les dijo el Cardenal a las @DamasdBlanco :-0 @el_pais 
 
Más Declaraciones en video de BERTA Soler a Yoani Sánchez @El País 

cubanet Soler califica de “diálogo abierto” la reunión con Ortega

ySINembargo

Y sin embargo…

un texto de om ulloa en Penúltimos Días, blog de asuntos cubanos

Siempre, desde que entendí lo que era, me opuse al embargo estadounidense a(l gobierno de) Cuba. Siempre opiné, dondequiera que surgía, que el único beneficiado de esa ley era el desgobierno castrista y sus secuaces, además de los desfachatados comerciantes del producto “tema cubano” que residen fuera de Cuba, cubanos y extranjeros, y viven de la desgracia de un país y sus ciudadanos. Tenía(tengo) bien claro que el embargo era(es) la gran muleta de Castros y Cía., por igual. El único bloqueado era(es) “el pueblo cubano”, mi gente… más o menos. Ahora pienso lo mismo, pero opino que no es el momento apropiado de levantarlo, el embargo. No, ahora no, de eso estoy convencida. Y sin embargo, lo siento por esa gente que tal vez pudiera ser mía, de ambos lados compatriotas, pero no; ahora que se vislumbra un fin —aunque no sea El Fin—, no se vale. SIGUE AQUÍ

orqueCUBAmusiMOD

textsFORnothing

Texts for nothing #4 

Samuel Beckett

Where would I go, if I could go, who would I be, if I could be, what would I say, if I had a voice, who says this, saying it's me? Answer simply, someone answer simply. It's the same old stranger as ever, for whom alone accusative I exist, in the pit of my inexistence, of his, of ours, there's a simple answer. It's not with thinking he'll find me, but what is he to do, living and bewildered, yes, living, say what he may. Forget me, know me not, yes, that would be the wisest, none better able than he. Why this sudden affability after such desertion, it's easy to understand, that's what he says, but he doesn't understand. I'm not in his head, nowhere in his old body, and yet I'm there, for him I'm there, with him, hence all the confusion. That should have been enough for him, to have found me absent, but it's not, he wants me there, with a form and a world, like him, in spite of him, me who am everything, like him who is nothing. And when he feels me void of existence it's of his he would have me void, and vice versa, mad, mad, he's mad. The truth is he's looking for me to kill me, to have me dead like him, dead like the living. He knows all that, but it's no help his knowing it, I don't know it, I know nothing. He protests he doesn't reason and does nothing but reason, crooked, as if that could improve matters. He thinks words fail him, he thinks because words fail him he's on his way to my speechlessness, to being speechless with my speechlessness, he would like it to be my fault that words fail him, of course words fail him. He tells his story every five minutes, saying it is not his, there's cleverness for you. He would like it to be my fault that he has no story, of course he has no story, that's no reason for trying to foist one on me. That's how he reasons, wide of the mark, but wide of what mark, answer us that. He has me say things saying it's not me, there's profundity for you, he has me who say nothing say it's not me. All that is truly crass. If at least he would dignify me with the third person, like his other figments, not he, he'll be satisfied with nothing less than me, for his me. When he had me, when he was me, he couldn't get rid of me quick enough, I didn't exist, he couldn't have that, that was no kind of life, of course I didn't exist, any more than he did, of course it was no kind of life, now he has it, his kind of life, let him lose it, if he wants to be in peace, with a bit of luck. His life, what a mine, what a life, he can't have that, you can't fool him, ergo it's not his, it's not him, what a thought, treat him like that, like a vulgar Molloy, a common Malone, those mere mortals, happy mortals, have a heart, land him in that shit, who never stirred, who is none but me, all things considered, and what things, and how considered, he had only to keep out of it. That's how he speaks, this evening, how he has me speak, how he speaks to himself, how I speak, there is only me, this evening, here, on earth, and a voice that makes no sound because it goes towards none, and a head strewn with arms laid down and corpses fighting fresh, and a body, I nearly forgot. This evening, I say this evening, perhaps it's morning. And all these things, what things, all about me, I won't deny them any more, there's no sense in that any more. If it's nature perhaps it's trees and birds, they go together, water and air, so that all may go on, I don t need to know the details, perhaps I'm sitting under a palm. Or it's a room, with furniture, all that's required to make life comfortable, dark, because of the wall outside the window. What am I doing, talking, having my figments talk, it can only be me. Spells of silence too, when I listen, and hear the local sounds, the world sounds, see what an effort I make, to be reasonable. There's my life, why not, it is one, if you like, if you must, I don't say no, this evening. There has to be one, it seems, once there is speech, no need of a story, a story is not compulsory, just a life, that's the mistake I made, one of the mistakes, to have wanted a story for myself, whereas life alone is enough. I'm making progress, it was time, I'll learn to keep my foul mouth shut before I'm done, if nothing foreseen crops up. But he who somehow comes and goes, unaided from place to place, even though nothing happens to him, true, what of him? I stay here, sitting, if I'm sitting, often I feel sitting, sometimes standing, it's one or the other, or lying down, there's another possibility, often I feel lying down, it's one of the three, or kneeling. What counts is to be in the world, the posture is immaterial, so long as one is on earth. To breathe is all that is required, there is no obligation to ramble, or receive company, you may even believe yourself dead on condition you make no bones about it, what more liberal regimen could be imagined, I don't know, I don't imagine. No pomp under such circumstances in saying I am somewhere else, someone else, such as I am I have all I need to hand, for to do what, I don't know, all I have to do, there I am on my own again at last, what a relief that must be. Yes, there are moments, like this moment, when I seem almost restored to the feasible. Then it goes, all goes, and I'm far again, with a far story again, I wait for me afar for my story to begin, to end, and again this voice cannot be mine. That's where I'd go, if I could go, that's who I'd be, if I could be.