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Castrolence


#1

Finally he had been left alone. Stooped, his perfect Greek profile had now become like that of a vulture. A kind of unkind condor. Carrion claws dripping with his own feces, a layer of bacteriostatic containment. I’m talking about biology. About beauty, that is. And I am, of course, talking about him.

There is a certain sense of classical wisdom in the birds of prey. Something noble in their adapted gestures of eating cadavers. A symptom that life never ends. These are cynical cycles. A circus. A puppet show for the peanut gallery. You have to bewitch and beguile the masses with something. They cannot be left alone, not even by silence. An act of prestidigitation. A word of faith, of fidelity. And in that he has always been much more than insurmountable. He was him. That was enough for him; that was enough for us.

Give me an F, give me an I, give me a D, give me an E, give me an L … What’s that spell?

He is not even remotely senile, as his enemies from halfway around the globe and within the island itself will say. He is simply alone, comrades. Alone in body and soul in an unrecognizable world, surrounded by reminiscent faces. An autistic autocrat. Traces of the most intimate totalitarianism of all, from the cradle. The key words from Citizen Kastro: rosebud, revolution …

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