Don't make me go there anymore

8-03-06
Maybe Fidel is dead. He is the greatest leader of all time. Or, he is a tyrant. The Cuban revolution's upward trend is that it's moved wealth distribution, access to resources, justice centuries forward; its downward trend that to do so it has been represive, been forced to resemble its own oppressors who have been blockading the economy and militarily undermining the Cuban state.
If he dies it feels all will be for nothing, the US will invade, corrupt, destroy, bring back the burdelo.

Old Nestor died. He won't be on the stoop of his house smiling, joking, making the block feel like a Puerto Rican pueblo. Alfredo didn't find out in time about the wake. T is back on drugs. El mundo sigue gastandose.

The gusanos are rejoicing in Little Havana. They believe Fidel is already dead.

What runs through my mind is the terror of having to go back to my job. I am disappointed that after discharging systematically for five days at the Open Workshop, doing physical counseling for the first time, having time with Corinne, I am still stuck with the feeling that going back to my job next Monday will make me die. The recording is: don't make me go, say I don't have to go.

And I don't know how to get started writing again. After working on my writing systematically in every single session, after J read my own words back to me and contradicted my disconnection from them, my sense that even I don't know what the words mean, that the words that made some sense when I was setting them down are humiliating or unintelligible when I try to read them again.

I'll start today by reading the very first section aloud, slowly,