SECTION TWO

The Blacklisted Journalist PictureThe Blacklisted Journalistsm

COLUMN FORTY-NINE, SEPTEMBER 1, 1999
(Copyright © 1999 Al Aronowitz)

THE SAGA OF MANUEL MENÉNDEZ (CONT'D.)


MANUEL MENÉNDEZ

PART 13: BLUE, BLUE AND BLUER YET

Manuel likes grass just as much as I do and so I fixed him up with my own personal Alice B. Toklas. My lungs are too shot for me to smoke joints any more and so Alice bakes me an occasional cookie, but that's no big thing. Manuel also drinks a lot and he's been daydreaming about winning the Planeta Prize for new Spanish literature. I keep trying to wake him up to reality by pissing on his daydreams, which are taking him on a roller coaster ride worse than the New York Mets gave us fans. Some 20 years my junior, Manuel claims to be in a lot worse shape than I am. Physical wreck that I am, I'm ready to believe him, but then I've never been tortured in prison. But let Manuel resume his own story, as told to me in his email to me and to Andrew Hill, a friend I've met on the Internet who's become a friend of Manuel.

Subject: Feeling blue
Date: Wed, 28 Jul 1999 16:30:46 PDT
From: "manuel menendez"
To: info@blacklistedjournalist.com
CC: Andrew.Hill@capgemini.co.uk

29/7/99.
Dear Mr. Al:
Yesterday I finish the roach of the joint Alice B. Toklas sent me. I can't write without the boost, the stimuli 222of a few beers and some TM. And isolate myself even if temporarily from my problems and my surroundings. And I'm afraid I have put too much hope in this literary prize. It happened to me before, in Australia and with the UN, that the jury ignored me and gave the prizes to assholic pieces.

But I see no other fucking future, Mr. Al. Nine months with this hand like a claw, which I plain can't use, and don't know if I'll ever recover it. It's impossible to live on welfare, they give you the equivalent of 100 dollars a fortnight, and with the incredible cost of living here it's impossible to make ends meet. In this European Union country, where the food is thrown to the sea to keep the prices high, I'm fucking malnourished. How can it be otherwise if a package of cigarettes costs £4, a metrocard for the day, £5, and a beer £1.25.
This city is wonderful, beautiful, yes, if you have money. If not, if you have to live in a ghetto like this one, in a stifling room, it's another matter. It's sordid, squalid. Should I win the prize I want to travel to Amsterdam, Scotland and Dublin. But right now it's like going to the moon. I would buy this rooming house, keep the two rooms in the main floor for myself, and rent the rest to students, young cool people, at least to hear human voices. And I would buy a big TV, a VCR and suscribe myself to the cable. And an Aprilia 250 cc motorbike. Ah, well, pipe-dreams. Loneliness is driving me nuts.
Manuel.-

* * *

Subject: O.J. Simpson arrived
Date: Wed, 11 Aug 1999 10:15:34 PDT
From: "manuel menendez"
To: info@blacklistedjournalist.com

11/8/99.

Dear Mr. Al:

Tell Alice B. Toklas thanks for her kind present, nay, her gasoline, Coney Island of the Mind, indispensable for my writing. I'll write longer during the weekend, it's much cheaper. Still dreaming about that Barcelona Prize, and ounces of Texas Medicine and hours of playing blackjack at Amsterdam Airport. And visiting you.
Loves you:

Manuel.-

* * *
Subject: I'm an asshole.
Date: Fri, 13 Aug 1999 12:10:44 PDT
From: "manuel menendez"
To: info@blacklistedjournalist.com

Friday 13th 8/99.

Maestro:

Of course I behaved like an asshole with this man who asked about Arnoldo Coro. But you see, a friend in Cincinnati told me that that guy Coro was a well-known State Security agent who works for the Cuban News Service, "Prensa Latina." It put me off. If you can, send me address of the guy, I'll write an e-mail to him, cross my heart.
Manuel.-

* * *
Subject: Pipe dreams, literally
Date: Sat, 14 Aug 1999 12:21:43 PDT
From: "manuel menendez"
To: info@blacklistedjournalist.com
CC: andrew.hill@capgemini.co.uk

Sábado, August 14, 99.

Cher Maitre:

Yesterday Friday the 13th I sent a long, long e-mail I wished you to publish. I was stoned, wrote the wrong e-mail address, and threw the original down the garbage. Lost, irretrivable. I remember thanking Alice for the last three j's, which tided me over this ugly weekend.

I was explaing to you some fuzzy hopes and pipe dreams I have. If, the great "Iff", I win the "Planeta Prize" next October 15th. I'm counting the days, and it's like being in death row waiting for your literary execution, or rather lynching. But the winning novel gets $329,000. Enough to buy this whole Victorian rooming house, and rent the rooms and I won't ever have to work again in my whole life, or lack of anything.

Pipe dreams that keep me alive. And I was thinking of sowing my own marijuana garden. My backyard is not too big, but enough for 12 plants well camouflaged. I even selected the variety: "Northern Lights," a Dutch hybrid of 82% Indica and 18% Sativa, special for cold climates, with a 15-20% THC content, depending on the care. Stronger than the hash you get here. And that matures in only four months. You sow the seeds the 1st of May and are collecting by the end of August. I guess I'd harvest in all one and a half pounds, enough to keep me and my friends stoned the year round. For medical uses, you know, that's what I'll allege if caught by chance, but chances are almost nil. Helps my writing. Makes London dull, rainy weekends tolerable. I have AIDS of the mind, a cancer of the soul. And the only medication that helps me along is cannabinol.

Well take care. If the Gaseous Vertebrate wills, I'll send you next year by Federal Express the English translation of "Iroko," my first novel, and an ounce of "Northern Lights." You know, the highest percentage of Sativa in the hybrid, the greater the creative power. The Indica only stones, but the Sativa opens the pineal gland.

Later on tonight I'll finish and send you a homosexual short story I was writing for this gay magazine in San Francisco I used to write for, "Hombres Latinos." It's entitled "Death wish in Acapulco."
Love: Manuel.-

* * *
Subject: Hash oil
Date: Sun, 15 Aug 1999 11:58:29 PDT
From: "manuel menendez"
To: info@blacklistedjournalist.com

Sunday 15/8/99.

Maestro:

I'm doing some research in the Web for the present novel, about hash oil.
1) Have you ever smoked it?
2) How? By what means?
3) The effects you perceived.

Manuel.-

* * *
Subject: Decadent ceremonials
Date: Mon, 16 Aug 1999 10:55:27 PDT
From: "manuel menendez"
To: andrew.hill@capgemini.co.uk
CC: info@blacklistedjournalist.com

18/09/99.

Dear Andrew:

You are absolutely right, as usual. This is, as I told you, a pipe dream. But somehow there's inside me a certainty I'm going to grab my hands into that pot: £202,000 pounds sterling in coin of the realm. And I'm going to, find a three room flat in London, or in Manchester for that matter, a lot cheaper. And I'll live in one room. Take one room for my office and bedroom, and grow weed---not hydroponic, too complicated---and grow it indoors. I have consulted a lot of Websites, and learned a lot of facts in the process. In two rooms I can grow a sizable crop, including such tropical varieties as "White Widow." Where I can control all the factors: soil, watering and light. I have learned a lot, blelieve me,
With the prize money I guess I could buy a big flat, right here. And dedicate two rooms to the plants. Enough for my own needs and to sell by the ounce. And to keep my friends stoned the year round. Selected, pedigreed stuff, with 20% cannabinol content, as strong as hash. Sowing outdoors is too much hassle. Haphazard. Too many inquisitive neighbors.

What I request at the bottom of mt heart right now is the letter---50 days hence---that tells me I won. And that I won't have to worry about dough for the rest of my life. So I could concentrate on a new novel, or a new variety. And live in cyberspace, stoned for the rest of my life.
Manuel.-

* * *
Subject: Schadenfreude.
Date: Wed, 18 Aug 1999 11:38:03 PDT
From: "manuel menendez"
To: info@blacklistedjournalist.com
CC: andrew.hill@capgemini.co.uk

18/8/99.

Mr. Al:

Sometimes I wonder if you are my friend or if you hate my guts. Pipe-dreams, perhaps, but this is not like betting on the Lottery. I presented a mature work, a readable, interesting novel, in which I employ many new resources from the linguistic point of view. I doubt that anyone is going to send a better novel. It's possible that there will be chicanery, but what nobody can deny is the value of the work per se, its originality, and the elegance of the prose, if I may say so myself. And written in Spanish, where there's no serious competition to speak of. I wish you could read the garbage they have given prizes to. 47 days to go yet, and the uncertainty is a-killin' me. It's like being on Death Row, waiting for the last appeals. I write to you, and you won't even take the trouble of answering decently: a scathing remark, and then press Reply. Too much hassle. By the way Schadenfreude is a German word which means you feel glad when somebody else suffers a disaster. Don't trample on my hopes and ask Alice to send me a j instead.
Manuel.-

* * *
Subject: Brave New World
Date: Fri, 20 Aug 1999 09:32:44 PDT
From: "manuel menendez"
To: info@blacklistedjournalist.com
CC: andrew.hill@capgemini.co.uk

Friday, 20/8/99.

Dear Mr. Al:

First things first: I did get the three j's you mention, which were a blessing, by the way, and tided me over the nightmarish fuckin' weekend. You know, mite, you're wise beyond your years: It's stupid to jerk off oneself mentally, or to trust a jury in a literary contest where editorial policies prevail. And petty rivalries, backstabbing and sheer envy. I know I have the goods to deliver, better than any crap they are publishing. But there are 7 juries, and who knows who they are pushing for.

The problem is that I'm 10 years ahead. In English literature you have things like "Trainspotting," with four-words galore. But it ain't the same to say "dick" in English as it is to say "pinga" in Spanish. Or for that matter to use the Castillian word "FOLLAR," for fucking, than say "singar" in the Cuban dialect, which sounds much more offensive. English is a naive language. You see, you cut yourself shaving, and you expostulate: "Me cago en la resingá madre de dios," which means "I take a crap on the motherfucking mother of god." Only worse. See? There are no equivalencies. And what you say it’s right. When I have a couple of Super-lagers what I wrote seems great, but once sober I bounce to the other side of the spectrum: uncertainty, the feeling of having wasted my time, of having exerted my mind in vain. The only artificial paradise that holds the truth, Nirvana, is cannabis, and not the Indica variety, but the Sativa, the one given in massive quantities to the virgin minds of 12-year-old monks who serve as oracles. Right now I wish I were high as a kite, to expand my consciousness beyond the borders of reality, space and time, constricting, asphixiating.
Take care:

Manuel.-

* * *
Subject: Bestower of peace
Date: Fri, 20 Aug 1999 10:41:17 PDT
From: "manuel menendez"
To: info@blacklistedjournalist.com
CC: RMadri7239@aol.com

20/8/99.

Caro Maestro:

Magister, Adonai, Bestower of Peace, may Allah or Yahwe in their infinite mercy grant you the most luscious fruits and more voluptuous huris of paradise recovered. I was going to throw the garbage, and looking again amidst the junk mail I found an envelope from Alice with two j's inside. No shit: I dropped on my knees, and knocked my head on the rug, and gave thanks to what Stephen Hawking---the greatest mind in the history of mankind, greater even than Einstein---called the mastermind of universe. Whatever that means. Thanks to Alice's godsend j's I escaped this awful Friday, and tide over the weekend. Another one, and I hate them. I just sent you an e-mail, before I found them. And I was saying that hope is a waste of time. I know well, because it has happened twice before. But if against all chances I do win, you, Andy and myself are going to spend the rest of our natural lives stoned. Ich Liebe dich, meine Lehrer.
Manuel.-

* * *
Subject: 2nd. Novel, great review.
Date: Sun, 22 Aug 1999 15:26:49 PDT
From: "manuel menendez"
To: info@blacklistedjournalist.com

22/8/99.

Caro Maestro:

On the contrary, you are absolutely right: it's senseless to put all your hopes in one basket, knowing how dirty is the publishing business. And besides, I'm not a lucky guy. But this I tell you: If it's not the "Planeta," it will be the "Alfaguara" instead. And if not this novel, the next. I sent some chapters to a critic, a Cuban friend in Cincinnati, and he was delighted, and amazed at how I'm reconstructing these decadent decades of Special Period in Havana. I take his opinion very seriously: if it were shit, he would tell me with no vaseline. So there's hope. But this I promise: if I do win I'm going to publish 1,000 copies of your memoirs; that's to start with. It's not so expensive really: every copy, with a glossy cover and good paper and an ISBN, costs you $2.70, even less, depending on the amount. This I give you my word. The only person who really loves me in this fucking world is you. I lost my parents, and I have lost my whole family, my daughter included. But you are always there like a rock of ages. Sure, ironic and bitter sometimes. But now, in the hour of my deepest need, I'm getting stoned in this lonely Sunday thanks to you.
Loves you always:

Manuel.-

* * *
Subject: Anagnorisis
Date: Mon, 30 Aug 1999 05:28:12 PDT
From: "manuel menendez"
To: info@blacklistedjournalist.com

30/8/99.

Caro Maestro:

The anagnorisis was the climax of the Greek tragedy, when the hero discovers the truth. Like in Sophocle's "Edipus Rex." When Edipus, trying to purge Athens of a terrible plague decreed by the gods, discovers he had unknowingly slain his own father, and is living in incest with his own mother, Yocasta. That moment of truth, that realization, fell on me this morning when I awoke like the blow of a sledge hammer: I'm not going to win fucking anything, and my life is going to be shit just like now. Without paliative of any kind, living cold turkey the everyday reality of the humiliating welfare the powerful throw you like scraps to a dog, to keep him from going wild. With 41 pence in my pocket, 50 years old, and a hand like a claw, already atrophying. But my intentions were pure, and the first thing I was going to do with that prize money was to publish your book, with an ISBN that guaranteed it'd be in the Library of Congress catalog, and therefore on Barnes & Noble and Amazon.com lists. Bad` luck for me and for you too.
I wish I were dead.


Manuel.-

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