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Future Conditional: A Short Time Teaching in Cuba

Future Conditional: A Short Time Teaching in Cuba FUTURE CONDITIONAL A Short Time Teaching in Cuba Jeff McMahon THE TOURIST I want you to go to Cuba. Assuming you are a North American, assuming you travel not simply to acquire material things, and assuming that the melancholy of vanishing ways of life, different from your own, affects you. I have been to Cuba only twice, for a total of little more than two weeks, so these are the notes of a visitor, a theatre artist steeped in European traditions who swims in the distilled water of the avant-garde and tends to look East, at the rare moments when time is found to look in any direction other than inward. I should open this with music, but will begin with money. On my last day in Havana, I took out cash to pay for something, something I wanted but probably did not need; I’m an American, after all. My 1923 silver dollar money clip, inherited from my father, gripped too hard, unwilling to trespass against the embargo, and so the dollar bill ripped apart, shaving off Washington’s right side (we should be so lucky). George W. (the original) lay bisected on the café table. My Cuban handler http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png PAJ: A Journal of Performance and Art MIT Press

Future Conditional: A Short Time Teaching in Cuba

PAJ: A Journal of Performance and Art , Volume 27 (3) – Sep 1, 2005

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Publisher
MIT Press
Copyright
© 2005 Jeff McMahon
Subject
Feature
ISSN
1520-281X
eISSN
1537-9477
DOI
10.1162/pajj.2005.27.3.1
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

FUTURE CONDITIONAL A Short Time Teaching in Cuba Jeff McMahon THE TOURIST I want you to go to Cuba. Assuming you are a North American, assuming you travel not simply to acquire material things, and assuming that the melancholy of vanishing ways of life, different from your own, affects you. I have been to Cuba only twice, for a total of little more than two weeks, so these are the notes of a visitor, a theatre artist steeped in European traditions who swims in the distilled water of the avant-garde and tends to look East, at the rare moments when time is found to look in any direction other than inward. I should open this with music, but will begin with money. On my last day in Havana, I took out cash to pay for something, something I wanted but probably did not need; I’m an American, after all. My 1923 silver dollar money clip, inherited from my father, gripped too hard, unwilling to trespass against the embargo, and so the dollar bill ripped apart, shaving off Washington’s right side (we should be so lucky). George W. (the original) lay bisected on the café table. My Cuban handler

Journal

PAJ: A Journal of Performance and ArtMIT Press

Published: Sep 1, 2005

There are no references for this article.