I met Ulysses and Carlos last night outside the building where I used to live in Manhattan. They were high as usual, sitting on the doorsteps holding Morris, the aging pit-bull. Ulysses had lost his front tooth during a fight and I could tell he was ashamed, trying to cover the hole with his tongue while we were talking; his face was swollen. Carlos was playing classical Spanish guitar and both were drinking cheap rum mixed with wild fruit punch. Ulysses is a warm-hearted guy, living a fucked-up life, sponsored by a former Jesuit who pays for his drugs hoping to compensate for all the terrible things that happened to Ulysses during his childhood. It’s sad and hopeless.

Laura is using silver string to make herself a ring and Oscar is speaking out loud while resting on the red sofa. We listen to a Chicano hip-hop song. Laura lost her job as a result of the economic recession and is moving back to Mexico next week leaving us without our home-based architect. Maria is moving in next Tuesday.

I read two inspiring art news last week: Ms. Ceballos earns $100 a month and owns one of the only truly independent art galleries in Havana. She has helped to launch the career of some of the most important Cuban artists showing their work in her own living room.
A collective art show in Damascus holds pieces from Iraqi artists that sought refuge in Syria. During an interview with the Financial Times Abbas al-Amar, the painter organizing the exhibition said, "If people start planting roses again, I will go home to Iraq. People who are planting roses are also thinking and dreaming."