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One day, a November and three friends ...

November 2008, 1:30 a.m.

*

November nights usually ironic in the truest sense of the word obtuse and in turn embrace the full meaning of a rainy afternoon, the time covered by the memory and nostalgia, are the first rogue incentives to reflect that there was an afterlife or the long distance say, "the less there." The uncertainty of happiness and the possibility of loneliness, converge on the mental breakdown of myself, the "Marxist history that concert," the "I will be not me." There, in the midst of this nothing affluent mysteries and mobs, not sitting in a chair, staring at a horizon not contemplating an infinity of truths and lies necessities of life, understand that you have friends or at least close to their bodies existence of simple or complex afformations, subjective sense and objective love, laughter and seas, sweat, tears and gall.

Darkness is

the light beam more clear thinking, and meditation produces exciting effervescence hearts of the false poets and rhymes are known. How bitter is the life without the authorities close to our existence, living substances, referred to by the accident of the abnormal.

November showed me three pictures, three features of the imagination evening, three parts of my uncertainty, three times to show.

I

How sweet it is to be surrounded by the implications of a poet friend, who in their frenzies of a thousand loves and passions of a thousand absurd grudges, close your word in hand, heard by an old heart vain. How hopeful are you friend poet! In the midst of your poems are short peace in hearts and bitter infertile vague thoughts of yesterday's hostage. How kind of you friend poet! Your tunes made argento syllables, moved by the pure volcanoes of anger and valleys of beautiful singing harmonies. How naive you are a friend poet!, Thinking that with the beautiful lyrics and literature obese, you can redeem or bring happiness to the souls bitter, dark by their evil lives, and yet ... How wonderful you are a friend poet!, For your hope and indifference to the tragedy or joy of life and death dead in life, the evil smile of crooked princesses and ladies in waiting to show his shame at the height of their skirts, the cure incurable and grotesque, of the Moors in Spain, Hispanics in Teotihuacan. How

friend are a poet! What a poet you friend! How much life is in us! ... Today not find you in my lyrics, you're not on the seat no poet, no pairs of lines, or think of obscene literature, do not let the music of Dvorak.

II

reflections No, stop Kierkegaard's time, not quarrel more to Heidegger, Nietzsche did not go crazy, provides calm, do not imitate Siddhartha. Do not give me crap friend thinker of transcendence of man do not understand what my stupidity so simple? My existence is not complicated What is the substance of your thoughts mate? What thoughts do you think if I take to a more ideal, more relaxed, more full of peace? Long troubles my heart, you filled the wilderness turned into endless questions Why do you care a lot about life? Why dig when? Why define the method? investigate why me? Why define God? Why do you care about consciousness?
However, I thank you friend thinker, but the thought is ambiguous and lacking in meditation - and I say because my understanding is not lacking treats dialectic of both talked me-there are several I thank you for allowing me to see outside the bubble in which the "we" perceive realities of others, a look at "other", a reason beyond the systemic logic, a simple and detailed understanding of my condition Cartesian universe.

Every weekend visit el café de nuestras tontas e irracionales charlas, donde tú me atormentabas con las aseveraciones de la filosofía y las crueldades epistemológicas de la ciencia y de la vida. Nunca me hubieras mentado a Comte, aún me molesta el dogma científico, prefiero mil y una veces a mi amigo el poeta,   no por sus letras, si no porque sin saber filosofar comprende mejor la vida que la filosofía, tú bien sabes que Comte nunca incursionó bien en ninguna de las dos…
¡Que momentos aquellos! Tus ojos destellaban hirsutas miradas cuando mentabas a Hegel, tus manos tomaban furtivamente la copa de esos vinos de Leipzig,   seguías tratando to refute the subjective perceptions of the idea and matter. How angry you were with Hegel.

Now that knowledge has won the race and I could not reach it, I realize sad friend, thinking of obviousness. I know what the philosophers do not cry, think, and that the offenses for which they are not syllogisms poorly made, but believe me friend, that as man is perishable, it is vain, never occurred to you explain the immortality, we are now paying the consequences.
Thanks buddy, your hand has guided philosophical incipient to enjoy my feet no knowledge of my consciousness for no reason and logic is not supreme, it is worth tell you about too many paths taken by the assumption, by my old ways in the philosophy of error, there I found peace of mind not charmed my soul, then I am more than happy, I am stern, try to be, I'm not crazy partner, recalls that taught me one hundred sophistries, the only one understood what "not to be when they exist, when there is, being if not exist", hence the importance of that in the end did not understand the structure, but it the message of denial to think that would readily understand. In other words, old friend, there is no pure philosophy, there are different ways of life and conceptual paths method no discussion, no love in the silence, no logic, there are obvious, there is no existence, there is a being, there is no me, there are a circumstance, there is no you, there's no I in you, no have, there is actually a vanity, a sigh, a joy, a freedom of life.

III

The stars claim their queen, they know that today will not always converge at the same time, waiting for the same appointment, the lady looking silver unorthodox cosmic smile . My disappointment in November begins to feel the grief of runaway climate and contractions of incordura of non-chair, demanding to continue with the last friend, the friend at night, the companion of all, he who cares when the levels of unconsciousness are greater than the reverse.

The flash of light, moved all mental processes, as is philosophical, poetic accent, his company unique, no need of thought or of prose, no creating logical lines and even less songs, more, madness and the poet seems to have with my friend, so is silence, call him lover. Whether it is written, four paragraphs, two prolepsis, three Hail Marys and a mockery of the tavern, but none resembles his presence, a friend of them is the uniqueness of two consciousnesses matching each other, not call Elena, but finds the weaknesses vilest of men, can not find a clear name for it no nickname could describe the wonder of your stay on this earth do case is Mary? It is possible if the signifier of it does not lose the connotation of the image described by anyone in the labyrinth of coincidence.

This time I'll call Mary, just by coincidence with what I said and what you think. My friend Mary, do not consider this as a poem, or as something busy a la reflexión, empecemos a hablar de otro tipo de lenguaje, tampoco sugiero la trova de Alejandro Santiago ó tus favoritos de Serrano, de esas algarabías de Filio o Aute, de Silvio o Delgadillo. El lenguaje que me enseñaste es una institución condicional de lo que parece ser, es, y es muy posible que será, no olvides el código de las incoherencias, de esas donde el batiscafo es más que un submarino y el abismo más que un espacio obscuro y vacío. No sueltes mi mano María, no sueltes el espacio de esperanza. Hoy no recuerdo tu nombre, pero sí tus manos, puede ser que no existas, pero ¿A quién le importa? ¿Si la memoria no está en la silla? ¿De qué hablamos cuándo cantamos friend? What did you think when you bañabas in exile of solitude immersed in the seas of the Caribbean? Benedetti Do not think about my dear, Botija never cried, Goethe was confused, I do not know whether lecturing or talking in his sleep, just make out the study with food.

Today is a right to prevail in the extravagant celebration of the dawn. Thanks friend, to complete what was not mine, and show the scars of the almond eyes marked on the water where it did not rain. Although it is monotonous, as the poet will tell you: How kind of you mate! abscissa provoking my mind, How good you are! loving day, princess at night; How delicious you are! posthumous my pillow and shameless of hearts, Queen of perfect play checkers and chess, I think of you as believe in stones, believe in your word, as I believe in the sheets of the room, believe in your claridez for me as I believe in ghosts.

not play with me friend, and not thinking too much, you could be like my friend the philosopher, is still thinking that knowledge is an end unto itself. Mary Do not you want revenge? Forgive me if he "still I love you" is a sequel and repetition human, do not lose hope that there is something divine and I hope your vengeance in the afterlife, while I will be patient with the pillow near the horizon not in a chair.

**

may I arrived early in November, would not imagine many things for my four friends, the only four friends, who will not let me on the boat, but in the bar, I prefer the cognac whiskey, let not this time to meditate on the bench and watching the window without stars, perhaps you can return in October to November, November may never come, tomorrow will buy a chair.