EN GRIEGO CANTAN LOS PÁJAROS: BAR+WHISKEY+BLUES=DECISION

You've got to fuck a great many women
beautiful women
and write a few decent love poems.
And don't worry about age
and/or freshly-arrived talents.
Just drink more beer,
more and more beer
and attend the racetrack at least once a
week
and win
if possible.
Learning to win is hard -
any slob can be a good loser.
And don't forget your Brahms
and your Bach and your
beer.
Don't overexercise.
Sleep until moon.
Avoid paying credit cards
or paying for anything on
time.
Remember that there isn't a piece of ass
in this world over $50
(in 1977).
And if you have the ability to love,
love yourself first;
but always be aware of the possibility of
total defeat
whether the reason for that defeat
seems right or wrong -
an early taste of death is not necessarily
a bad thing.
Stay out of churches and bars and museums,
and like the spider be patient
time is everybody's cross,
plus
exile,
defeat ,
treachery,
all that dross;
stay with the beer,
beer is continuous blood,
a continuous lover.
Get a large typewriter
and as the footsteps go up and down
outside your window
hit that thing
hit it hard
make it a heavyweight fight
make it the bull when he first charges in
and remember the old dogs
who fought so well:
Hemingway, Celine, Dostoevsky, Hamsun.
If you think they didn't go crazy
in tiny rooms
just like you're doing now
without women
without food
without hope;
then you're not ready.
Drink more beer.
there's time.
and if there's not
that's all right
too.

EL EXTRAJERO.

-¿QUÉ ES LO QUE MÁS AMAS, hombre enigmático? Dime: ¿a tu padre, a tu madre, a tu hermana o a tu hermano?
-No tengo padre, ni madre, ni hermana, ni hermano.
-¿Y tus amigos?
-Os servís de palabras que hasta hoy me han sido desconocidas.
-¿Tu patria?
-Ignoro en qué latitud esté situada.
-¿La belleza?
-La amaría de buen grado, deidan inmortal.
-¿El oro?
-Lo odio tanto como vos odiáis a Dios.
-Entonces, ¿qué es lo que amas, extraordinario extranjero?
-Amo las nubes...la nubes que pasan..allá lejos...allá lejos. ¡Las maravillosas nubes!

El Spleen de Paris. Ch. Baudelaire.

DiCeN qUe DiCeN

(...)Hemingway participó en numerosas y memorables batallas, principalmente en la de la selva de Hurtgen, cerca de la frontera alemana, que duró cerca de dieciocho días y en la que pereció casi la totalidad del 22° Regimiento. Hemingway permaneció con el Regimiento hasta el término de la batalla, y compartío, dice Malcom Cowley, "todos sus peligros y penalidades, excepto la privación del alcohol. Para impedir esta desventura final, llevaba consigo dos 'cantinas' en el cinturón. Gott-mit-uns que le había quitado a un alemán muerto. Una estaba llena de Gin y la otra de Vermouth, y de ambas extraía potentes Martinis".