Small Harvy Post

He found this postcard:

DEAR HARVY,

I let you this note.
Visit me as well at

www.plattum.blogspot.com


I am sure you will find who is me.

With Love,

G>A>C>H


And then he closed his book and wiped the tears.

No junto a ti.

Al fondo un cielo arrojado con unas nubes que se esbozan en el horizonte.
En el plano inferior un pueblo costero, con nombre y poblaciones y vidas y conciencias. El reflejo del sol en el atardecer se posaba sobre tu cara, ardiente. Observas y te imaginas historias de su población. Piensas en tu país, en tu familia, quieres compartirlo. Tu paz interna recién encontrada y un respiro cortado al clic de la cámara. Y en ella una llamada “Ven te quiero mostrar lo que estoy viviendo”. Yo sonrío. Y me enfundes una paz en la desesperación de no terminar mis estudios para el examen de mañana. Estoy enfrente de la computadora y hago regresiones junto con mi libro de econometria al lado. Solo trato imaginarte en la combi, en el trayecto, en el niño y su pelota, en ti una vez mas observando como puedes hacerlo quieto y silencioso. Me gustaría estar allí junto, observando y en silencio saber que los dos observamos lo mismo. Si ya me di cuenta. Si ya me di cuenta.

Pasticce dell'storia Due di Due de Andrea di Carlo.

A beautiful room. Italian minimalist style. An essence of incense. Half Light. There was he, writing a letter. Handwritten of course, it was so personal and so out of fashion, and so him. It was not too extensive. He had just bought this elegant-recycled, refined- paper at Camden Market. He is concluding it now. Actually he is just writing the postal address. 141-A Portobello Road. London, UK. WS346. This letter was to Carla, the beautiful girl that he had met at Pescara at the Mare Tirreno. Both of them (he and his friend) were invited to a Settimana Spiaggia by Lehman Brothers. He just knew there was something pointing at his head. He could remember that old gypsy who was introduced by her mother- reading the Tarot. Definitely she could be the one she was told about, naïve as herself, all alone, all herself and a look of uncertainty. This girl that had blue eyes, long straight hair, angel face, and inner security.
He was there, writing so excitedly that he didn’t realise that time was passing by. That he was writing his destiny-history, that his Johny Walker Blue Label in his Bavarian glass had just finished and he had to stand up to serve himself some more. He was waiting for him, his friend to come back from the Waitrose. They were going to have dinner with Astrid and Marlette, two brokers from the City that they had just met during a conference at Stockholm.

The beautiful department at the middle of Nottin Hill, had been bought after their two successful years. They decided it was a bohemian-posh place where they could afford a peaceful and tranquil life in Central London. They furnished and unfurnished it several times, they tried to sell it, to rent it, to loan it for a movie. This apartment was stunning, this apartment was witness of the laces tied up with his partner, friend. There he comes his friend, unlocks, and finds his friends’ fifth hampster at the door. He came so excited because he just found J Stone at Harrods. He had bought duck, sun dried tomatoes, small quails, and vegetables ready to roast with a minty sauce. He was just thinking he was just in time to finish it by nine. –Two hours-, he thought and thought . His mind as always a mistery of claps and grasps, and in his mind the song Spaccacuore from Bersani.

He saw him there, writing. He gave him a hug, a small slap at the back. He always knew his friend was over-charismatic. He knew it from the moment they were together at the Mexican Caribbean. Mon amie how was your day… Excellent just spoke with Jacob from M&S, we will sign tomorrow. Excellent. I’ll hurry up ‘cause these ladies have to be impressed with my Cordon Bleu’s abilities. Yeah sure, your crap skills. Very Funny.

He started cooking. Some jazz. A candle. A delight to cook. A beautiful kitchen, with every single instrument there had to be in a Cooks kitchen. Of course a Cordon Blue one. And he was thinking in the girl his friend had met, he knew that letter was for her. A small sigh, and a slow whisper: This is the time. He knew soon it would change. Almost five years could change. He was happy, some months still to enjoy a same type of life. Jazz at the Trouvadour in Kensington, others time at Camden, the Fat Duck, weekends at diverse European Capitals, Favourite Milan, Paris with the Aunt, Elegant Boston, Crazy Amsterdam, his city Barcelona, St Tropez…and so Hong Kong, Qatar, Miami, skiing at Alberta, Shanghai, Melbourne, the Safari at Botswana, the emergency at Liverpool John Lennon Airport, the dream of visiting Reikjavik at Iceland, Lamas at Peru, the experience at Siberia-including this beautiful girl he accidentally slept with, -that great cruise at Pascua, Oaxacan Mixtec cultures, the semi kidnapped at Palermo with handsome Fabo. Those nights out looking to find a different flirt for both of them. Ladies and Gentlemen, life had to smile as we had been good. Thank god. But the life had been thresholds and milestones…
And milestones, good ones… they were. It was time to be happy.
Astrid and Marlette got late. It was Lord major’s parade. They had some different excuses. They looked great. Conversations about Marlette’s uncle vineyard festival at Rioja, about his mom’s latest Argentinian soap opera, the house at Playa, the high taxes, the new method to avoid becoming old, the prime minister, the life as singles (Where he had a pause-maybe thinking on her), and all those sort of topics you have with trendy wealthy educated beautiful girls.

The girls took a city cab. Actually both of them had enjoyed the night. Good company. And then… with a small JW Blue bottle he said. Lets go and have a walk at Hyde Park. Four o’clock, it would sunrise, only shadows. Two guys walk around Kensington, South Kensington, Kensington Palace, and then Hyde Park. Silence, only a tickling of clocks, sirens so far. There I was serene, the best friend. We were enjoying it, we had it all. We started to accumulate dreams and stories. I enjoyed the silence and was lulling random songs, only mumbling around.

It was getting nippy. No words. We knew exactly what was happening. And he was scared. That guy, admired and envied by many more. We sat on a bench, and listened to the bitter morning. After a while, covered his face with his hand and layed his head on my lap. So I know. I said. Breaking the ice. I don’t. He said. It is time. I don’t know. And then? What else? So the future? It smiles. Shall I break it? No. Continue it. You know what you were looking for. All those conversations remember? I do. Solitude. A little. Thinking. As always. Who is who? Yourself. The Gipsy. Fuck her. Try it. I will. Silence. And if it is not? I will be happier, but it will. Go. And you? You know me. Time. Slender Time. Indeed. Don’t think. We remained there for two hours.

Next day I bloody did not work. I woke up and fixed spicy breakfast for two. It was another normal day, except that I felt a flavour of doldrums. Nothing serious. We were going to savour our last days living together. And so we did.

Yesterday I died

Yesterday when I died, you cried in my burial. But I didn’t see you in any part from above. You cried in my burial, I tell you. But then you went with her and then… and then I felt like a piece of trash. Our love was so strange.

Now tell me why is our song still there. The radio and waves are lost.
I can see you from above.

We are not angels that came from the sky. We are just normal people that have to die.

My dreamt became truth, that bloody Chinese airplane crashed and I had forecasted it, or maybe my premonitions. I don’t understand why did not I tell you my true feelings, I guess I was a coward.

But you were with her… and then I felt wordless, my hands trembled every time and my heart beat and beat.

Now my question is, did you cry for love?

Now I wanted to know… cause it is worth it to know how did I die, loved or not. But I did loving.


There was a time were I felt that connection, were I did know it existed…
Now… may be it wasn’t.

As I dissipated as a soul and went further and further away from my corpse, then I understood, that it did not matter, that I did my part and that I enjoyed that uncertainty. My family treasured me and that was enough. You were part of my family.

No it is not worth it… Shh

I’ll see you in some years here with me.

Yesterday, I died.

For beeing such a good boy.

Me muerdo un labio para recordar el sabor de la sangre.
Me como una lagrima para recordar el sabor de la tristeza que me produjiste.
Me veo al espejo para disfrutar el sollozo, y dibujo con tu oleo.

Te has estancado… es la pregunta… es la respuesta… es la incertidumbre.

Hace tres anos que hiciste lo mismo. Ahora conoces el tiempo, la cura, la matriz de todos los miedos.


Supuro salivad de aquellos momentos entorpecientes de emoción y trastorno. De que sirve si no se vive. Por que no hay coraje, ni enjundias ni ímpetu sin fulcro. Se balancea tanto, aquellos sentimientos . Cierro un cluster y abro otro.

Aprende… depura… aprende… depura… aprende…. Monotonicidad

Two jerk horses speak while biting. Let us puke.

Hello Milk Boyhello bloody flavour sounds rather unappealing to be honest Thats the point oh really? surprise surprise i hadn't thought of that thank you for your clear explanation and understanding still selling money? yeah still selling Mexican products? or serving food ? yes my dear, we are british, not mere common north americans i actually do neither of both but good try it proves an effort of the mind Sometimes you have to lower the level, as you may or may have not noticed oh but my dear chap, i always have to lower my level, but then again no need to discuss such trivial matters tell me how much money you make by...selling more money?Enough to buy more things, so others make more money. You see... now I am proud.proud of owning material are we? i guess such things are necessary when having a bloody mouth Proud of owning MORE than others. Things that are ALWAYS necessary and that give you confidence, otherwise we will be smashed. The BloodyMouth is just the counterpart that comes as an aditament, sometimes necessary to remember that you feel, after buying. so if you do not own you will be smashed by..? because as i recall, owning leads to be smashed by greed, similarly reflected by your greed for flesh Indeed my friend. Smashed by the inner self, and other inner selves.Owning makes u happy. The sense of property gives you power, yes and it reflects your greed for flesh.so because you seemingly are disposesed both emotionally and physically, you feel this drive of buying material posessions with the foolish hope of attaining a higher state and trying to prove yourself worthy of something both to yourself and to other? can you really be smashed by the other inner selves if you needn'tknow them? do you not need to know yourself first of all?Maybe I should buy myself.... maybe I'm fooling others. Maybe i justplay their game, maybe im just a material posession of somebody else.Maybe you dont realise about it. Maybe I had beed smashed. Maybe I a ma Financial Economist and i live in my lies. I am nothing and i won'tbe, I'm worth a damn, but I sell money for those who don't have the correct currency, for those "those" and those "those"you are in doubt about yourself and about your destiny. Think wisely on what you think you are and what you think you want to do. Maybe Im just playing, and thats life. Maybe we are just having a mental masturbation with phony funnyideas.... these conversations with you include the circle were sometimes we puke, and where sometimes
The life is thresholds and milestones.

La luz es rosa en London Bridge

Que me das que te doy la carta. A que si te llevas un susto, a que comienzas a escrutar respuestas. A que no te das cuenta de ello. A que no te atreves. A que ahora si quieres ser feliz. Y a que no puedes.

Me sente en la silla morada.... al umbral de la luz.
A la orilla del Tamesis, a observar la luna y St Pauls.
Eran las 3 AM. Y bien la ciudad no dormia.

¿Platicaba acaso con el fantasma o con la imagen ideal?
Y ya lo habia esbosado el momento, compartir, envejecer.
Y asi platicaba con el fantasma y con o con la imagen ideal.

No, sino que me desperté y estaba en un barranco. Solo y sentadito. En verdad es que no había nada y solo había sonado y me había viajado en mi cuaderno borrador. No escrutinaba nada en realidad y solo escurrió una gota de sangre que tampoco en realidad me recordaba nada mas que a la virgen de Fatima.

Así continué mientras observaba sangre y el vapor de agua que salía de boca al respirar. Fumaba. Eran las 4 AM. No leíste la carta . A que sí. A que si no hubieras venido. A que ya no siento nada pues hace mucho frío. A que sí me importa mañana. A que ya estoy acostumbrado y a que a tí no te mueve nada. Fumo más.

Y yo que había corrido desde París en mi prófuga distancia. Y tu no te apareciste. No leíste la carta. No te culpo. Esperaré aquí y a que no sabes lo que te hubiera dicho. No te culpo. Son las 4 AM. El tiempo no pasó.

La luz en rosa en London Bridge. Tu no viniste.