Yo-Yo Boing!

— Don’t explain, okay. I don’t need your explanation. I prefer to listen to the words. Think them. If I can apply them to my life, then I understand and I’m happy. Fetch me ribs.

— I would prefer not to.

— Bartleby.

— Don’t cite your references.

— The owl of Minerva beats its wings at dusk!

— I don’t get it.

— I’m here to present thoughts, not to explain them.

— Nachos.

— Mona took it from Arendt and Arendt took it from Borges.

— Maybe that’s why it doesn’t appeal to me. He is too conceptual. I prefer the dramatic.

— You’re like the owl of Minerva.

— An old bat?

— Profound people capture youth at dusk.

— I still don’t get it.

— A friend is another self.

— Who said it?

— Who cares?

— I guess it’s my other self.

— Mona.

— Aristotle.

— Wasn’t it you?

— Who?

— My other self.

— Alright already, nachos and a diet coke.

— You don’t want to come with me?

— No, I’ll just bat my wings till you get back. It’s irrational, my hate for Borges. Do I have to know who Minerva is to understand that wisdom comes late in life. Why do the wings have to beat at dusk. Wisdom sometimes comes at dawn. Look at Rimbaud. That’s probably why he lost his life.

— Sometimes I wonder if you understand anything.

— I don’t get it like everybody else gets it, but I get it. There’s always an understanding in misunderstanding.

— You have a point there.

— I don’t have anything — not to llevarte la contraria, pero lo único que tengo aquí ahora son ojos para verte a ti. Things are disappearing. If you want to see anything, you have to hurry. Trust me. If you don’t want to see anything, you won’t. But, since I have this urgency to see, to touch and be touched, and sometimes even hurt, if I don’t hurry, if somebody — not necessarily you — an accident — takes me by surprise, I see then that that’s what I must write because I can’t be dishonest to what I see. I have to show things, believe it or not, as they are.

— Dime, dime la verdad. Ahora que estamos solitos aquí. La Mona esa no me considera a mí. Dime. Dime la verdad.

— Yes, I think the category of genius still exists.

— But I don’t think like she thinks. I don’t think it’s harder to be a philosopher than to be an artist. Look, she said there are very few philosophers in the history of humanity. I don’t know, every time I hear her talk I become a little nervous. Before, I was so sure. But now, how can I know? Besides, if she doesn’t think I am, who is going to think I am? She is alive. She knows me. And believe me, I try to make my impression. I try to become one. But she just gives me her smiles, shows me her teeth, and I get nervous. And then you just blind me all over, by protecting me so much. I ask you, am I one of them.

— Who cares what she thinks.

— But tell me, count on your fingers, how many philosophers or artists can make a herd of black cows wacko their tails as if they were directing what they heard.

— Was somebody with you?

— Why?

— We need proof.

— The cows were there. The trees. The dawn. Music and me.

— It’s not enough. We need a witness who can testify otherwise they’ll say the cows were just swatting flies.

— Do you think the cows will do it again if they see you?

— Why don’t we try.

— Do you think I’ll sing with the same voice twice? My voice not only brought the hills to life, but the cows to music, to music. It’s not simple, you know, and yet it’s so simple. So true and pure. Do you think I could sing the same way in front of a stranger like you?

— You could write with me as a chair.

— Do you believe me?

— Mona would have said it’s fantasy, but I’m sure it could happen.

— Pathetic? You wish you were that pathetic. You don’t understand. Listen to the holiness. He’s great souled, and you dare to laugh.

— Mona, I’m not laughing at him.

— You wish.

— He’s got no balls.

— You wish you could write like he sings. Hear, hear when his voice dies softly. It’s a gentle woman. The effort, the effort of dying softly.

— I know. I think he’s funny, or rather, she’s funny.

— Why do you care about that? Insensitive, arrogant.

— I prefer Placido.

— Oh, please, why even compare?

— He’s got balls.

— He’s got balls? You wish you had the Castrato’s balls. I love him most when his voice dissolves. You have no ear for music. You don’t even know what you’re listening to.