There are not such irreconcilable months like December and January, perhaps because Christmas is the only opium authorized, scheduled and established by the terms of Western culture.

The twenty early days of December are something else, maybe until Christmas Eve, although I believe that even before you start to notice the mood changes and everything becomes somewhat artificial or noisy.

The early days of January are even worse. Hangovers are always worst. Until the Magic Kings Day goes by, then everything seems back to normal and real life takes its definitive rhythm. Sometimes arthritic, sometimes fast, but always implacable.

Generally, in Cuba, a nation which emerged and survived with continuous and renewed cultural interrelations, the year-end rituals are not related to the Christian tradition, but the tradition of the raucous carous ing and excessive gesticulation.

People do not remember any birth, but their own and very justified reasons-  survival at all costs, for example- to take the foot off the accelerator for at least a couple of weeks and enjoying leisure and family reunification.

However, if you think about it, the antagonism of December and January isn´t related to the routine and often false celebration for the end of the year, a year begins or ends when you least imagine, and not when dictated by the Earth translation movement, but because December and January are months of a colossal identity, months with their own voice, with damaging egos that make sparks fly when meet due to their voracious proximity.

They both are only comparable to April, a very powerful month which undamaged survives all spring stereotypes and postcards, as Eliot would say, "April is the cruelest month; it breeds lilacs out from a dead soil, mixing memory and desire … "In fact, April isn´t as strong as December or January, but it seems to.
May isn´t definitely a rival, a month of rains which no longer exist.

March, poor, so long and gray. Everyone wants it runs fast. Or February, funny but brief.

February should be attached to March, they should exploit that imaginary size, and they should recover the splendor and days that January took from them. If that doesn´t happen, if February´s laboriousness does not use March´s large prairies and this, in turn, not cleverly obtain the restless virtues of such a short month, very close and defenseless, then none of the two will ever surpass the bad reputation they have, for everything but the sugarcane harvests, as a rough and inert time.

June pleases me for its austerity, but not July or August, indiscernible and rude. You come to think that July and August are the same month, but their welds are clumsy, they don´t have a true alliance, but a crude mass of stridency and heat.

September is almost June, but its austerity isn´t it. September is more an elusive month and its silence is dangerous. It is not a sincere month. You do not know what September can bring you, it is like an aristocrat and spoiled cat.

In either case, October´s juvenile arrogance is much better, sometimes crazy, but always daring.

November, however, is a sick month. It´s an old and weak month, which inspires compassion (just listen to "Un Dia de Noviembre¨ ( One day in November) by Leo Brouwer. November doesn´t hinder, ever, the entry of the first twenty days of December.

Rabid dates that will lead to Christmas, but as Christmas´ arrival generates expectation, nothing important ever happens on it. You may notice, if you have not drunk enough, that successes or failures expected for the New Year have already happened to you the previous year, because you don´t live transcendental things, you remember them. And occur in harsh times. As March. Or in austere days. As June.




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