March 6. A decent hike.

We went for a decent hike to Frey near Bariloche. As a result of last night’s ethanol feast, we started only at two in the afternoon. Took a bus to Catedral, the starting point of the hike and a wintersport base in the colder season. Three hours up, a beautiful cold lake and a magnificent view on the surrounding rock spires. A pizza, a beer and down again. Ruben had a problem with his ankle, but we made it down in time. The climb was not that difficult after all. Sure, the path went up, but it went up in a gentle manner. The massive brownish slopes with the large shades on them made me feel fortunate about the fact that we can see. The mountain inspired me and I had all kind of thoughts.

How do you dissolve a person, I mean which chemicals would you need, hypothetically? It’s a hot day today. Can a person attain some kind of equilibrium, some state where she is beyond being a person? It’s too hot, even in the shade. It’s a tough question. As soon as we communicate we become persons again. No arsenic compound is strong enough to avoid that. Take, for example, the reader of this text. I take it for granted that you are a person, I mean that’s the whole idea when I speak to you briefly at times like now. I assume you have certain humanoid tentacles and a semipermeable skin just like myself. I don’t want to think about the possibility that you are only a computer. In case you are one, please write a comment to convince me you can be interesting to talk with I prefer to be open-minded about those things.

However, a person can feel like she is ceasing to be a person. When she is ignored. When she develops a fear of being ignored. It takes her some time to regain self-consciousness and feel like a person again. The sociopsychological dynamics of this center around the concept of failure. A person who believes she is a failure will gradually fade away as a person. The reason for this is that failure rejects identification. Failure is a bitch, a mean stepmother. If you are told you are a failure often enough, you start to believe it. And if they keep telling you, it becomes part of your constitution, of the way you understand yourself. You? Me. I was told I am a failure, a loser – by people I hold dear. No matter how much I studied and worked, it will never be enough. Inevitably, failure turns into something you can identify with. If failure becomes part of your system, you start to accommodate it. Failure becomes part of your success. Let’s reflect for a moment here instead of halting at this ugly cumbre, this paradoxical formulation of our pseudo-wisdom. After all, I wrote an accepted PhD in philosophy so you will believe me. What is this all about? It is intrinsically impossible to acknowledge failure as such. As soon as you reflect about it, as soon as the failure becomes part of who you are, you perceive a different aspect of it. It becomes success. Now dialectics for me is just a game and often a silly game. But here dialectics has its use. When a failure is considered apart from the successes that make it a failure, it ceases to be one. It even turns into some kind of success. You lose at the Olympics but once back at home, the Gold and Silver medals forgotten, you are the hero of your village just because you went to the Games. That mechanism surely has its function, but it also makes us blind. Everything becomes relative, every failure becomes a success. Of course success and failure cannot be defined objectively, but I want to postpone the dialectical movement of turning failure into its opposite. I want to consider failure pure, be honest about it, feel how we don’t have words for it.

I think it can be healthy. Once you tore down the person in you, you can start to rebuild that person again. If you’re lucky, you don’t need to contrast yourself against other persons, you don’t need to be rude towards them. Recently, a guy asked me to write something on his website. I sent in some baroque poetry and he criticized ist in an unfriendly way. I mean I love criticism but he was just being rude, told me to start over with the pointe and leave out the metaphorical ornaments. Come on! You don’t invite people to write crap on your site and then just be disrespectful with what they write. You have to acknowledge there can be other tastes too. This man was an amateur philosopher can you imagine, no formal education, a guy who “just likes to think”. In my opinion, he is just a dumb conceited asshole. I just liked to think when I was sixteen. Everybody does. If you need some recognition, go get a degree – don’t bother me.
The motorcycle ride from the mountain Frey back to Bariloche was great. There were three of us on one light bike, no helmets, we held each other’s back and I carried all the backpacks, we didn’t drive fast it was a great feeling the wind in our hair. We had to cut off a curve to avoid police control. It was really exciting and it made me feel very alive.

When the concepts of death and peace converge, our ride down here is over. We have found a place, somewhere on the face of the earth, to lay our head down and sleep sleep sleep without the burden of a tomorrow. I want to postpone that a little bit. And you want to know why? Me too.

That night I did not dream about a steep slope with hunderds of babies on it, crying unorchestrated like a field of buzzing insects. It is a vulcanic mountain they are on and the crater starts dripping and soon spouting milk in short spasms it does not reach the babies they are starving and screaming verociously. The toddler’s buttocks start to swell and swell until they are the size of volleyballs and nipples start to grow out of them big rosy nipples and the children start to reach out for them with their mouths they stretch their necks as far as they can to touch the fleshy mammae and start to roll over yes to roll over each other the youngsters roll down the slope and all drown in the mountain lake down the slope that has almost dried out. Then the vulcano starts to spout heavily, a very, very reliable stream of milk flows down the mountain slowly and replenishes the lake.

March 6. A decent hike.

We went for a decent hike to Frey near Bariloche. As a result of last night’s ethanol feast, we started only at two in the afternoon. Took a bus to Catedral, the starting point of the hike and a wintersport base in the colder season. Three hours up, a beautiful cold lake and a magnificent view on the surrounding rock spires. A pizza, a beer and down again. Ruben had a problem with his ankle, but we made it down in time. The climb was not that difficult after all. Sure, the path went up, but it went up in a gentle manner. The massive brownish slopes with the large shades on them made me feel fortunate about the fact that we can see. The mountain inspired me and I had all kind of thoughts.

How do you dissolve a person, I mean which chemicals would you need, hypothetically? It’s a hot day today. Can a person attain some kind of equilibrium, some state where she is beyond being a person? It’s too hot, even in the shade. It’s a tough question. As soon as we communicate we become persons again. No arsenic compound is strong enough to avoid that. Take, for example, the reader of this text. I take it for granted that you are a person, I mean that’s the whole idea when I speak to you briefly at times like now. I assume you have certain humanoid tentacles and a semipermeable skin just like myself. I don’t want to think about the possibility that you are only a computer. In case you are one, please write a comment to convince me you can be interesting to talk with I prefer to be open-minded about those things.

However, a person can feel like she is ceasing to be a person. When she is ignored. When she develops a fear of being ignored. It takes her some time to regain self-consciousness and feel like a person again. The sociopsychological dynamics of this center around the concept of failure. A person who believes she is a failure will gradually fade away as a person. The reason for this is that failure rejects identification. Failure is a bitch, a mean stepmother. If you are told you are a failure often enough, you start to believe it. And if they keep telling you, it becomes part of your constitution, of the way you understand yourself. You? Me. I was told I am a failure, a loser – by people I hold dear. No matter how much I studied and worked, it will never be enough. Inevitably, failure turns into something you can identify with. If failure becomes part of your system, you start to accommodate it. Failure becomes part of your success. Let’s reflect for a moment here instead of halting at this ugly cumbre, this paradoxical formulation of our pseudo-wisdom. After all, I wrote an accepted PhD in philosophy so you will believe me. What is this all about? It is intrinsically impossible to acknowledge failure as such. As soon as you reflect about it, as soon as the failure becomes part of who you are, you perceive a different aspect of it. It becomes success. Now dialectics for me is just a game and often a silly game. But here dialectics has its use. When a failure is considered apart from the successes that make it a failure, it ceases to be one. It even turns into some kind of success. You lose at the Olympics but once back at home, the Gold and Silver medals forgotten, you are the hero of your village just because you went to the Games. That mechanism surely has its function, but it also makes us blind. Everything becomes relative, every failure becomes a success. Of course success and failure cannot be defined objectively, but I want to postpone the dialectical movement of turning failure into its opposite. I want to consider failure pure, be honest about it, feel how we don’t have words for it.

I think it can be healthy. Once you tore down the person in you, you can start to rebuild that person again. If you’re lucky, you don’t need to contrast yourself against other persons, you don’t need to be rude towards them. Recently, a guy asked me to write something on his website. I sent in some baroque poetry and he criticized ist in an unfriendly way. I mean I love criticism but he was just being rude, told me to start over with the pointe and leave out the metaphorical ornaments. Come on! You don’t invite people to write crap on your site and then just be disrespectful with what they write. You have to acknowledge there can be other tastes too. This man was an amateur philosopher can you imagine, no formal education, a guy who “just likes to think”. In my opinion, he is just a dumb conceited asshole. I just liked to think when I was sixteen. Everybody does. If you need some recognition, go get a degree – don’t bother me.
The motorcycle ride from the mountain Frey back to Bariloche was great. There were three of us on one light bike, no helmets, we held each other’s back and I carried all the backpacks, we didn’t drive fast it was a great feeling the wind in our hair. We had to cut off a curve to avoid police control. It was really exciting and it made me feel very alive.

When the concepts of death and peace converge, our ride down here is over. We have found a place, somewhere on the face of the earth, to lay our head down and sleep sleep sleep without the burden of a tomorrow. I want to postpone that a little bit. And you want to know why? Me too.

That night I did not dream about a steep slope with hunderds of babies on it, crying unorchestrated like a field of buzzing insects. It is a vulcanic mountain they are on and the crater starts dripping and soon spouting milk in short spasms it does not reach the babies they are starving and screaming verociously. The toddler’s buttocks start to swell and swell until they are the size of volleyballs and nipples start to grow out of them big rosy nipples and the children start to reach out for them with their mouths they stretch their necks as far as they can to touch the fleshy mammae and start to roll over yes to roll over each other the youngsters roll down the slope and all drown in the mountain lake down the slope that has almost dried out. Then the vulcano starts to spout heavily, a very, very reliable stream of milk flows down the mountain slowly and replenishes the lake.

March 6. A decent hike.

We went for a decent hike to Frey near Bariloche. As a result of last night’s ethanol feast, we started only at two in the afternoon. Took a bus to Catedral, the starting point of the hike and a wintersport base in the colder season. Three hours up, a beautiful cold lake and a magnificent view on the surrounding rock spires. A pizza, a beer and down again. Ruben had a problem with his ankle, but we made it down in time. The climb was not that difficult after all. Sure, the path went up, but it went up in a gentle manner. The massive brownish slopes with the large shades on them made me feel fortunate about the fact that we can see. The mountain inspired me and I had all kind of thoughts.

How do you dissolve a person, I mean which chemicals would you need, hypothetically? It’s a hot day today. Can a person attain some kind of equilibrium, some state where she is beyond being a person? It’s too hot, even in the shade. It’s a tough question. As soon as we communicate we become persons again. No arsenic compound is strong enough to avoid that. Take, for example, the reader of this text. I take it for granted that you are a person, I mean that’s the whole idea when I speak to you briefly at times like now. I assume you have certain humanoid tentacles and a semipermeable skin just like myself. I don’t want to think about the possibility that you are only a computer. In case you are one, please write a comment to convince me you can be interesting to talk with I prefer to be open-minded about those things.

However, a person can feel like she is ceasing to be a person. When she is ignored. When she develops a fear of being ignored. It takes her some time to regain self-consciousness and feel like a person again. The sociopsychological dynamics of this center around the concept of failure. A person who believes she is a failure will gradually fade away as a person. The reason for this is that failure rejects identification. Failure is a bitch, a mean stepmother. If you are told you are a failure often enough, you start to believe it. And if they keep telling you, it becomes part of your constitution, of the way you understand yourself. You? Me. I was told I am a failure, a loser – by people I hold dear. No matter how much I studied and worked, it will never be enough. Inevitably, failure turns into something you can identify with. If failure becomes part of your system, you start to accommodate it. Failure becomes part of your success. Let’s reflect for a moment here instead of halting at this ugly cumbre, this paradoxical formulation of our pseudo-wisdom. After all, I wrote an accepted PhD in philosophy so you will believe me. What is this all about? It is intrinsically impossible to acknowledge failure as such. As soon as you reflect about it, as soon as the failure becomes part of who you are, you perceive a different aspect of it. It becomes success. Now dialectics for me is just a game and often a silly game. But here dialectics has its use. When a failure is considered apart from the successes that make it a failure, it ceases to be one. It even turns into some kind of success. You lose at the Olympics but once back at home, the Gold and Silver medals forgotten, you are the hero of your village just because you went to the Games. That mechanism surely has its function, but it also makes us blind. Everything becomes relative, every failure becomes a success. Of course success and failure cannot be defined objectively, but I want to postpone the dialectical movement of turning failure into its opposite. I want to consider failure pure, be honest about it, feel how we don’t have words for it.

I think it can be healthy. Once you tore down the person in you, you can start to rebuild that person again. If you’re lucky, you don’t need to contrast yourself against other persons, you don’t need to be rude towards them. Recently, a guy asked me to write something on his website. I sent in some baroque poetry and he criticized ist in an unfriendly way. I mean I love criticism but he was just being rude, told me to start over with the pointe and leave out the metaphorical ornaments. Come on! You don’t invite people to write crap on your site and then just be disrespectful with what they write. You have to acknowledge there can be other tastes too. This man was an amateur philosopher can you imagine, no formal education, a guy who “just likes to think”. In my opinion, he is just a dumb conceited asshole. I just liked to think when I was sixteen. Everybody does. If you need some recognition, go get a degree – don’t bother me.
The motorcycle ride from the mountain Frey back to Bariloche was great. There were three of us on one light bike, no helmets, we held each other’s back and I carried all the backpacks, we didn’t drive fast it was a great feeling the wind in our hair. We had to cut off a curve to avoid police control. It was really exciting and it made me feel very alive.

When the concepts of death and peace converge, our ride down here is over. We have found a place, somewhere on the face of the earth, to lay our head down and sleep sleep sleep without the burden of a tomorrow. I want to postpone that a little bit. And you want to know why? Me too.

That night I did not dream about a steep slope with hunderds of babies on it, crying unorchestrated like a field of buzzing insects. It is a vulcanic mountain they are on and the crater starts dripping and soon spouting milk in short spasms it does not reach the babies they are starving and screaming verociously. The toddler’s buttocks start to swell and swell until they are the size of volleyballs and nipples start to grow out of them big rosy nipples and the children start to reach out for them with their mouths they stretch their necks as far as they can to touch the fleshy mammae and start to roll over yes to roll over each other the youngsters roll down the slope and all drown in the mountain lake down the slope that has almost dried out. Then the vulcano starts to spout heavily, a very, very reliable stream of milk flows down the mountain slowly and replenishes the lake.

March 5.


Today, I saw a lot. Silvia, Carola and I decided to climb a hill first. Narrow dirt roads and steep dusty sand paths lead us to a platform with a magnificent view. I have pictures. The scenery reminded me of Switzerland, but it was much wider and a little more impressive. The way down, walking underneath the tourist cable car, was even dustier. In big clouds of dust we ran down to the bike rental.
Because that was going to be our next activity. We picked up three nice all-terrain bikes and helmets and started the Circuito Chico. Chico means small in Argentina. The scenery was very impressive, the road sometimes a bit steep and the uphill parts were not so easy for us untrained cyclists, but we managed it in time. Again, the view was beautiful, especially the Punto Panoramico we mistakenly looked for at a lavender farm. You get the pattern? Moving around, view, moving around, view. Isn’t it interesting how easily such a story can turn a beautiful day trip into a boring, dull thing? The words seem to kill it. I must be sued. But I think it is a common thing, that’s why I mention it. If you ask the average traveler about his experience he’ll tell you about all the amazing kicks: about the killing he witnessed, the paragliding that went wrong, the bugs he had to eat alive. That’s labeled exciting, it makes other people go “wow” and envious. But man how poor it is! I must rescue the little experiences. Yesterday I saw a kitten and that changed my life. I saw a bunch of red grapes with a green spot on it and it changed entirely who I am.

We went out that night to a bar called the Cantina. I drank too much. Wine, beer, wodka, and danced to dubbed reggae not bad at all. Our host Ruben drank a lot more and did find the way home in a miraculous way, sleeping on the bus and getting out at exactly the right stop. We walked home on the dirt road. I stumbled about the grey tile floor and when felt a mattress underneath, I was knocked out straight away and slept until the sun stood high.

It would be a good idea to read something again. I think of a story that starts like this: “I live in the library for three months now. I haven’t read a single word.” A man or a woman dwells for months in that library without ever touching a book, until one day he or she opens one and the first sentence she reads makes him or her cry salty tears.

March 5.


Today, I saw a lot. Silvia, Carola and I decided to climb a hill first. Narrow dirt roads and steep dusty sand paths lead us to a platform with a magnificent view. I have pictures. The scenery reminded me of Switzerland, but it was much wider and a little more impressive. The way down, walking underneath the tourist cable car, was even dustier. In big clouds of dust we ran down to the bike rental.
Because that was going to be our next activity. We picked up three nice all-terrain bikes and helmets and started the Circuito Chico. Chico means small in Argentina. The scenery was very impressive, the road sometimes a bit steep and the uphill parts were not so easy for us untrained cyclists, but we managed it in time. Again, the view was beautiful, especially the Punto Panoramico we mistakenly looked for at a lavender farm. You get the pattern? Moving around, view, moving around, view. Isn’t it interesting how easily such a story can turn a beautiful day trip into a boring, dull thing? The words seem to kill it. I must be sued. But I think it is a common thing, that’s why I mention it. If you ask the average traveler about his experience he’ll tell you about all the amazing kicks: about the killing he witnessed, the paragliding that went wrong, the bugs he had to eat alive. That’s labeled exciting, it makes other people go “wow” and envious. But man how poor it is! I must rescue the little experiences. Yesterday I saw a kitten and that changed my life. I saw a bunch of red grapes with a green spot on it and it changed entirely who I am.

We went out that night to a bar called the Cantina. I drank too much. Wine, beer, wodka, and danced to dubbed reggae not bad at all. Our host Ruben drank a lot more and did find the way home in a miraculous way, sleeping on the bus and getting out at exactly the right stop. We walked home on the dirt road. I stumbled about the grey tile floor and when felt a mattress underneath, I was knocked out straight away and slept until the sun stood high.

It would be a good idea to read something again. I think of a story that starts like this: “I live in the library for three months now. I haven’t read a single word.” A man or a woman dwells for months in that library without ever touching a book, until one day he or she opens one and the first sentence she reads makes him or her cry salty tears.

March 5.


Today, I saw a lot. Silvia, Carola and I decided to climb a hill first. Narrow dirt roads and steep dusty sand paths lead us to a platform with a magnificent view. I have pictures. The scenery reminded me of Switzerland, but it was much wider and a little more impressive. The way down, walking underneath the tourist cable car, was even dustier. In big clouds of dust we ran down to the bike rental.
Because that was going to be our next activity. We picked up three nice all-terrain bikes and helmets and started the Circuito Chico. Chico means small in Argentina. The scenery was very impressive, the road sometimes a bit steep and the uphill parts were not so easy for us untrained cyclists, but we managed it in time. Again, the view was beautiful, especially the Punto Panoramico we mistakenly looked for at a lavender farm. You get the pattern? Moving around, view, moving around, view. Isn’t it interesting how easily such a story can turn a beautiful day trip into a boring, dull thing? The words seem to kill it. I must be sued. But I think it is a common thing, that’s why I mention it. If you ask the average traveler about his experience he’ll tell you about all the amazing kicks: about the killing he witnessed, the paragliding that went wrong, the bugs he had to eat alive. That’s labeled exciting, it makes other people go “wow” and envious. But man how poor it is! I must rescue the little experiences. Yesterday I saw a kitten and that changed my life. I saw a bunch of red grapes with a green spot on it and it changed entirely who I am.

We went out that night to a bar called the Cantina. I drank too much. Wine, beer, wodka, and danced to dubbed reggae not bad at all. Our host Ruben drank a lot more and did find the way home in a miraculous way, sleeping on the bus and getting out at exactly the right stop. We walked home on the dirt road. I stumbled about the grey tile floor and when felt a mattress underneath, I was knocked out straight away and slept until the sun stood high.

It would be a good idea to read something again. I think of a story that starts like this: “I live in the library for three months now. I haven’t read a single word.” A man or a woman dwells for months in that library without ever touching a book, until one day he or she opens one and the first sentence she reads makes him or her cry salty tears.

March 4.

We walked around in Bariloche and found a place to stay in an hotel run by an old lady. She was the daughter of Germans who had moved to Argentina. This really doesn’t sound interesting. I have to skip it. She was friendly, spoke German very well and had those white hairs on her
head giving me the impression that she had lived through a lot of things. Her husband was dead for fifty years, she told us. The hotel-room was comfortable enough. The leak didn’t bother us; the beds were good and there was warm water. See, it gets boring again, I see and hear you yawn. It is of no use telling those kind of stories. Nobody cares. It’s an unhealthy vanity the wish to record it.

At this point I want to remind you that it can be a serious difficulty for grown-up men when young girls show their legs, because their look like women’s legs and the men get all confused and ashamed if they catch themselves getting horny because of those legs. It can be a real problem.

We went to the old lady’s hotel with Eris and Naddy two students from California and at night I suggested to go to the beach to make a campfire and maybe fry some food and have wine together. We bought two bottles of Argentinian wine that we shared that night. We didn’t
find any bigger branches so we ended up burning newspaper and cardboard thus producing a giant fume but it was a nice gathering we had avocado and chips and dried tomatoes and bread. I was satisfied, and I think they were too. I’m not an egoist, I’m not even a person. You can ask them if they liked it too. Please do. If they say they were satisfied too it won’t prove a thing though it won’t prove anybody is not an egoist. The I in the sentences I write is a sting that you can turn around to proof my egoism. Even the sentences without an I are drenched in the mud of my perspective: there is no escape, no matter how much we try. Within language we can never refrain from being self-centered and beyond language, drinking each other’s spit, rubbing each other’s skin, staring through the eyes at each other’s retinas, killing each other, reproducing – beyond language there’s no center hence no nearness. We are all caught up in this. Stressing the importance of other people’s pleasure, that’s my last reflex before dissolving the mind (a different story), the last thing I want to do consciously before retreating from speech and language and human utterances of any kind.