March 21. The brewery in our head.

“Mi nombre es Cecilia si necessito cualcosa me llamas…” said the friendly waitress in the café where I write today. Writing in Buenos Aires is optimal. Firstly, it’s one of the worlds most literate cities, with an impressive amount of good bookstores. Secondly, the wifi cafés are plenty and affordable. Thirdly, the climate stimulates creativity. Okay, the last point is my subjective experience. I am working an a novel in Dutch in which the main character is called Martin. The café I write in today is called Martinez. When Martin travels to South America he is called Martinez too. The coffee tastes good here, a jarrito with a small glass of water stands next to me. I write for several hours, concentrating on a small ten-inch screen, destracted only by paired female jointed appendages covered partly by petite skirts. I like legs. But I like writing more. So I continue as the people pass the café in a mood I deem hasty. Why? I feel like something is protecting me. I keep surviving in this world where everybody seems to struggle. I just survive sitting here and writing my crap. It’s a scandal. It’s crazy. Something has to be done about it. Okay, this blog is not my only output, there are also serious things, but still, me sitting here grinning at sixty square inches of a computer screen cannot be justified by even the most brilliant of output can it?
Well, here in South America we don’t think so much of a justification. We just do what we do. It doesn’t matter, does it? What if everyone would think if they were allowed to try what they want most? Still, I cannot justify it. I am enjoying life and doing for no less than the full one hunderd percent what I want, so I don’t have any percentage left for a justification. It’s a funny mechanism isn’t it?

I walk around with a woman from Buenos Aires today. She is very big, five centimeters taller than I am, and she takes nice pictures of people who sleep on the benches in the belching metropole. We walk through a big park in Palermo and suddenly she has a thorn in her toe. It’s bleeding and it won’t stop. We turn around. She says she will visit a massage saloon and that will take two hours. Well that’s very interesting. I start getting curious about that treatment. Of course she wants to put me off and seeks a more subtle way of doing so than saying bluntly “you bother me”. Anyway, we walk back through the park and she takes a taxi somewhere tells me I can walk home. Illusions come, illusions go. And it is not at all a bad treatment to undergo this cycle at least a few time. Without the tall woman next to me I walk on and think about this recycling of emotions. In a way, it must be like a soup in our head, with all those ideas, imaginations, hopes, propositions, wishes drifting in a thick fluid. Shaking it up might not be the best recipe to cook up something marvelous, but it is definitely the first line of a very good recipe. What do you think, Jack? I miss you, by the way. And I like you again. I don’t need to ask you for forgiveness because I killed you. I know you are way beyond that. But Jack, do you agree? Is it good to have thinks shaken up over and over again in order to, well, preventing the need to shake them up over and over again? Do you understand what I’m saying? Sorry Jack, I didn’t want to bother you. And by the way, I think the emotional brewery in our head is an asset you are not entitled too.

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March 21. The brewery in our head.

“Mi nombre es Cecilia si necessito cualcosa me llamas…” said the friendly waitress in the café where I write today. Writing in Buenos Aires is optimal. Firstly, it’s one of the worlds most literate cities, with an impressive amount of good bookstores. Secondly, the wifi cafés are plenty and affordable. Thirdly, the climate stimulates creativity. Okay, the last point is my subjective experience. I am working an a novel in Dutch in which the main character is called Martin. The café I write in today is called Martinez. When Martin travels to South America he is called Martinez too. The coffee tastes good here, a jarrito with a small glass of water stands next to me. I write for several hours, concentrating on a small ten-inch screen, destracted only by paired female jointed appendages covered partly by petite skirts. I like legs. But I like writing more. So I continue as the people pass the café in a mood I deem hasty. Why? I feel like something is protecting me. I keep surviving in this world where everybody seems to struggle. I just survive sitting here and writing my crap. It’s a scandal. It’s crazy. Something has to be done about it. Okay, this blog is not my only output, there are also serious things, but still, me sitting here grinning at sixty square inches of a computer screen cannot be justified by even the most brilliant of output can it?
Well, here in South America we don’t think so much of a justification. We just do what we do. It doesn’t matter, does it? What if everyone would think if they were allowed to try what they want most? Still, I cannot justify it. I am enjoying life and doing for no less than the full one hunderd percent what I want, so I don’t have any percentage left for a justification. It’s a funny mechanism isn’t it?

I walk around with a woman from Buenos Aires today. She is very big, five centimeters taller than I am, and she takes nice pictures of people who sleep on the benches in the belching metropole. We walk through a big park in Palermo and suddenly she has a thorn in her toe. It’s bleeding and it won’t stop. We turn around. She says she will visit a massage saloon and that will take two hours. Well that’s very interesting. I start getting curious about that treatment. Of course she wants to put me off and seeks a more subtle way of doing so than saying bluntly “you bother me”. Anyway, we walk back through the park and she takes a taxi somewhere tells me I can walk home. Illusions come, illusions go. And it is not at all a bad treatment to undergo this cycle at least a few time. Without the tall woman next to me I walk on and think about this recycling of emotions. In a way, it must be like a soup in our head, with all those ideas, imaginations, hopes, propositions, wishes drifting in a thick fluid. Shaking it up might not be the best recipe to cook up something marvelous, but it is definitely the first line of a very good recipe. What do you think, Jack? I miss you, by the way. And I like you again. I don’t need to ask you for forgiveness because I killed you. I know you are way beyond that. But Jack, do you agree? Is it good to have thinks shaken up over and over again in order to, well, preventing the need to shake them up over and over again? Do you understand what I’m saying? Sorry Jack, I didn’t want to bother you. And by the way, I think the emotional brewery in our head is an asset you are not entitled too.

March 21. The brewery in our head.

“Mi nombre es Cecilia si necessito cualcosa me llamas…” said the friendly waitress in the café where I write today. Writing in Buenos Aires is optimal. Firstly, it’s one of the worlds most literate cities, with an impressive amount of good bookstores. Secondly, the wifi cafés are plenty and affordable. Thirdly, the climate stimulates creativity. Okay, the last point is my subjective experience. I am working an a novel in Dutch in which the main character is called Martin. The café I write in today is called Martinez. When Martin travels to South America he is called Martinez too. The coffee tastes good here, a jarrito with a small glass of water stands next to me. I write for several hours, concentrating on a small ten-inch screen, destracted only by paired female jointed appendages covered partly by petite skirts. I like legs. But I like writing more. So I continue as the people pass the café in a mood I deem hasty. Why? I feel like something is protecting me. I keep surviving in this world where everybody seems to struggle. I just survive sitting here and writing my crap. It’s a scandal. It’s crazy. Something has to be done about it. Okay, this blog is not my only output, there are also serious things, but still, me sitting here grinning at sixty square inches of a computer screen cannot be justified by even the most brilliant of output can it?
Well, here in South America we don’t think so much of a justification. We just do what we do. It doesn’t matter, does it? What if everyone would think if they were allowed to try what they want most? Still, I cannot justify it. I am enjoying life and doing for no less than the full one hunderd percent what I want, so I don’t have any percentage left for a justification. It’s a funny mechanism isn’t it?

I walk around with a woman from Buenos Aires today. She is very big, five centimeters taller than I am, and she takes nice pictures of people who sleep on the benches in the belching metropole. We walk through a big park in Palermo and suddenly she has a thorn in her toe. It’s bleeding and it won’t stop. We turn around. She says she will visit a massage saloon and that will take two hours. Well that’s very interesting. I start getting curious about that treatment. Of course she wants to put me off and seeks a more subtle way of doing so than saying bluntly “you bother me”. Anyway, we walk back through the park and she takes a taxi somewhere tells me I can walk home. Illusions come, illusions go. And it is not at all a bad treatment to undergo this cycle at least a few time. Without the tall woman next to me I walk on and think about this recycling of emotions. In a way, it must be like a soup in our head, with all those ideas, imaginations, hopes, propositions, wishes drifting in a thick fluid. Shaking it up might not be the best recipe to cook up something marvelous, but it is definitely the first line of a very good recipe. What do you think, Jack? I miss you, by the way. And I like you again. I don’t need to ask you for forgiveness because I killed you. I know you are way beyond that. But Jack, do you agree? Is it good to have thinks shaken up over and over again in order to, well, preventing the need to shake them up over and over again? Do you understand what I’m saying? Sorry Jack, I didn’t want to bother you. And by the way, I think the emotional brewery in our head is an asset you are not entitled too.

March 20. I read it in the guidebook.

Rested. Travel guidebooks use a rhetorically smooth English that I like to call mashed language. The smoothness of the idiom gives me an artificial taste in the mouth, a taste like a wine that is everymen’s friend but leaves the connaisseur with a bitter aftertaste. It’s the length of the sentences, the range of the idiom that smells like conceit, the concoction of words like concoction, the showy linguistical brilliance that makes it unreal. I prefer “Russian English” because you can sense a person is speaking to another person. I’ll write a short persiflage of guidebook English now, in which I’ll just make up the words. Read it and feel it. The rag-gourded boisterings on the trombose-cled aquaplanic treetops reels like a foliage bland as you recuperate the vernicular tresshold. Coming from the redupiated path along the wind-jerbous rodondritis, you haul along the zigzul of weaselbreathed prolasteracs. Following your way over the funneled duplex road, you will arrive at a tagliatelli moon-shaped echterous brailjabber. The Opulence of prigarious randards is tantamount. Be aware of the utriscopical blany-bliny queepers that might peep jeevingly into even the most heedful reeder. Continue to the tumbledomed rogue rascal-castle Plitacus built for his concubinette Vossius in 1578 and gaze at the kart-wodged rillicry that adds to the broader rant of grandiloquence reveshed unto ravenous railleries. Bart the briss brooks of the readily awry restallions and don’t miss the trecharian ondulavrigance of the zip-zopped cobblestone blanders. Step in the woggling warrebuster of the cloudy canapé, feel like the crescent king himself and taste the delicoravious ripplots of his royal ruminance. Give a try at the höver-horns that conceile the vaulted frescos on the hovercraft and wert iolic precious plassings on tetrapacks insigned to heist toily twannings. Understand the Urdu language of the regalious utalotrope ultra-jaded reips dwelling in the klopwarthed mansions that are scattered around this marvelotritious moor-montobine. On your way back, don’t skip the lavender lurage as it eropiates your ralapious rovus.

The feel of a language is an independent factor, beyond the idiom. Rested.

March 20. I read it in the guidebook.

Rested. Travel guidebooks use a rhetorically smooth English that I like to call mashed language. The smoothness of the idiom gives me an artificial taste in the mouth, a taste like a wine that is everymen’s friend but leaves the connaisseur with a bitter aftertaste. It’s the length of the sentences, the range of the idiom that smells like conceit, the concoction of words like concoction, the showy linguistical brilliance that makes it unreal. I prefer “Russian English” because you can sense a person is speaking to another person. I’ll write a short persiflage of guidebook English now, in which I’ll just make up the words. Read it and feel it. The rag-gourded boisterings on the trombose-cled aquaplanic treetops reels like a foliage bland as you recuperate the vernicular tresshold. Coming from the redupiated path along the wind-jerbous rodondritis, you haul along the zigzul of weaselbreathed prolasteracs. Following your way over the funneled duplex road, you will arrive at a tagliatelli moon-shaped echterous brailjabber. The Opulence of prigarious randards is tantamount. Be aware of the utriscopical blany-bliny queepers that might peep jeevingly into even the most heedful reeder. Continue to the tumbledomed rogue rascal-castle Plitacus built for his concubinette Vossius in 1578 and gaze at the kart-wodged rillicry that adds to the broader rant of grandiloquence reveshed unto ravenous railleries. Bart the briss brooks of the readily awry restallions and don’t miss the trecharian ondulavrigance of the zip-zopped cobblestone blanders. Step in the woggling warrebuster of the cloudy canapé, feel like the crescent king himself and taste the delicoravious ripplots of his royal ruminance. Give a try at the höver-horns that conceile the vaulted frescos on the hovercraft and wert iolic precious plassings on tetrapacks insigned to heist toily twannings. Understand the Urdu language of the regalious utalotrope ultra-jaded reips dwelling in the klopwarthed mansions that are scattered around this marvelotritious moor-montobine. On your way back, don’t skip the lavender lurage as it eropiates your ralapious rovus.

The feel of a language is an independent factor, beyond the idiom. Rested.

March 20. I read it in the guidebook.

Rested. Travel guidebooks use a rhetorically smooth English that I like to call mashed language. The smoothness of the idiom gives me an artificial taste in the mouth, a taste like a wine that is everymen’s friend but leaves the connaisseur with a bitter aftertaste. It’s the length of the sentences, the range of the idiom that smells like conceit, the concoction of words like concoction, the showy linguistical brilliance that makes it unreal. I prefer “Russian English” because you can sense a person is speaking to another person. I’ll write a short persiflage of guidebook English now, in which I’ll just make up the words. Read it and feel it. The rag-gourded boisterings on the trombose-cled aquaplanic treetops reels like a foliage bland as you recuperate the vernicular tresshold. Coming from the redupiated path along the wind-jerbous rodondritis, you haul along the zigzul of weaselbreathed prolasteracs. Following your way over the funneled duplex road, you will arrive at a tagliatelli moon-shaped echterous brailjabber. The Opulence of prigarious randards is tantamount. Be aware of the utriscopical blany-bliny queepers that might peep jeevingly into even the most heedful reeder. Continue to the tumbledomed rogue rascal-castle Plitacus built for his concubinette Vossius in 1578 and gaze at the kart-wodged rillicry that adds to the broader rant of grandiloquence reveshed unto ravenous railleries. Bart the briss brooks of the readily awry restallions and don’t miss the trecharian ondulavrigance of the zip-zopped cobblestone blanders. Step in the woggling warrebuster of the cloudy canapé, feel like the crescent king himself and taste the delicoravious ripplots of his royal ruminance. Give a try at the höver-horns that conceile the vaulted frescos on the hovercraft and wert iolic precious plassings on tetrapacks insigned to heist toily twannings. Understand the Urdu language of the regalious utalotrope ultra-jaded reips dwelling in the klopwarthed mansions that are scattered around this marvelotritious moor-montobine. On your way back, don’t skip the lavender lurage as it eropiates your ralapious rovus.

The feel of a language is an independent factor, beyond the idiom. Rested.

March 2.

Do you have to be miserable yourself to accept the Other’s misery? What a question! Jack’s dead one day and inappropriate questions already pop up like a Jack-in-the-box, so to speak. It’s the kind of thing you think about on void days, on days when you only take a walk through a city like Buenos Aires and perambulate the many blocks in Palermo and Downtown. When you walk the zona peatonal with the many department stores, expensive cafés and street vendors. When you walk with aching heels over the pavement that smells like hot tar and catching the sunrays on your red cheeks reminding you of the fact that you forgot your sunglasses. When you sit in a park and listen to a group of drummers, when you do nothing else except exploring a new city, that’s the kind of thought that might pop up in your mind.
But come on! Let’s not say “you”, let’s say “I”. I cannot stand the you-talk. In some countries it’s very common to describe one’s own adventures using the you-form. That way, people can stress the universality of their dubious decisions: you would have done the same thing. O yes, and when you walk about this big city no wonder you get lost. No, not you, YOU! Only you are stupid enough to get lost because you are ashamed to ask other people it’s all yours. Sometimes, moralist anecdotes are told in the you-form, to distract from the teller and focus on the weakness of the receiver. Fairytales become weapons. Weapons of defense and weapons of attack. You vote for the nazi-party when everybody does so, you travel a lot in the airplane because you have to, you kill civilians because that’s an order, you, you, you. Fuck you.

So I thought about this being miserable while exploring the streets of Buenos Aires. I think I (not you) need some experience with being miserable myself to become aware of the other’s (your!) misery. I must know what it feels like to be lonely, to be put off, to fail, to lose a friend, to get really ill in order to understand what it means for you. It’s part of my job if I want to become a writer and a big reason to travel.


Buenos Aires is the city of Daniel Barenboim, the great maestro of the Staatskapelle Berlin, whom I adore for his political engagement, showing the world there’s a realm beyond the politics of territorial claims by playing beautiful Wagner melodies in Jerusalem. It’s not about
Wagner’s antisemitism (and the foolish populists only yelling he was Hitler’s favorite composer must shut up) but about people sharing something through music. And you can transport so much through music. For example, you don’t have to be miserable yourself to feel the other’s
misery expressed in music.