Febrauary 25. Sao Paolo.

The sheer size of this city. I arrived dreaming weird dreams on the heavily airconditioned coach I took. All kinds of people live in those dreams, they assume each other’s roles and exchange them like I don’t know what. They say sentences laden with meaning, sentences leave their mouths and fizzle out against my eardrums. They want something from me. Everything is turned around in those dreams, best friends turn into naked French hens plucked by gasping little monkeys, professors appear on a card deck as jokers with ringing bells on their fool’s hats, family members loan their faces to the stars that envie the moon because it is washed every once in a while, a rhesus monkey proudly parades between the dream personnel with twinkling eyes and slaps them with a sawn-off leaden measure if they get too serious.

I walked around in Sao Paolo, found a hostel and wrote in a bar for several hours, until it was time to check in. I spent the afternoon recuperating on the clean sheets and thinking about my trip. All has been well until now. I went out for dinner on my own, breathing some of the metropole’s air albeit only in the immediate surroundings of the hostel. I had the famous hamburger and smiled at the people. I saw just another city with everything working, everything connected. I went to sleep early because I wanted to be in the airport on time.

Today, Jack meets the homeless. He sees a woman on the street with a young child on her arm. The baby is silent. Jack passes and feels he wants to sit there too. So he sits down next to the woman, humming in his mind some heavy music he finds suitable for the occasion. The woman smiles at him. He likes the smile and starts to dream about it. Another child comes along and quickly steals Jack’s wallet. When he wakes up he feels its absence in his pocket. He asks the woman, who smiles again when she shrugs her shoulders. Such a beautiful, such a wonderful, such a marvelous, such an mysteriously beautiful smile, such an – expensive smile. Jack likes expensive things, and here he got one for free. That his wallet had been stolen he had already forgotten. The smile of that woman filled him with all the happiness he was capable of. All the happiness he will ever be capable of.

Febrauary 25. Sao Paolo.

The sheer size of this city. I arrived dreaming weird dreams on the heavily airconditioned coach I took. All kinds of people live in those dreams, they assume each other’s roles and exchange them like I don’t know what. They say sentences laden with meaning, sentences leave their mouths and fizzle out against my eardrums. They want something from me. Everything is turned around in those dreams, best friends turn into naked French hens plucked by gasping little monkeys, professors appear on a card deck as jokers with ringing bells on their fool’s hats, family members loan their faces to the stars that envie the moon because it is washed every once in a while, a rhesus monkey proudly parades between the dream personnel with twinkling eyes and slaps them with a sawn-off leaden measure if they get too serious.

I walked around in Sao Paolo, found a hostel and wrote in a bar for several hours, until it was time to check in. I spent the afternoon recuperating on the clean sheets and thinking about my trip. All has been well until now. I went out for dinner on my own, breathing some of the metropole’s air albeit only in the immediate surroundings of the hostel. I had the famous hamburger and smiled at the people. I saw just another city with everything working, everything connected. I went to sleep early because I wanted to be in the airport on time.

Today, Jack meets the homeless. He sees a woman on the street with a young child on her arm. The baby is silent. Jack passes and feels he wants to sit there too. So he sits down next to the woman, humming in his mind some heavy music he finds suitable for the occasion. The woman smiles at him. He likes the smile and starts to dream about it. Another child comes along and quickly steals Jack’s wallet. When he wakes up he feels its absence in his pocket. He asks the woman, who smiles again when she shrugs her shoulders. Such a beautiful, such a wonderful, such a marvelous, such an mysteriously beautiful smile, such an – expensive smile. Jack likes expensive things, and here he got one for free. That his wallet had been stolen he had already forgotten. The smile of that woman filled him with all the happiness he was capable of. All the happiness he will ever be capable of.

Febrauary 25. Sao Paolo.

The sheer size of this city. I arrived dreaming weird dreams on the heavily airconditioned coach I took. All kinds of people live in those dreams, they assume each other’s roles and exchange them like I don’t know what. They say sentences laden with meaning, sentences leave their mouths and fizzle out against my eardrums. They want something from me. Everything is turned around in those dreams, best friends turn into naked French hens plucked by gasping little monkeys, professors appear on a card deck as jokers with ringing bells on their fool’s hats, family members loan their faces to the stars that envie the moon because it is washed every once in a while, a rhesus monkey proudly parades between the dream personnel with twinkling eyes and slaps them with a sawn-off leaden measure if they get too serious.

I walked around in Sao Paolo, found a hostel and wrote in a bar for several hours, until it was time to check in. I spent the afternoon recuperating on the clean sheets and thinking about my trip. All has been well until now. I went out for dinner on my own, breathing some of the metropole’s air albeit only in the immediate surroundings of the hostel. I had the famous hamburger and smiled at the people. I saw just another city with everything working, everything connected. I went to sleep early because I wanted to be in the airport on time.

Today, Jack meets the homeless. He sees a woman on the street with a young child on her arm. The baby is silent. Jack passes and feels he wants to sit there too. So he sits down next to the woman, humming in his mind some heavy music he finds suitable for the occasion. The woman smiles at him. He likes the smile and starts to dream about it. Another child comes along and quickly steals Jack’s wallet. When he wakes up he feels its absence in his pocket. He asks the woman, who smiles again when she shrugs her shoulders. Such a beautiful, such a wonderful, such a marvelous, such an mysteriously beautiful smile, such an – expensive smile. Jack likes expensive things, and here he got one for free. That his wallet had been stolen he had already forgotten. The smile of that woman filled him with all the happiness he was capable of. All the happiness he will ever be capable of.

February 24. Sunrise ,Sunset.

And it’s all so simple: just meet that person who has the same difference. O, stop it. Stop the abstractions and start something creamy, thick, moldy, liquid, crooked, crumbled, something smelling of steaming fresh asphalt, like pulpy orange juice, like boiling fat, something cobalt blue covered in colophony and eucalyptus honey, something Schostakovitschly brasslike, bulky, boisterously Byzantine, like bold flakes of snow pristine, something coalesced, amalgamated, molten together like two loafs of Mozarella cheese, impure ulcerations on scratched tissue, something like a dinosaur egg, something ancient deeply buried in the earth’s crest –
Dancing under the arches of the Lapa Aquaduct had been enough. It had been great and enough. I danced on the Largo Machado for half an hour. Jack wants to dance still more, he just feels like it. He’s all set and tries to convince me to come with him. I was reluctant but Jack tries to convince me. Annoying prick. Why am I traveling with this guy anyway? Why is this Jack character constantly on my back? I must try to get rid of him. I’ll try to develop a strategy to put Jack off. Maybe I can dump him in some poor neighbourhood where the people have to make ends meet on a day-by-day basis? Maybe he fits in there with his temper. He will have his food, his women, his fresh dreams. Before he starts missing me I can be far away. And I’ll never have to hear of him and his escapades again. Never hear of his passive absorption of the fiercest of moral codes with his goddamn pristine saintly mind. Let him rot with that unbearable arrogance he steals from us. But how to get rid of Jack? Personally bringing him to a Favela and then turn my back on him? Taking him to the Sambadromo and making his eyes stick to the movement of one of the Samba groups that parade by, to sneak out myself? I don’t know. I have difficulties leaving him alone. Sometimes he fascinates me.
The day passed in a lazy fashion. I took too much time getting to the bus station just to make sure I was on time. It was ridiculous. All those extra hours waiting on a dirty floor, hand in my pocket to protect its contents, worrying restlessly about what could go wrong. That bus could not show up, pickpockets could empty my pockets, I could lose my ticket, there could be an accident, the luggage could get lost. Useless and ugly worries. Worries Jack would never think about.

A travel bus in Brazil. If you pay, you get value. A lot of leg space and cold air is blown relentlessly through the coach. I am cold and get out my jacket during a stopover. The driver opens the luggage bin. He also checks all the tires with a little hammer. The taps on the tires maybe he is patting my shoulders to make my worries go away. If offer my quick drying towel as a blanket to the woman next to me, but she kindly rejects. My neck hurts despite of all the comfort and I have to snap the joints tomorrow. Jack has fallen asleep. I feel responsible for him so I take him with me. Who knows what might become of him when I leave him alone in a big city like Rio? He lives from a second to the next and that’s exactly when you get shot. Poor Jack would get shot when he walks into a Favela, so that his chest would be perforated and his blood spoiled. Shot by the man with the big machine gun because he tries to kiss his girlfriend. Jack doesn’t know Nicolas, he has not been warned for the danger of going into a Favela. No, Jack has to come with me. But I refuse to be his shadow, he must be mine.
I will see sunrise upon arrival in Sao Paolo, one of the largest cities on the surface of our blue planet. Perhaps something new awaits the traveler?

February 24. Sunrise ,Sunset.

And it’s all so simple: just meet that person who has the same difference. O, stop it. Stop the abstractions and start something creamy, thick, moldy, liquid, crooked, crumbled, something smelling of steaming fresh asphalt, like pulpy orange juice, like boiling fat, something cobalt blue covered in colophony and eucalyptus honey, something Schostakovitschly brasslike, bulky, boisterously Byzantine, like bold flakes of snow pristine, something coalesced, amalgamated, molten together like two loafs of Mozarella cheese, impure ulcerations on scratched tissue, something like a dinosaur egg, something ancient deeply buried in the earth’s crest –
Dancing under the arches of the Lapa Aquaduct had been enough. It had been great and enough. I danced on the Largo Machado for half an hour. Jack wants to dance still more, he just feels like it. He’s all set and tries to convince me to come with him. I was reluctant but Jack tries to convince me. Annoying prick. Why am I traveling with this guy anyway? Why is this Jack character constantly on my back? I must try to get rid of him. I’ll try to develop a strategy to put Jack off. Maybe I can dump him in some poor neighbourhood where the people have to make ends meet on a day-by-day basis? Maybe he fits in there with his temper. He will have his food, his women, his fresh dreams. Before he starts missing me I can be far away. And I’ll never have to hear of him and his escapades again. Never hear of his passive absorption of the fiercest of moral codes with his goddamn pristine saintly mind. Let him rot with that unbearable arrogance he steals from us. But how to get rid of Jack? Personally bringing him to a Favela and then turn my back on him? Taking him to the Sambadromo and making his eyes stick to the movement of one of the Samba groups that parade by, to sneak out myself? I don’t know. I have difficulties leaving him alone. Sometimes he fascinates me.
The day passed in a lazy fashion. I took too much time getting to the bus station just to make sure I was on time. It was ridiculous. All those extra hours waiting on a dirty floor, hand in my pocket to protect its contents, worrying restlessly about what could go wrong. That bus could not show up, pickpockets could empty my pockets, I could lose my ticket, there could be an accident, the luggage could get lost. Useless and ugly worries. Worries Jack would never think about.

A travel bus in Brazil. If you pay, you get value. A lot of leg space and cold air is blown relentlessly through the coach. I am cold and get out my jacket during a stopover. The driver opens the luggage bin. He also checks all the tires with a little hammer. The taps on the tires maybe he is patting my shoulders to make my worries go away. If offer my quick drying towel as a blanket to the woman next to me, but she kindly rejects. My neck hurts despite of all the comfort and I have to snap the joints tomorrow. Jack has fallen asleep. I feel responsible for him so I take him with me. Who knows what might become of him when I leave him alone in a big city like Rio? He lives from a second to the next and that’s exactly when you get shot. Poor Jack would get shot when he walks into a Favela, so that his chest would be perforated and his blood spoiled. Shot by the man with the big machine gun because he tries to kiss his girlfriend. Jack doesn’t know Nicolas, he has not been warned for the danger of going into a Favela. No, Jack has to come with me. But I refuse to be his shadow, he must be mine.
I will see sunrise upon arrival in Sao Paolo, one of the largest cities on the surface of our blue planet. Perhaps something new awaits the traveler?

February 24. Sunrise ,Sunset.

And it’s all so simple: just meet that person who has the same difference. O, stop it. Stop the abstractions and start something creamy, thick, moldy, liquid, crooked, crumbled, something smelling of steaming fresh asphalt, like pulpy orange juice, like boiling fat, something cobalt blue covered in colophony and eucalyptus honey, something Schostakovitschly brasslike, bulky, boisterously Byzantine, like bold flakes of snow pristine, something coalesced, amalgamated, molten together like two loafs of Mozarella cheese, impure ulcerations on scratched tissue, something like a dinosaur egg, something ancient deeply buried in the earth’s crest –
Dancing under the arches of the Lapa Aquaduct had been enough. It had been great and enough. I danced on the Largo Machado for half an hour. Jack wants to dance still more, he just feels like it. He’s all set and tries to convince me to come with him. I was reluctant but Jack tries to convince me. Annoying prick. Why am I traveling with this guy anyway? Why is this Jack character constantly on my back? I must try to get rid of him. I’ll try to develop a strategy to put Jack off. Maybe I can dump him in some poor neighbourhood where the people have to make ends meet on a day-by-day basis? Maybe he fits in there with his temper. He will have his food, his women, his fresh dreams. Before he starts missing me I can be far away. And I’ll never have to hear of him and his escapades again. Never hear of his passive absorption of the fiercest of moral codes with his goddamn pristine saintly mind. Let him rot with that unbearable arrogance he steals from us. But how to get rid of Jack? Personally bringing him to a Favela and then turn my back on him? Taking him to the Sambadromo and making his eyes stick to the movement of one of the Samba groups that parade by, to sneak out myself? I don’t know. I have difficulties leaving him alone. Sometimes he fascinates me.
The day passed in a lazy fashion. I took too much time getting to the bus station just to make sure I was on time. It was ridiculous. All those extra hours waiting on a dirty floor, hand in my pocket to protect its contents, worrying restlessly about what could go wrong. That bus could not show up, pickpockets could empty my pockets, I could lose my ticket, there could be an accident, the luggage could get lost. Useless and ugly worries. Worries Jack would never think about.

A travel bus in Brazil. If you pay, you get value. A lot of leg space and cold air is blown relentlessly through the coach. I am cold and get out my jacket during a stopover. The driver opens the luggage bin. He also checks all the tires with a little hammer. The taps on the tires maybe he is patting my shoulders to make my worries go away. If offer my quick drying towel as a blanket to the woman next to me, but she kindly rejects. My neck hurts despite of all the comfort and I have to snap the joints tomorrow. Jack has fallen asleep. I feel responsible for him so I take him with me. Who knows what might become of him when I leave him alone in a big city like Rio? He lives from a second to the next and that’s exactly when you get shot. Poor Jack would get shot when he walks into a Favela, so that his chest would be perforated and his blood spoiled. Shot by the man with the big machine gun because he tries to kiss his girlfriend. Jack doesn’t know Nicolas, he has not been warned for the danger of going into a Favela. No, Jack has to come with me. But I refuse to be his shadow, he must be mine.
I will see sunrise upon arrival in Sao Paolo, one of the largest cities on the surface of our blue planet. Perhaps something new awaits the traveler?

February 22-23. The womb of the Carnival.

Total detachment is a crying freedom. The days are so hot that the hammock catches the odour of its sleeper and you have to use chalk powder and shake it real hard. In the morning, we went to a bloco (a street parade with drumming and dancing). The drums had a lot of energy. These blocos are great! People threw water out of the window to sooth the heated crowd; I rubbed an ice cube in my neck. Everybody’s sweating and moving to the drum sounds that penetrate your ears. Some dogs are dressed up. On the ground are cans and people who collect them. A rope seperates the drummers from the crowd. We just dance and forget who we are.

In the afternoon I went to buy my bus ticket to Sao Paolo in the Rodoviaria and walked around a little in the neighbourhood with the intention to see something else in this city than carnival. It was dangerous though, and I reached the limit soon enough. I sang as I walked under a long freeway flyover chasing my long shadow. “So e feliz quem /pensa bem e / fazo bem” was written on every concrete pillar supporting the flyover. I sang and then I saw where the extravagant Carnival waggons come from. The remise was dilapidated and it looked dangerous there, in the womb of the Carnival. Further on, I kept taking pictures of the neighbourhood that gradually got more interesting – and more dangerous, until I saw a kid in a window yelling at me holding something in his hand that looked like a gun. I turned around and ran back to the safe haven of a small bar, where several people discouraged me to take photographs because you might be robbed for your camera if they see you handling it. I didn’t need the advice: I’m heedful enough. An Italian guy showed me how to get back to Central. Grazie mille. The houses still got worse. People live in piles of stones and dust and dirt. Two policemen carrying big black assault rifles were doing a drug raid. They told me so when I asked them. They had to pick up a drug trafficker that lived in one of these ramshackle domiciles. I decided that I’d seen enough and went to the Central station which is crowded and safe. I looked at two girls who were walking in the opposite direction. After the moment we passed, they turned around at exactly the same time I did, and we gave each other a nimble smile. I do not only see, I am seen.

If you can say X o muerte: Patria o muerte, Democracia o muerte, Liberdad o muerte, Independencia o muerte, there you go. Your adolescence is over. In Brazil it’s independencia o muerte, that’s what Dom Pedro exclaimed in 1822. In my bus back home I thought about that, but in my case I don’t know what to substitute for the X. Arte o muerte, maybe. And you? McFluffy o muerte?