March 26. Lobo.

Philosophy should be sprouting from the pain of being. Like a fragile plant. What am I saying here? A plant? Pain of being? I am dwelling in Buenos Aires these days, feel like I have to move on because I already feel too much at home here. It gets a little bit aburrido. But of boredom I already had enough back in Berlin. I had my share, like Baudelaire had his. Now I want something more. And I should stop talking about the pain of being. It’s so hysterical.

I had lunch with the woman who was not Sara. Lunch with a lot of carne: cuadril. Big chunks of Argentinian red meat. I loved it. We had a decent wine too. I joked that I would transfer into a lobo, a wolf, so she better not be around by midnight. That was, to my misfortune, indeed not the case. But other things matter more. Do you know what I used to call Nietzsche when I was young and craved for reading every letter of the philosophers? I used to call him lupus significae, wolf of meaning, because that is the way I perceived his writings. The meaning of his writing is so densely distributed along the lines he writes. Where others alude with played subtlety to some chunk of meaning somewhere, Nietzsche hits the bull on its head and spoils the meaning all over the place. Meaning is not something we should anxiously try to hold in our hands, but something we should try to spout out of us as long as we are alive. Something like that. The meat tasted really good.

The woman who is not Sara told me this very significant thing. “I don’t want to be the pensamiento of anybody else.” That struck me, since I use to transform you into a thought.
Again, put off. another one bites the dust. I want to be accepted. We all want to be accepted. But as what? I guess we all have some vague ideas about this in mind. And they better remain vague. What has to become clearer in our minds is: what is acceptation? We have a romantic idea of acceptation. That it’s some kind of deliverance. Once the Other, a school teacher, a girlfriend, some colleagues that used to be mobbing, a postman, a democrat, a masseur, one they’ve cast this magic spell of acceptance, once they DID this weightless and purely noumenal deed, once they’ve triggered the mental fireworks of acceptance, everything will be rosy and good.
See? Acceptance ist yet another language game. We have to study its rules. There are certain sentences we want to hear, and as appendices to those sentences, certain acts like the reception of a present and sharing time together. We are tuned to recognize those sentences and this behaviour. In this sense, acceptance can be reduced to self-acceptance. And don’t you dare mixing this up with the common cliché (my thoughts are always mistaken for clichés and I detest that), with the cliché that you have to accept yourself before others will accept you. I am talking about something else, something more fundamental as you might. I know very, very few people who would not react to an average reflection like this with a meek shrug and say well that’s what I’ve always said or no no I know it better. It seems so hard for people to just read and listen and try to extract something new from what you throw at them. They read this and say yeah acceptance is very important, they don’t even try to ask the type of questions I’m asking here. They take everything for granted except when they can add in their own thoughts. God how closed they all are. So here, it’s about acceptance as a language game with certain expectations that are of course always individual. And that also means that we can train them. I can, to give you an example, try to refrase your ignorance in my head, try to feel accepted just because you’ve read this, not because you understood it.

My hobby is making my character, making it more and more interesting. It is a hobby that is intrinsically tragic. If you (I switch from “me” to “you” don’t forget to notice!) try to make your character more interesting you can never succeed. You will end up with a boring simplistic character, a character that is aligned precisely to that one goal. So you have the tragic in your boat. Still want to skipper? It might be the best narcist treatment.

March 26. Lobo.

Philosophy should be sprouting from the pain of being. Like a fragile plant. What am I saying here? A plant? Pain of being? I am dwelling in Buenos Aires these days, feel like I have to move on because I already feel too much at home here. It gets a little bit aburrido. But of boredom I already had enough back in Berlin. I had my share, like Baudelaire had his. Now I want something more. And I should stop talking about the pain of being. It’s so hysterical.

I had lunch with the woman who was not Sara. Lunch with a lot of carne: cuadril. Big chunks of Argentinian red meat. I loved it. We had a decent wine too. I joked that I would transfer into a lobo, a wolf, so she better not be around by midnight. That was, to my misfortune, indeed not the case. But other things matter more. Do you know what I used to call Nietzsche when I was young and craved for reading every letter of the philosophers? I used to call him lupus significae, wolf of meaning, because that is the way I perceived his writings. The meaning of his writing is so densely distributed along the lines he writes. Where others alude with played subtlety to some chunk of meaning somewhere, Nietzsche hits the bull on its head and spoils the meaning all over the place. Meaning is not something we should anxiously try to hold in our hands, but something we should try to spout out of us as long as we are alive. Something like that. The meat tasted really good.

The woman who is not Sara told me this very significant thing. “I don’t want to be the pensamiento of anybody else.” That struck me, since I use to transform you into a thought.
Again, put off. another one bites the dust. I want to be accepted. We all want to be accepted. But as what? I guess we all have some vague ideas about this in mind. And they better remain vague. What has to become clearer in our minds is: what is acceptation? We have a romantic idea of acceptation. That it’s some kind of deliverance. Once the Other, a school teacher, a girlfriend, some colleagues that used to be mobbing, a postman, a democrat, a masseur, one they’ve cast this magic spell of acceptance, once they DID this weightless and purely noumenal deed, once they’ve triggered the mental fireworks of acceptance, everything will be rosy and good.
See? Acceptance ist yet another language game. We have to study its rules. There are certain sentences we want to hear, and as appendices to those sentences, certain acts like the reception of a present and sharing time together. We are tuned to recognize those sentences and this behaviour. In this sense, acceptance can be reduced to self-acceptance. And don’t you dare mixing this up with the common cliché (my thoughts are always mistaken for clichés and I detest that), with the cliché that you have to accept yourself before others will accept you. I am talking about something else, something more fundamental as you might. I know very, very few people who would not react to an average reflection like this with a meek shrug and say well that’s what I’ve always said or no no I know it better. It seems so hard for people to just read and listen and try to extract something new from what you throw at them. They read this and say yeah acceptance is very important, they don’t even try to ask the type of questions I’m asking here. They take everything for granted except when they can add in their own thoughts. God how closed they all are. So here, it’s about acceptance as a language game with certain expectations that are of course always individual. And that also means that we can train them. I can, to give you an example, try to refrase your ignorance in my head, try to feel accepted just because you’ve read this, not because you understood it.

My hobby is making my character, making it more and more interesting. It is a hobby that is intrinsically tragic. If you (I switch from “me” to “you” don’t forget to notice!) try to make your character more interesting you can never succeed. You will end up with a boring simplistic character, a character that is aligned precisely to that one goal. So you have the tragic in your boat. Still want to skipper? It might be the best narcist treatment.

March 26. Lobo.

Philosophy should be sprouting from the pain of being. Like a fragile plant. What am I saying here? A plant? Pain of being? I am dwelling in Buenos Aires these days, feel like I have to move on because I already feel too much at home here. It gets a little bit aburrido. But of boredom I already had enough back in Berlin. I had my share, like Baudelaire had his. Now I want something more. And I should stop talking about the pain of being. It’s so hysterical.

I had lunch with the woman who was not Sara. Lunch with a lot of carne: cuadril. Big chunks of Argentinian red meat. I loved it. We had a decent wine too. I joked that I would transfer into a lobo, a wolf, so she better not be around by midnight. That was, to my misfortune, indeed not the case. But other things matter more. Do you know what I used to call Nietzsche when I was young and craved for reading every letter of the philosophers? I used to call him lupus significae, wolf of meaning, because that is the way I perceived his writings. The meaning of his writing is so densely distributed along the lines he writes. Where others alude with played subtlety to some chunk of meaning somewhere, Nietzsche hits the bull on its head and spoils the meaning all over the place. Meaning is not something we should anxiously try to hold in our hands, but something we should try to spout out of us as long as we are alive. Something like that. The meat tasted really good.

The woman who is not Sara told me this very significant thing. “I don’t want to be the pensamiento of anybody else.” That struck me, since I use to transform you into a thought.
Again, put off. another one bites the dust. I want to be accepted. We all want to be accepted. But as what? I guess we all have some vague ideas about this in mind. And they better remain vague. What has to become clearer in our minds is: what is acceptation? We have a romantic idea of acceptation. That it’s some kind of deliverance. Once the Other, a school teacher, a girlfriend, some colleagues that used to be mobbing, a postman, a democrat, a masseur, one they’ve cast this magic spell of acceptance, once they DID this weightless and purely noumenal deed, once they’ve triggered the mental fireworks of acceptance, everything will be rosy and good.
See? Acceptance ist yet another language game. We have to study its rules. There are certain sentences we want to hear, and as appendices to those sentences, certain acts like the reception of a present and sharing time together. We are tuned to recognize those sentences and this behaviour. In this sense, acceptance can be reduced to self-acceptance. And don’t you dare mixing this up with the common cliché (my thoughts are always mistaken for clichés and I detest that), with the cliché that you have to accept yourself before others will accept you. I am talking about something else, something more fundamental as you might. I know very, very few people who would not react to an average reflection like this with a meek shrug and say well that’s what I’ve always said or no no I know it better. It seems so hard for people to just read and listen and try to extract something new from what you throw at them. They read this and say yeah acceptance is very important, they don’t even try to ask the type of questions I’m asking here. They take everything for granted except when they can add in their own thoughts. God how closed they all are. So here, it’s about acceptance as a language game with certain expectations that are of course always individual. And that also means that we can train them. I can, to give you an example, try to refrase your ignorance in my head, try to feel accepted just because you’ve read this, not because you understood it.

My hobby is making my character, making it more and more interesting. It is a hobby that is intrinsically tragic. If you (I switch from “me” to “you” don’t forget to notice!) try to make your character more interesting you can never succeed. You will end up with a boring simplistic character, a character that is aligned precisely to that one goal. So you have the tragic in your boat. Still want to skipper? It might be the best narcist treatment.

March 22. Luck.

Luck seems to follow me wherever I go. Even on a normal day when I some work that muse is right behind me. What is the nature of good luck? Getting lucky? I don’t mean winning the lottery or living a long and healthy life. I don’t know either, you tell me. I feel very tired and my blog is way behind, now tell myself I have to write something about luck. What are we anyway? It is of course just interpretation. I just felt bedazzlingly lucky because of the delicious coffee that was served by the beautiful waitress here in Gallo 702 in Buenos Aires. The waitress wears braces that are glued to her teeth. I can see it when she smiles. That’s a pure observation, don’t you think?
An observation of the kind I want to make them. Preserving our pureness in observing, our mis-en-scène of perceptional innocence that’s what I want to do. The waitress. So luck is just a feeling I hear you sigh. A no-brainer. That guy just feels lucky about the little joys of life. Such a cliché. But wait a minute please. Saying you are lucky because the coffee you ordered and paid for is saying you are lucky because you get what you are entitled to. And we are all entitled to good luck and happiness (American constitution). To say you got lucky because you got what you ought to get is to behave in an unacceptable way. We cannot accept that I call this luck, because it destroys the concept of luck. It insults people who don’t feel lucky when they got what they ought to get. So, apart from being an insult to some people, I have no idea what my luck is. And I am not interested to know it.

In San Telmo there is a market and a lot of street artists. Painters, musicians. Tourist as far as the eye can see. A painter painted Amy Winehouse in very bright colours using his fingers to the rhythm of her latest record. The result was pretty amazing. The guy kept dancing around in front of the canvas and threw spicks of white, green, purple, blue on it after shaping the characteristic face of madame Winehouse with his hands. He attracted a lot of people with his life-painting. Look! He is doing something. Doing something? Yes, do-ing. Someone is doing something here. That attracts people like flies.

In a café I wrote a few pages. I want to write faster than you can read but I will never succeed. My writing is nothing to write home about. But to deliberately choose this mediocrity is such a liberation of the spirit. Once you accepted you are producing crap and crap only, you can start living. Like a pig in the mud, the mud feels so good on the cold pig-skin. And after many years you might think about other pigs, rolling in the same mudpool. Never mind. I want to demonstrate that badness has a place in the world, that bad writing just like bad acting, bad composing, bad playing, bad sex, bad relationships, bad eend, bad jokes and bad weather has its place on the earth. I will never be able to proof this. Once this is read and known, a one-way process of recognition, of approval and assessment of a certain quality will be started. A process like a ticking timebomb. What will come out will be goodness, and the badness will be forgetten. Why can’t I safe the badness?

A Canadian hairdresser came and asked me to use his computer. A little reluctant at first, I saw this man was a real tourist and I let him send an email from my machine. He paid for my coffee my friends had already paid for. Luck had put a few licks of her ointment too much on my forehead.

In the metro on my way back home I saw a smile. I saw the cutest smile I had seen in years. The smile was on the face of a girl and the girl was Sara. Or rather, she ought to be Sara, but she wasn’t. That smile changed to another metro line and I changed too. She gave me a telephone number and all that and I decided to call her. Felt a bit like in a movie. The question “who is this person?” I mean when you really ask this question you feel very much alive.

March 22. Luck.

Luck seems to follow me wherever I go. Even on a normal day when I some work that muse is right behind me. What is the nature of good luck? Getting lucky? I don’t mean winning the lottery or living a long and healthy life. I don’t know either, you tell me. I feel very tired and my blog is way behind, now tell myself I have to write something about luck. What are we anyway? It is of course just interpretation. I just felt bedazzlingly lucky because of the delicious coffee that was served by the beautiful waitress here in Gallo 702 in Buenos Aires. The waitress wears braces that are glued to her teeth. I can see it when she smiles. That’s a pure observation, don’t you think? An observation of the kind I want to make them. Preserving our pureness in observing, our mis-en-scène of perceptional innocence that’s what I want to do. The waitress. So luck is just a feeling I hear you sigh. A no-brainer. That guy just feels lucky about the little joys of life. Such a cliché. But wait a minute please. Saying you are lucky because the coffee you ordered and paid for is saying you are lucky because you get what you are entitled to. And we are all entitled to good luck and happiness (American constitution). To say you got lucky because you got what you ought to get is to behave in an unacceptable way. We cannot accept that I call this luck, because it destroys the concept of luck. It insults people who don’t feel lucky when they got what they ought to get. So, apart from being an insult to some people, I have no idea what my luck is. And I am not interested to know it.

In San Telmo there is a market and a lot of street artists. Painters, musicians. Tourist as far as the eye can see. A painter painted Amy Winehouse in very bright colours using his fingers to the rhythm of her latest record. The result was pretty amazing. The guy kept dancing around in front of the canvas and threw spicks of white, green, purple, blue on it after shaping the characteristic face of madame Winehouse with his hands. He attracted a lot of people with his life-painting. Look! He is doing something. Doing something? Yes, do-ing. Someone is doing something here. That attracts people like flies.

In a café I wrote a few pages. I want to write faster than you can read but I will never succeed. My writing is nothing to write home about. But to deliberately choose this mediocrity is such a liberation of the spirit. Once you accepted you are producing crap and crap only, you can start living. Like a pig in the mud, the mud feels so good on the cold pig-skin. And after many years you might think about other pigs, rolling in the same mudpool. Never mind. I want to demonstrate that badness has a place in the world, that bad writing just like bad acting, bad composing, bad playing, bad sex, bad relationships, bad eend, bad jokes and bad weather has its place on the earth. I will never be able to proof this. Once this is read and known, a one-way process of recognition, of approval and assessment of a certain quality will be started. A process like a ticking timebomb. What will come out will be goodness, and the badness will be forgetten. Why can’t I safe the badness?

A Canadian hairdresser came and asked me to use his computer. A little reluctant at first, I saw this man was a real tourist and I let him send an email from my machine. He paid for my coffee my friends had already paid for. Luck had put a few licks of her ointment too much on my forehead.

In the metro on my way back home I saw a smile. I saw the cutest smile I had seen in years. The smile was on the face of a girl and the girl was Sara. Or rather, she ought to be Sara, but she wasn’t. That smile changed to another metro line and I changed too. She gave me a telephone number and all that and I decided to call her. Felt a bit like in a movie. The question “who is this person?” I mean when you really ask this question you feel very much alive.

March 22. Luck.

Luck seems to follow me wherever I go. Even on a normal day when I some work that muse is right behind me. What is the nature of good luck? Getting lucky? I don’t mean winning the lottery or living a long and healthy life. I don’t know either, you tell me. I feel very tired and my blog is way behind, now tell myself I have to write something about luck. What are we anyway? It is of course just interpretation. I just felt bedazzlingly lucky because of the delicious coffee that was served by the beautiful waitress here in Gallo 702 in Buenos Aires. The waitress wears braces that are glued to her teeth. I can see it when she smiles. That’s a pure observation, don’t you think? An observation of the kind I want to make them. Preserving our pureness in observing, our mis-en-scène of perceptional innocence that’s what I want to do. The waitress. So luck is just a feeling I hear you sigh. A no-brainer. That guy just feels lucky about the little joys of life. Such a cliché. But wait a minute please. Saying you are lucky because the coffee you ordered and paid for is saying you are lucky because you get what you are entitled to. And we are all entitled to good luck and happiness (American constitution). To say you got lucky because you got what you ought to get is to behave in an unacceptable way. We cannot accept that I call this luck, because it destroys the concept of luck. It insults people who don’t feel lucky when they got what they ought to get. So, apart from being an insult to some people, I have no idea what my luck is. And I am not interested to know it.

In San Telmo there is a market and a lot of street artists. Painters, musicians. Tourist as far as the eye can see. A painter painted Amy Winehouse in very bright colours using his fingers to the rhythm of her latest record. The result was pretty amazing. The guy kept dancing around in front of the canvas and threw spicks of white, green, purple, blue on it after shaping the characteristic face of madame Winehouse with his hands. He attracted a lot of people with his life-painting. Look! He is doing something. Doing something? Yes, do-ing. Someone is doing something here. That attracts people like flies.

In a café I wrote a few pages. I want to write faster than you can read but I will never succeed. My writing is nothing to write home about. But to deliberately choose this mediocrity is such a liberation of the spirit. Once you accepted you are producing crap and crap only, you can start living. Like a pig in the mud, the mud feels so good on the cold pig-skin. And after many years you might think about other pigs, rolling in the same mudpool. Never mind. I want to demonstrate that badness has a place in the world, that bad writing just like bad acting, bad composing, bad playing, bad sex, bad relationships, bad eend, bad jokes and bad weather has its place on the earth. I will never be able to proof this. Once this is read and known, a one-way process of recognition, of approval and assessment of a certain quality will be started. A process like a ticking timebomb. What will come out will be goodness, and the badness will be forgetten. Why can’t I safe the badness?

A Canadian hairdresser came and asked me to use his computer. A little reluctant at first, I saw this man was a real tourist and I let him send an email from my machine. He paid for my coffee my friends had already paid for. Luck had put a few licks of her ointment too much on my forehead.

In the metro on my way back home I saw a smile. I saw the cutest smile I had seen in years. The smile was on the face of a girl and the girl was Sara. Or rather, she ought to be Sara, but she wasn’t. That smile changed to another metro line and I changed too. She gave me a telephone number and all that and I decided to call her. Felt a bit like in a movie. The question “who is this person?” I mean when you really ask this question you feel very much alive.

March 11. Santiago sweet.

I decide to meet someone today I call that person Sara because that’s what first comes to my mind. She was not on our overnight bus to Santiago de Chile, I didn’t meet her on the streets of this five million metropole with the 02 area code, neither was it the woman that sold me a ticket at the musuem entrance. She just fell down from the sky, so to speak, almost like a fictitious person. Well I said doesn’t that hurt, intentionally using the negative expression to show that I had presupposed it would hurt because falling from the sky normally does. In her case, it obviously didn’t hurt but how could I know? Besides, when I would have known all about her being like a feather and all I would never have talked to her and she would never have known about my existence and a lot of beautiful interaction would never have occured. So I asked her if she was hurt and looked at her arm to see if there were bruises and scratches but she was immaculate. She just smiled and told me her name was Sara and I thought something new is happening here. Well Sara I said aren’t you hot, knowing that up there in the sky the temperature is a lot lower (I’ve been on an airplane more than once). Again I supposed Sara would feel in the same way I do, and again I was wrong. But she obviously liked my wrongness, because she smiled once more. She wasn’t hot at all, she said she was rather cold because where she came from they could heat each other with their souls. I looked at her and laughed, I told her listen I put you on hold because I just wanted to let her wait. She was really beautiful and I was attracted to her but here I felt I had some power and couldn’t resist to exert it. Frankly, I wanted to blow the cold air of our human condition in her face, instead of being heated up by her superhuman prettiness. Just wait for me Sara, just wait indefinitely until I come back.

Words should be fresh when they are written down. But the freshness of words cannot be measured by their individual smell or structure like fruits. They are all connected and build up a giant web that can have a dusty or a fresh aura. And there is another particularity. One moldy word can increase the freshness of its neighbours.

In Santiago we spent a night with Ronald, a Dutch translator about my age who travels with his boyfriend and works in every city for a couple of weeks before moving on. He used the same computer model as I did and would probably have the same shoe size too. It was kind of funny, like meeting someone who actually is in your skin. “How do you do it?”
We walked around a bit to explore Santiago since we were all new to the city. Ended up with a meal from the micromarket consisting of paltas (avocados), bread, bad wine, lettuce, yoghurt, and cheese. The couch was tough to unfold but it worked out fine in the end, whining and cracking like the odd coincidence of our meeting. Reflections about this were due. At least I could say something about the meaning that sticks to almost everything like dripping honey. Every cracking sound, the position of the chairs, the purring of a cat, the smell of onions that you’re supposed to cut, the height of the ceiling, the bubbles that rise to the surface of your tablewater, the spiral form of the light saving bulb, it all has some gigantic symbolic meaning, it’s satisfied with meaning like dough is satisfied with eggs. Don’t touch anything please, the meaning might squirt all over the place.