There are so many things that don't interest me not a tiny bit. It's not interesting to talk about them, so I leave that be. The first day of March passed by quietly and without any special effects. I hung out in an apartment in Buenos Aires and had a good time. There is not really not much to mention. Buenos Aires is a very western city, just as the guidebooks tell you it is. There is a ring of poverty though, surrounding the chique neighbourhood of downtown Buenos Aires where you find stylish cafés and skyskrapers reflecting the intense light in their glass facades. Where you'll see people on the sidewalk trying to make a living by polishing other people's shoes or selling silly toys. But this is no guidebook I am writing. If you found it on a guidebook-
shelf I am very sorry for that. I have things that are slightly more important to mention. Today I killed Jack. That was pretty easy. I just breathed the air he was supposed to breath and he went
all blue and purple. His suffocating face did not even bear the marks of wonder. He seems to have accepted his final transformation. What was he? Nothing! His contribution to the world is void. He refused to accept that he has created a history all by himself, let alone live that history. I don't understand Jack. But it's not about understanding, it's about fun. I'm glad he is gone
now. He was just an experiment that went wrong. Splitting up was not such a good idea after all. Maybe we joined again but don't ask me I don't know. You must be disappointed, and I am sorry for that. Now I just want to write, write before I think, write faster than I think. Every new thought must fall into a rosebed of words that has to be laid out before the thought emerges. Even if I don't think I want to write. What difference does it make anyway? It's just words that
won't bite anyone. But they will have a little measurable side-effect, and that can be a very neat and worthy thing.
Showing posts with label Jack. Show all posts.
February 28.
Other people age with the same pace as we do ourselves. If we lost some years or feel like we did so, if we feel we are getting too old, and everything has already been said, and all attempts in life reduce to a vain spasm to postpone emptiness, if we feel all that we can still meet our old friends and look at them, ask them how they have done how they are doing, nodding at them serious nods, slow nods alluding to an understanding never reachable but always present in our imagination, we can have real encounters with "people from the past" and say hey wait a minute we are still dwelling in the same universe we get this feeling that we share something unspeakable the sentiment of having rolled out our lives in opposite directions yet under the same stars.
There are many people who travel. But I haven't met anyone YET who goes away with the sole intention of recording the loneliness in other people's minds by means of cultivating his very own loneliness. It is a plant that needs the water of separation. It is a plant that can give us meaning but also take away everything from us. It generates meaning ex-negativo. Being alone, I mean really indulging in solitude for a long time, with only a shimmering spark of the hope of ever meeting an other human being again is the strongest resource of meaning I can think of. And even if we don't indulge in loneliness but only see it faintly in the corner of our eyes when we walk on in life, it still weaves our tissue of meaning with strong, hard knots and we better don't unweave it in a naive attempt to overcome loneliness. Loneliness is too valuable an asset to give up easily.
A long gemütliches breakfast on a balcony under the Buenos Aires sky. A walk through the huge city, picking streets randomly. The park Centenario. A guy wants to sell us a homeless newspaper and gets pushy. We give him a few pesos but he keeps begging on. We say the no-me-moleste-code but he wouldn't leave. A group is drumming, the jam is great we really like it the vino we bought tastes really bad the apples are good though. The drummer with the big drum has a bad posture his back is curved like a chicken wing. It is a hot day, swans in the lake, everything is clean and hot. Observations must not necessarily be special. The evening a train ride to suburbia, a garden party after that a famous beef restaurant in Buenos Aires. Huge portions served, good wine, good salat, a Dionysian atmosphere counterbalanced by splitting the bill apollonically centwise. A stranger's party that we crash for the feel of it. A lot of Argentinians are around one barebreasted giant and a man with a cone-shaped beard and we dance after quenching our thirst with pure wodka from plastic cups. A long walk home, thirty blocks up the road. I slept like a baby, a bold dreamless sleep.
Jack has lost his inspiration. He stands around near the barbeque and tears some juiceless meat that is stuck in the rack to feed himself. He feeds on the leftovers from a barbeque of the anonymous in a Buenos Aires garden party. He doesn't even talk to the women around him because he feels sad. He doesn't know were this is coming from. He lies down in the dry green grass and looks at the hazy stars, he indulges in a sweet fantasy of loneliness because he cannot feel any real loneliness. The short timespans that are the pivots of his experience have no room for the long-lasting emotion of loss and seperation. The sentiment of real detachment cannot permeate the membrane of Jack's mind. He takes some more meat, onions, fried eggplant with plenty of oregano, peppers and stripes of fat, he looks aside and smiles to the big man that lies his hand on Jack's shoulder.
"You're okay man?"
-"Yeah I guess so. A bit hungry but I have something to bite."
Jack makes biting movements with his jaw-bones and looks at the man, doe-eyed. The man has a fascinating nose and a lot of hair. Jack feels the hand on his shoulder and hears the voice of the man it accesses him and he would stop feeling lonely would he have been able to feel lonely in the first place. But Jack feels something else. Unfortunately he is unable to express it. I have been thinking how we could help Jack. Perhaps we should make him realize that some surrogate loneliness has infiltrated in the seconds of his ongoing transformation. Some grains between the mill of his perceptive faculties that jams it so Jack feels a secondary loneliness, a derived loneliness, the exhaust of our grand loneliness, the residue of what we normals combust to deal with our loneliness. Jack is not pure. Not even him. And between us: that whole loneliness-thing gets on my nerves. I don't feel like watching over Jack because he might get infected with some collateral damage of the footprint of our loneliness. We do not need to apologize for our way of life, yes Obama says that too. And we do not need to apologize for the consumerism, the ecologically catastrophical ways in which we erect all kind of edifices that have the sole task of proving that we are not alone. Because my words resonate in your mind, because our breath becomes visible like luminescent clouds of oily vapor escaping through the thin air in a far-off highway restaurant, because we are recognized by each other, because you get the necessary bits of recognition that fuels your mind and cause you to move on. And we certainly don't have to apologize to Jack about this. Jack he doesn't know a thing about life, he is an ignorant and conceited asshole. I want to kill him.
There are many people who travel. But I haven't met anyone YET who goes away with the sole intention of recording the loneliness in other people's minds by means of cultivating his very own loneliness. It is a plant that needs the water of separation. It is a plant that can give us meaning but also take away everything from us. It generates meaning ex-negativo. Being alone, I mean really indulging in solitude for a long time, with only a shimmering spark of the hope of ever meeting an other human being again is the strongest resource of meaning I can think of. And even if we don't indulge in loneliness but only see it faintly in the corner of our eyes when we walk on in life, it still weaves our tissue of meaning with strong, hard knots and we better don't unweave it in a naive attempt to overcome loneliness. Loneliness is too valuable an asset to give up easily.
A long gemütliches breakfast on a balcony under the Buenos Aires sky. A walk through the huge city, picking streets randomly. The park Centenario. A guy wants to sell us a homeless newspaper and gets pushy. We give him a few pesos but he keeps begging on. We say the no-me-moleste-code but he wouldn't leave. A group is drumming, the jam is great we really like it the vino we bought tastes really bad the apples are good though. The drummer with the big drum has a bad posture his back is curved like a chicken wing. It is a hot day, swans in the lake, everything is clean and hot. Observations must not necessarily be special. The evening a train ride to suburbia, a garden party after that a famous beef restaurant in Buenos Aires. Huge portions served, good wine, good salat, a Dionysian atmosphere counterbalanced by splitting the bill apollonically centwise. A stranger's party that we crash for the feel of it. A lot of Argentinians are around one barebreasted giant and a man with a cone-shaped beard and we dance after quenching our thirst with pure wodka from plastic cups. A long walk home, thirty blocks up the road. I slept like a baby, a bold dreamless sleep.
Jack has lost his inspiration. He stands around near the barbeque and tears some juiceless meat that is stuck in the rack to feed himself. He feeds on the leftovers from a barbeque of the anonymous in a Buenos Aires garden party. He doesn't even talk to the women around him because he feels sad. He doesn't know were this is coming from. He lies down in the dry green grass and looks at the hazy stars, he indulges in a sweet fantasy of loneliness because he cannot feel any real loneliness. The short timespans that are the pivots of his experience have no room for the long-lasting emotion of loss and seperation. The sentiment of real detachment cannot permeate the membrane of Jack's mind. He takes some more meat, onions, fried eggplant with plenty of oregano, peppers and stripes of fat, he looks aside and smiles to the big man that lies his hand on Jack's shoulder.
"You're okay man?"
-"Yeah I guess so. A bit hungry but I have something to bite."
Jack makes biting movements with his jaw-bones and looks at the man, doe-eyed. The man has a fascinating nose and a lot of hair. Jack feels the hand on his shoulder and hears the voice of the man it accesses him and he would stop feeling lonely would he have been able to feel lonely in the first place. But Jack feels something else. Unfortunately he is unable to express it. I have been thinking how we could help Jack. Perhaps we should make him realize that some surrogate loneliness has infiltrated in the seconds of his ongoing transformation. Some grains between the mill of his perceptive faculties that jams it so Jack feels a secondary loneliness, a derived loneliness, the exhaust of our grand loneliness, the residue of what we normals combust to deal with our loneliness. Jack is not pure. Not even him. And between us: that whole loneliness-thing gets on my nerves. I don't feel like watching over Jack because he might get infected with some collateral damage of the footprint of our loneliness. We do not need to apologize for our way of life, yes Obama says that too. And we do not need to apologize for the consumerism, the ecologically catastrophical ways in which we erect all kind of edifices that have the sole task of proving that we are not alone. Because my words resonate in your mind, because our breath becomes visible like luminescent clouds of oily vapor escaping through the thin air in a far-off highway restaurant, because we are recognized by each other, because you get the necessary bits of recognition that fuels your mind and cause you to move on. And we certainly don't have to apologize to Jack about this. Jack he doesn't know a thing about life, he is an ignorant and conceited asshole. I want to kill him.
February 27.
Today, Jack is asked deep questions. Why do people come to Jack with their questions? He doesn't know. He has an air of wisdom twinkling in his eyes, but in reality he cannot answer your questions. He will not and after a little while agree with you because that makes him feel good. Jack is the easiest person around if you are fishing for compliments.
"Jack, do you think there exists a God?"
Jack sighs.
-"God and I would have been good friend" he says.
"But DO you?"
-"We would have gone fishing together."
"Please answer my question. Do you believe there actually IS a god?"
_"And I would have caught more sardines because he doesn't know how to catch them."
"But IS there a god?"
-"Then I would have shared them with him and we would have had a great meal with salat, olives, feta cheese and pumpkin seeds."
"I implore you, just answer my tiny question."
-"He would have suffocated in a fish-bone, and I would have hit him on his back with my hand to save him."
"But IS he existing?"
-"And he would have said thank you Jack I give you my crown so you can be God yourself."
"Please, please...Does he exist?"
-"I would have put on that crown and the world would finally have had a God who is able to fish."
"But DOES he exist?"
-"I think so. I can't really remember but since I know so many stories about him, I guess he most be around somewhere. It's all a matter of logic."
"O Jack, thank you so much, if I can do anything to return the favor, please let me know?"
-"Amen."
We walked around in Buenos Aires and at night I baked pancakes. It was quite hot. My memory is a weak faculty but you won't care. Let's find at least something to care, so we can take pride in being alive.
In Argentina, a lot of people study computer science or related subjects because that seems to be their only way to get out of poverty, to get a well-paid job and move higher up in society. I met many students and they all did the computer thing, which is especially interesting to me because I have a master in the field without - I am saying this well aware of the fact that you won't believe me - having actual knowledge nor the slightest interest in it. But I understand the situation in Argentina. You study to become somebody, to have some money to live a decent living. A luxury struggle with the stubborn inner self that rejects every definition versus a social struggle in a corrupt society.
"Jack, do you think there exists a God?"
Jack sighs.
-"God and I would have been good friend" he says.
"But DO you?"
-"We would have gone fishing together."
"Please answer my question. Do you believe there actually IS a god?"
_"And I would have caught more sardines because he doesn't know how to catch them."
"But IS there a god?"
-"Then I would have shared them with him and we would have had a great meal with salat, olives, feta cheese and pumpkin seeds."
"I implore you, just answer my tiny question."
-"He would have suffocated in a fish-bone, and I would have hit him on his back with my hand to save him."
"But IS he existing?"
-"And he would have said thank you Jack I give you my crown so you can be God yourself."
"Please, please...Does he exist?"
-"I would have put on that crown and the world would finally have had a God who is able to fish."
"But DOES he exist?"
-"I think so. I can't really remember but since I know so many stories about him, I guess he most be around somewhere. It's all a matter of logic."
"O Jack, thank you so much, if I can do anything to return the favor, please let me know?"
-"Amen."
We walked around in Buenos Aires and at night I baked pancakes. It was quite hot. My memory is a weak faculty but you won't care. Let's find at least something to care, so we can take pride in being alive.
In Argentina, a lot of people study computer science or related subjects because that seems to be their only way to get out of poverty, to get a well-paid job and move higher up in society. I met many students and they all did the computer thing, which is especially interesting to me because I have a master in the field without - I am saying this well aware of the fact that you won't believe me - having actual knowledge nor the slightest interest in it. But I understand the situation in Argentina. You study to become somebody, to have some money to live a decent living. A luxury struggle with the stubborn inner self that rejects every definition versus a social struggle in a corrupt society.
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 21.
See the blind man / shooting at the world. Jack stands up and makes his move. He's a tactical guy. Start talking with the older one, the uglier one, the least attractive woman. Following the harsh merciless laws of nature. That way he transforms himself from a danger coming from outside the group into a protecting buddy. The technique is already described in the Kamasutra. Jack transforms himself easily and with great joy. In his world, going from one second to another is a transformation, a change of appearance hence a change a being, like the chameleon does to adapt to his surroundings. Jack lives like this, but he doesn't deceive the other. He makes visible how they deceive themselves, permanently bridging longer timespans than our emotial wiring supports, and coping with it only by installing a body of lies within their minds. Jack cannot deceive, even if he wants to (and he would want to, believe me, just to get a kick out of it). The ability to deceive, to mislead, is one of Jack's darker desires. What is natural for us who inhaled it during our upbringing, I mean the moral sentiments, the code that governs our human encounters, Jack sees it all passively shimmering before his eyes when he moves from one second to the next. He can't get a hold of it.Jack is successful. The beautiful girl he wants is now hugging him and he will press his lips against hers and exchange saliva with her and feel her tongue and press her warm sweaty body against his, and he will go with her and sleep with her and try to please her wherever he can. But let's just let Jack be Jack. For me personally, it came in very handy anyway, because that way I could enjoy the carnival the way I had intended to many, many seconds ago. I could see the intensity of lifes lived in Rio, the social realities of the people living here, I could do that much better without Jack. He's not much of an anthropologist. That way I could see the people selling iced drinks in the crowd pushing a heavy cart with a box filled up with ice cubes and beer cans, the old women who desperately roamed the abandoned streets for tin cans enduring the acrid smell of fresh urine, the melancholic smile on the face of a carnaval doll moving around surrounded by a frantic crowd, the woman with two little plastic penisses on their hats, wagging elegantly as they move their head, the woman who drinks beer from a tin can with a penis-shaped mouthpiece. I saw the hole in it, it was much bigger than the opening of a real penis. I could observe people who saw each other for the first time kissing, swimming through the crowd my hand carefully in my pocket on my camera and purse. The crowd is moving slowly and many people shout John Lennon at me because I must have some similarities. It is the long hair, I can imagine. I walked through the crowd and people were laughing at me "He John Lennon Imagine all the people". Yes, let's imagine that.
What is left to the imagination at the Carnaval? And is that the relevant question to ask? I didn't see public nudity nor lewd behaviour conducted in the streets. People know their limits here. Sometimes, a fight breaks out and the crowd ripples apart like water when you throw a stone in it. The streetfighters are hold back by their friends. The climax is left to the imagination, the climax that - I imagine - takes place in small apartments in colonial beds with heavy honey words directed at the core of each other's being at language's end. And you can imagine what my definition of climax is: At language's end.
The Carnaval is an amazing experience, it can be a source for inspiration like nothing else. Nobody talks about who they are, all communication is directed towards pleasure, mating that is, and eating of course. The crowd is my best friend. John Lennon! I saw funny hats in all colors, small butterflies, plastic bosoms, transvestites shivering their pimply buttocks to the intense drum rhythms, Mickey Mouses, a smiling beautiful girl with an unused condom in a purple wrap put in her décolleté. John Lennon! Huge guys with extraordinary biceps and abdominals, eager to show their physiological assets to the females dancing by; old people smiling, kids with foam spray having fun at their level, all colors of wigs, rastafari, guys with diapers, that is "Garment consisting of a folded cloth drawn up between the legs and fastened at the waist; worn by infants to catch excrement" on, taking a piss. He, John Lennon!
Mr. Modeste likes social photograpy. We saw a scene we were keen to capture. Two young kids were collecting cans for money. We shot dozens of pictures of the kids, of the huge transparent bags full of Skol beer cans, juice cans, cola cans; one of the kids with a pacifier in his mouth. A picture can say a lot. A woman came and asked us
"Why do you take pictures of kids?"
An allegation we'd better not think of lied hidden in that question. Well, we do have a good reason. This scene tells us something, this scene demands to be recorded, we are working in the name of Art, in the name of something higher than the transition between the seconds, everyone should understand that (paradoxically, Jack seems to be one of the few people who understand it). I like to take photographs. Taken in a dancing crowd, photos can be standstills, freeze the movement to our imagination. A good still is a cold still. It should freeze the beholder too, he should feel heavy and icy as his breath stays away. A good still is all about showing movement by showing its very opposite. The observer indulges in inertia, the unspeakable continuity of motion is expressed.
The Carnaval is a continuum: 24 hours a day of dancing on the streets, in bars, in parades, everywhere. It is an extraordinary experience. In order to serve cold drinks in the streets, large bags of ice cubes are used. Diligent men and women carry them along on their shoulders.
In the evening, I walked around on my own, observing the crowd. There were a few French people, I had a little conversation. A big-breasted hairy French guy danced francticly to the Samba beats, stepping around like a madman. Virginie was friendly, but our conversation was to meek for considering a closer introduction. So I was off, ran into some Swiss people who had booked their Rio Adventure a year ago, and were enjoying it now, thus working against the spiral of the financial crisis. They had nice, decent wigs and hats. They lodged in the Favela Chique that sounded interesting, it's not dangerous and you get to see some real Favela while surrounded by all comforts a Westerner needs. Our conversation was, again, too lame to result in closer introduction. So I was off, and sat down for a while, observing a woman with a kid collecting tin cans. Gave her 2 Reais, don't expect a humble "Obrigado", expect a fierce nod of the head. A couple saw me and asked me if I was allright. If a Gringo sits on the pavement he is asked if he is allright. It was a funny couple: A Brazilian woman with her boyfriend from Arizona, a man in his forties listening to the name of Paul. He tried my John Lennon glassed but his view got all misty. The couple was looking - seriously - for a woman Paul could kiss. His girlfriend was actually organizing some kind of bachelor party for him! He asked random girls he found himself attracted to if they'd kiss him, and when he got a no they moved on. I followed the curious couple back to the Lapa aquaduct, we struggled through the crowd and ran into some Irish tourists. One of them was called Peter and I said he wait a minute, we've got Peter and Paul and up there is the Christ Redeemer, isn't that funny? Isn't that damn funny? But they didn't think it was funny. We went further up, Paul asked some more women, a tiny man tried to sell peanuts and a very well-formed man danced up horny to Paul's girlfriend. Suddenly, they were gone. Our conversation had been to lame to result in a closer introduction anyway. I indulged in solitude, and slid into a curious mood of all-encompassing happiness.
Jack walks around in the crowd, too. He feels horny and he is ignored. Suddenly he sees a woman sitting on a pole crying. He says bom dia why are you crying and starts a conversation which he has to conduct in his poor Spanish and even poorer Portuguese - but he is successful, because he knows that people who cry appreciate consolation and consolation sometimes can result in love-making, which we may assume Jack's intention was that night. So they walk a bit and go to a veranda where she teaches him how to dance samba. They start kissing, Jack loves to gently stir around with his tongue, make the tips of two tongues meet in the unified cavity they for this instant share, expressing the person Jack is that second, expressing all the loneliness that lives in his throat. Jack likes kissing. So he gets a little wilder and bounces with his tongue, licking, plopping, sucking, biting - the woman pushes him away and says:
"Beijas como um negro. You kiss like a black person. Eeeh!"
Jack tongue is adjacent now to the tongue of a racist, to a tongue that has gone bad. Mr. Modeste is black. I hope Jack undertakes something to fight racism, I hope that it doesn't leave him cold.
Indeed, Jack doesn't like racism. He does not need any moral reasoning for that. It's just annoying him, it gets in the way of his pleasure, he is reminded of a world where people have to work like hell to secure their negative identity (because it is negative, defined by its negation, they will never be satisfied), a world thus where people need to exclude the Other and live in a constant presence of that paranoid self-constitution, a world where people need longer timespans, yes years, decades, whole millenia as benchmarks for their identity, it gets in the way of Jack's pleasure. His seconds are already stuffed with all-too-human vanity, he can't take in any more. So he didn't like the situation. But he couldn't say no the the woman, who had started to explore Jack's promising bulge. But Jack is creative. He could regain the paradise of his pleasure by showing the woman how damn equal all human beings are.Yes he can, he can do it, Jack can be more moral by coincidence than all the Popes since Saint Peter combined. In his case, there are no strings attached. We would call it pureness but I will be reluctant to use that word since it would make Jack puke. So Jack kept kissing the woman, dragged her with him through the crowd and every time they ran into a black person, he shook his hands, high-fived him, gave him his best smile and thereby showed the woman how cool that black person is. I hope Jack reached his goal (my goal, Jack hardly has goals), because racism is one of the most detestable things. So he walk on with the woman and it got light, the sun rises really fast in Rio, and they had fried coconut with cheese more like some sort of pancake it was not bad. The woman makes a proposal: ficar. In Portugal, that would have been an innocent though somewhat awkward thing to propose, apart from being grammatically not exactly correct. In Brazilian however it means to fuck but Jack doesn't really want it she's not that beautiful and the woman takes a taxi and Jack goes home too. He arrived when I was already in the hammock, dreaming about the beautiful Brazilian woman.
February 19. Jazz
A life for the art is a life apart. A life à part, a sacrifice of solitude. You have to keep moving on, or you will become mediocre, a painful aesthetic entrepreneur smiling unctuously to his customers. But how do you live art? Hear that question? It is no good thinking about that at all. You just live. Take me and Jack, we just do what we do. If someone comes along and asks us if we live for the art we say of course and what are you living for? For the dough? Who doesn't live for the art? Who doesn't consider himself an artist of life?
Today I went for a short walk in the Barrio Alto to find a café to write. I walked down too far first, then went up again. Behind me a street musician playing Beethoven's ninth, the anthem of Europe, and shaking his paper cup with ample coins in it to match the rhythm. Beethoven in my back, a straight blue sky above my head, reflections in the shop windows, wonderful clothes they are selling, walking up the street again to reach my café A Brazileira, the popular tourist place with the Paris entourage. I went inside and jack came along. I ordered a coffee, wrote, was said that sitting inside costs extra, felt too proud or stingy, went to another place and continued my work there. Some poetry, a fragment in French I will send to Aurélie to correct, and a short Dutch essay about the beauty of moving our appendages. It was a beautiful afternoon. I concluded the day with satisfaction and appetite to continue writing tomorrow.
Jack didn't say much and stands at the counter to order a strong espresso. Why didn't he go for crack right away, one asks. Well, I can explain that to you. It's because Jack lives by the second, not by the millisecond. He still has some sense of what's going on around him. There are still some moral values, there's still some social glue that slips into his perception of the world. Jack is always after his pleasure, if he sees something that he can associate with pleasure (and he has a rich fantasy) he tries to grab it. He tries once, twice, and when he's not successfull he moves on.
Jack is only a few days old now. I created him out of a rib of mine, if that metaphore pleases you. He already gave up on the world, the poor bastard. He would have been a cynic if he were like one of us. But he isn't. Jack has no consciousness. But as we will discover in the course of his development, Jack will become our consciousess.
The opposite of Jack, of course, lives aeon by aeon. It is the higher spirit Nietzsche dreamt about. The spirits that communicate with each other throughout the centuries, Napoleon, Bismarck, Goethe, Mozart, Dante, Shakespeare, Churchill. Their talk stands on a higher level. The Apollinic beauty of the products of their minds is tantalizing to the smaller spirits; the aere perennius of their words becomes the holy grail of the less gifted; their halkyonic aura does a great job consoling the misanthropical semi-geniusses among us. Jack has a brother, Marin, who is his opposite in this sense, but he wouldn't come with us. He is hibernating in Berlin.
Jack sees a man with a golden watch around his wrist and starts talking to him.
"You must be a wealthy man with that golden wristwatch?"
Jack lives by the second. He knows all he has to know about watches, namely their price.
The man felt uncomfortable but then found the question hilarious enough to answer it. He laughed
"Yes, you could say that. I don't complain."
Jack pops his lips. Then he asks his next question
"Is your daughter free?"
-"What do you mean, free?"
Jack frowns. He isn't used to being the one that has to explain everything.
"Free to have. Can I marry her?"
The man looks stupified. Jack says "marry" because it sounds good.
-"Look mister, I don't know who you are, but I don't like your tone."
"My tone? I'm only politely asking for your daughter's hand. So, is she free?"
-"I don't know."
"Can't you find out?"
The man turns his head and starts to talk to a beautiful young woman who sits next to him, as to shut down the conversation with Jack. Jack estimates the woman to be about 27 years old, and falls in love with her on the spot. It is not only her breathtakingly well-formed décolleté that makes Jack feel like a hummingbird exploring a peach tree, not only the warm teint on her smart-looking face, not only the shiny long hear that curls over her shoulders like manes in gentle gait, but her whole appearance. Her whole appearance fits into Jack's seconds. He moves over with his chair and looks the young woman straight in her eyes.
"So, you must be his daughter. I reckon you can answer my question. So, are you free?"
She laughs.
-"No mister, I am happily married."
Happiness sounds good. Jack doesn't want to meddle in that.
"So, who's the lucky guy?"
-"I am" the old man answers and he kisses the girl on her mouth. "She's my wife."
Jack understands pleasure is out of reach here. He gives the girl a card whispering in her ear "if he dies give me a call okay" and leaves.
That night we heard piano jazz and bossa nova from Mozambique in the CCB (Centro Cultural de Belém). It was a free concert, and it was really good. I recognized Schubert Impromptus in a terrific jazz version for solo piano. Sitting on the floor, I dwelt in dear memories of listening to piano music, memories that I have to take care of. Music is the only thing that counts! I can understand the musicians who are living for nothing but music, who marry, love, work, sleep, procreate, eat, drink, all for music, all with music in their ears. Alfred Brendel. Daniel Barenboim. That night, the piano touched me. As a writer, I take off my hat. This went way beyond words. Still, of course, my task is to find out beyond which words. I think during concerts. Always did. They can only stop the stream of thoughts in very short moments, then I feel the music, but normally thoughts pile up in my head, unfinished philosophies, ideas for writing, buzzing through my head and warming it up like a huge chestnut in a campfire. Music must catalyse it in some way. The thoughts, the words that are the furthest coasts of language, the Patagonia of speech, the heavenly words we imagine music goes beyond - is writing not a quest for these final words, that we must never understand as final but as the beginning of the organic movement of music?
We are on an Odyssee. I have to remind Jack all the time, because he never gets it. He doesn't get excited about what's more than a few seconds, alas, a few hours away from him. I feel sorry for him. But what can I do? There's nothing in my power that I can do to educate Jack. Not yet.
Today I went for a short walk in the Barrio Alto to find a café to write. I walked down too far first, then went up again. Behind me a street musician playing Beethoven's ninth, the anthem of Europe, and shaking his paper cup with ample coins in it to match the rhythm. Beethoven in my back, a straight blue sky above my head, reflections in the shop windows, wonderful clothes they are selling, walking up the street again to reach my café A Brazileira, the popular tourist place with the Paris entourage. I went inside and jack came along. I ordered a coffee, wrote, was said that sitting inside costs extra, felt too proud or stingy, went to another place and continued my work there. Some poetry, a fragment in French I will send to Aurélie to correct, and a short Dutch essay about the beauty of moving our appendages. It was a beautiful afternoon. I concluded the day with satisfaction and appetite to continue writing tomorrow.
Jack didn't say much and stands at the counter to order a strong espresso. Why didn't he go for crack right away, one asks. Well, I can explain that to you. It's because Jack lives by the second, not by the millisecond. He still has some sense of what's going on around him. There are still some moral values, there's still some social glue that slips into his perception of the world. Jack is always after his pleasure, if he sees something that he can associate with pleasure (and he has a rich fantasy) he tries to grab it. He tries once, twice, and when he's not successfull he moves on.
Jack is only a few days old now. I created him out of a rib of mine, if that metaphore pleases you. He already gave up on the world, the poor bastard. He would have been a cynic if he were like one of us. But he isn't. Jack has no consciousness. But as we will discover in the course of his development, Jack will become our consciousess.
The opposite of Jack, of course, lives aeon by aeon. It is the higher spirit Nietzsche dreamt about. The spirits that communicate with each other throughout the centuries, Napoleon, Bismarck, Goethe, Mozart, Dante, Shakespeare, Churchill. Their talk stands on a higher level. The Apollinic beauty of the products of their minds is tantalizing to the smaller spirits; the aere perennius of their words becomes the holy grail of the less gifted; their halkyonic aura does a great job consoling the misanthropical semi-geniusses among us. Jack has a brother, Marin, who is his opposite in this sense, but he wouldn't come with us. He is hibernating in Berlin.
Jack sees a man with a golden watch around his wrist and starts talking to him.
"You must be a wealthy man with that golden wristwatch?"
Jack lives by the second. He knows all he has to know about watches, namely their price.
The man felt uncomfortable but then found the question hilarious enough to answer it. He laughed
"Yes, you could say that. I don't complain."
Jack pops his lips. Then he asks his next question
"Is your daughter free?"
-"What do you mean, free?"
Jack frowns. He isn't used to being the one that has to explain everything.
"Free to have. Can I marry her?"
The man looks stupified. Jack says "marry" because it sounds good.
-"Look mister, I don't know who you are, but I don't like your tone."
"My tone? I'm only politely asking for your daughter's hand. So, is she free?"
-"I don't know."
"Can't you find out?"
The man turns his head and starts to talk to a beautiful young woman who sits next to him, as to shut down the conversation with Jack. Jack estimates the woman to be about 27 years old, and falls in love with her on the spot. It is not only her breathtakingly well-formed décolleté that makes Jack feel like a hummingbird exploring a peach tree, not only the warm teint on her smart-looking face, not only the shiny long hear that curls over her shoulders like manes in gentle gait, but her whole appearance. Her whole appearance fits into Jack's seconds. He moves over with his chair and looks the young woman straight in her eyes.
"So, you must be his daughter. I reckon you can answer my question. So, are you free?"
She laughs.
-"No mister, I am happily married."
Happiness sounds good. Jack doesn't want to meddle in that.
"So, who's the lucky guy?"
-"I am" the old man answers and he kisses the girl on her mouth. "She's my wife."
Jack understands pleasure is out of reach here. He gives the girl a card whispering in her ear "if he dies give me a call okay" and leaves.
That night we heard piano jazz and bossa nova from Mozambique in the CCB (Centro Cultural de Belém). It was a free concert, and it was really good. I recognized Schubert Impromptus in a terrific jazz version for solo piano. Sitting on the floor, I dwelt in dear memories of listening to piano music, memories that I have to take care of. Music is the only thing that counts! I can understand the musicians who are living for nothing but music, who marry, love, work, sleep, procreate, eat, drink, all for music, all with music in their ears. Alfred Brendel. Daniel Barenboim. That night, the piano touched me. As a writer, I take off my hat. This went way beyond words. Still, of course, my task is to find out beyond which words. I think during concerts. Always did. They can only stop the stream of thoughts in very short moments, then I feel the music, but normally thoughts pile up in my head, unfinished philosophies, ideas for writing, buzzing through my head and warming it up like a huge chestnut in a campfire. Music must catalyse it in some way. The thoughts, the words that are the furthest coasts of language, the Patagonia of speech, the heavenly words we imagine music goes beyond - is writing not a quest for these final words, that we must never understand as final but as the beginning of the organic movement of music?
We are on an Odyssee. I have to remind Jack all the time, because he never gets it. He doesn't get excited about what's more than a few seconds, alas, a few hours away from him. I feel sorry for him. But what can I do? There's nothing in my power that I can do to educate Jack. Not yet.
February 18. Jack's first adventure.
Today Jack got out early, while I was still dreaming of rosabuds and guirlandes on the wall of a monch's refectory, of tulips and waterpipes, of drowsy days spent under semispherical
pink umbrellas, of the Lisbon elevator that takes you up to the sky for only 2€ and the tram that takes you down for much less, of the drug dealers harassing everybody who looks like a
tourist with their cheap Marihuana offers, of the miserable street people gathering food furtively like a bunch of shrewd vixen, of the affluent enjoying their café with flannel pillows
put behind their back, under their butts, supporting their knees, their hips, their shoulders, their ellbows, their ankels and all other ligaments, huge piles of pillows everywhere,
stowed in the heavy space around them, pillows with the goose feathers peeping out and start twirling slowly to the ground.
Jack got out because he wants some action. "What is a stay in
Lisbon" he thinks, "without something happening, I mean, really hap-pe-ning, something unusual like a dog pissing kiwijuice." And Jack has a nose for things. He just goes down to Rossio, the tourist area and walks into a drug dealer. He sniffs his nose and looks the guy straight in the eyes, saying
"Got some coke?"
The guy looks at him and hisses
"Not here. Police."
"Ah!" Jack shouts and points at the poor guy, his hands in an almost majestic pose like the Redeemer on the other side of the Tejo,
"This guy doesn't even have the guts to sell me some decent coke. Keeping it al for himself under his pillow. What are you, a fucking pussy?"
The bystanders gather in a perfect circle around Jack and the poor guy, who starts stuttering and a white spumy stream of saliva glistens in the corners of his mouth like frothed eggwhites.
"What are you?" shouts Jack and he looks at his public. The man is angry now, he does not understand where Jack aims at. Jack aims at his frazzled identity that he identified as the
Achilles' heel he had to put his spear in. The man sees Jack with his eyes turning and a victorious grin on his face.
"You're nothing but a despicable street rat, a scumbag, a bum, a lost case."
The man wipes the foam off his chin and tries to hit Jack with his fist. He misses him. Jack doesn't think about his boredom anymore, he looks at the sky and falls in love with the clouds.
How beautiful they are, how they regained their structure, their hue, all of a sudden the world has dimensions again, dimensions to explore, myriad possibilities of soft clouds, the world was fluffy like goose feathers escaping from flannel pillows that are squeezed under well-fed behinds. Then he laughs and kicks the man between the legs. His shoes have steel fronts. The guy almost loses consciousness. He sinks to the ground and yells like a strangulated kitten. The circle of bystanders is perfect. Jack looks up at the sky again, the clouds sailed now, direction Tejo. Adrenaline is soaring through his veins. How easily does our body secretes that stuff
when engaging in a conflict with other humans. It's almost the same hormonal high as in a deadly animal attack. I'm talking tigers and crocodiles here. Jack wonders. I have to take a note
of this, he thinks, this is bigger than me. Something along the lines of "in human encounters we are more prepared for a deadly fight than in the case of a deadly animal attack. Fear and
vigilance primordial stance of a human being-" It is a conjecture, nothing more, but Jack believes it. Suddenly, a heavy hand grasps his wrist firmly tight. The officer talks fast in Portuguese, he drags Jack along and he is taken to the police vehicle. Neat, modern minivans the Portuguese police has, Jacks observes. Now he can observe! Nice leather seats. He is unable to answer the questions the officers start yelling at him. He keeps shrugging and smiling and looking at the clouds that are almost out of sight now.
"We need your name and id please" an other officer says in English. His voice is echoing between the Pombal-facades. Jack nods his head. They begin. The first page is almost done when the same poor guy that Jack just hit walks up to them and offers his help. His voice was
vibrating.
"Hi my friend, how are you?" says he.
Jack nodded. He is fine. The policemen look at each other and at some goodlooking women that pass.
"You can go now, but the next time we'll arrest you" the officer said to Jack.
"Got it" Jack replies and they walk together, the man he hurt and he.
"Why did you come?" Jack asks with great surprise. "I kicked you right in the balls. I inflicted terrible pains upon thou."
The man walks next to him and seems in a hurry.
"This way" he tells Jack and takes him up a few blocks.
"You wait here." Jack stands in a narrow street and feels happy. All the laundry drying in the February sun, silk and linen and cotton of marvelous bright colors dangling underneath the
window sills. There are blouses, towels, skirts, wunderbras, and many woolen socks. Jack can't believe he is gazing at socks while he ought to be hanging out, having chilled Portwine with
the beautiful women of Lisbon. Why does he not hit on woman? Something is holding him back. The same thing that makes him aggressive towards people who want to sell him drugs. Jack doesn't need anything. Just the seconds, not the stream they constitute. Jack lives his life second by second. That's why he is disconnected to everybody, that's why he starts kicking
other humans. The stream does not matter to him at all. The seconds are his solace, their he seeks the fecundation of his dearest ideas. He tries to hide away in the pulse of time.
I know he's there, and I know he he is lonely and wants to listen to us. I live this life day by day, I understand Jack.The man returns and pushes Jack through a small door. Suddenly he stands in a tiny room with two beds and a smal color tv on a mahagony sideboard from colonial times. In the bed Jack counts two children.
"My family" the man says.
-"Why did you bring me here?" Jack says while uneasily looking at his toes.
"We will have dinner together."
-"Why the hell...?" Jack grunts.
"Ssst, children asleep" the man whispers crossing his wet lips with his dirty forefinger. Jack sees the drool again. Abruptly, he turns to the man and asks
"Did Kamiel send you?"
-"No", the man replies. "Not this time."
I am traveling alone. I buy 10 portions of instant coffee in Pingo Doce for 50 cents, it keeps the ideas flowing. Pingo Doce reminds me of an old friend. It's a sentimental thing. Instant coffee with milk does not taste too bad, while being a cheap form of caffeine intake. I take my computer and write, trying not to care about the result too much. Maybe I have to keep it
all to myself. If it's a struggle and only the result counts, the shiny beads of polished insight. Nobody cares how you get there. If a friendly old man has written poetry all his life and he is invited to a tv show to tell about it, the question will be "what is your best poem?" Only the most lean, brushed-up, only the best are of any value to the interviewer. He says we reduce your life to that one poem which we are gonna absorb so all your value, all the things you are worth will be sucked out of you and into us. Your own life is worthless, we don't give a shit about you. Give us your best poem, give us your best photograph, your best painting, your best composition, all free of charge of course, and we'll digest that and poop it out to fortify the encrusted walls around the nidus of their fat egos.
How are peaceful societies possible? Let's not think about that. Let's just rejoice the freaking miracle. Couchsurfing.com has a 99.8 percent rate of positive references. 99.8 percent of
all couchsurfing experiences are good. It's a high number, and since there are almost one million couchsurfers on the planet, it's a reason to be positive about human nature. We are getting somewhere. Think of Obama. Still, it remains a miracle and I think it should. But we are on our way. Miller's Tropic of Cancer closes: "The sun is setting. I feel this river flowing
through me - its past, its ancient soil, the changing climate. The hills gently girdle it about: its course is fixed."
pink umbrellas, of the Lisbon elevator that takes you up to the sky for only 2€ and the tram that takes you down for much less, of the drug dealers harassing everybody who looks like a
tourist with their cheap Marihuana offers, of the miserable street people gathering food furtively like a bunch of shrewd vixen, of the affluent enjoying their café with flannel pillows
put behind their back, under their butts, supporting their knees, their hips, their shoulders, their ellbows, their ankels and all other ligaments, huge piles of pillows everywhere,
stowed in the heavy space around them, pillows with the goose feathers peeping out and start twirling slowly to the ground.
Jack got out because he wants some action. "What is a stay in
Lisbon" he thinks, "without something happening, I mean, really hap-pe-ning, something unusual like a dog pissing kiwijuice." And Jack has a nose for things. He just goes down to Rossio, the tourist area and walks into a drug dealer. He sniffs his nose and looks the guy straight in the eyes, saying
"Got some coke?"
The guy looks at him and hisses
"Not here. Police."
"Ah!" Jack shouts and points at the poor guy, his hands in an almost majestic pose like the Redeemer on the other side of the Tejo,
"This guy doesn't even have the guts to sell me some decent coke. Keeping it al for himself under his pillow. What are you, a fucking pussy?"
The bystanders gather in a perfect circle around Jack and the poor guy, who starts stuttering and a white spumy stream of saliva glistens in the corners of his mouth like frothed eggwhites.
"What are you?" shouts Jack and he looks at his public. The man is angry now, he does not understand where Jack aims at. Jack aims at his frazzled identity that he identified as the
Achilles' heel he had to put his spear in. The man sees Jack with his eyes turning and a victorious grin on his face.
"You're nothing but a despicable street rat, a scumbag, a bum, a lost case."
The man wipes the foam off his chin and tries to hit Jack with his fist. He misses him. Jack doesn't think about his boredom anymore, he looks at the sky and falls in love with the clouds.
How beautiful they are, how they regained their structure, their hue, all of a sudden the world has dimensions again, dimensions to explore, myriad possibilities of soft clouds, the world was fluffy like goose feathers escaping from flannel pillows that are squeezed under well-fed behinds. Then he laughs and kicks the man between the legs. His shoes have steel fronts. The guy almost loses consciousness. He sinks to the ground and yells like a strangulated kitten. The circle of bystanders is perfect. Jack looks up at the sky again, the clouds sailed now, direction Tejo. Adrenaline is soaring through his veins. How easily does our body secretes that stuff
when engaging in a conflict with other humans. It's almost the same hormonal high as in a deadly animal attack. I'm talking tigers and crocodiles here. Jack wonders. I have to take a note
of this, he thinks, this is bigger than me. Something along the lines of "in human encounters we are more prepared for a deadly fight than in the case of a deadly animal attack. Fear and
vigilance primordial stance of a human being-" It is a conjecture, nothing more, but Jack believes it. Suddenly, a heavy hand grasps his wrist firmly tight. The officer talks fast in Portuguese, he drags Jack along and he is taken to the police vehicle. Neat, modern minivans the Portuguese police has, Jacks observes. Now he can observe! Nice leather seats. He is unable to answer the questions the officers start yelling at him. He keeps shrugging and smiling and looking at the clouds that are almost out of sight now.
"We need your name and id please" an other officer says in English. His voice is echoing between the Pombal-facades. Jack nods his head. They begin. The first page is almost done when the same poor guy that Jack just hit walks up to them and offers his help. His voice was
vibrating.
"Hi my friend, how are you?" says he.
Jack nodded. He is fine. The policemen look at each other and at some goodlooking women that pass.
"You can go now, but the next time we'll arrest you" the officer said to Jack.
"Got it" Jack replies and they walk together, the man he hurt and he.
"Why did you come?" Jack asks with great surprise. "I kicked you right in the balls. I inflicted terrible pains upon thou."
The man walks next to him and seems in a hurry.
"This way" he tells Jack and takes him up a few blocks.
"You wait here." Jack stands in a narrow street and feels happy. All the laundry drying in the February sun, silk and linen and cotton of marvelous bright colors dangling underneath the
window sills. There are blouses, towels, skirts, wunderbras, and many woolen socks. Jack can't believe he is gazing at socks while he ought to be hanging out, having chilled Portwine with
the beautiful women of Lisbon. Why does he not hit on woman? Something is holding him back. The same thing that makes him aggressive towards people who want to sell him drugs. Jack doesn't need anything. Just the seconds, not the stream they constitute. Jack lives his life second by second. That's why he is disconnected to everybody, that's why he starts kicking
other humans. The stream does not matter to him at all. The seconds are his solace, their he seeks the fecundation of his dearest ideas. He tries to hide away in the pulse of time.
I know he's there, and I know he he is lonely and wants to listen to us. I live this life day by day, I understand Jack.The man returns and pushes Jack through a small door. Suddenly he stands in a tiny room with two beds and a smal color tv on a mahagony sideboard from colonial times. In the bed Jack counts two children.
"My family" the man says.
-"Why did you bring me here?" Jack says while uneasily looking at his toes.
"We will have dinner together."
-"Why the hell...?" Jack grunts.
"Ssst, children asleep" the man whispers crossing his wet lips with his dirty forefinger. Jack sees the drool again. Abruptly, he turns to the man and asks
"Did Kamiel send you?"
-"No", the man replies. "Not this time."
I am traveling alone. I buy 10 portions of instant coffee in Pingo Doce for 50 cents, it keeps the ideas flowing. Pingo Doce reminds me of an old friend. It's a sentimental thing. Instant coffee with milk does not taste too bad, while being a cheap form of caffeine intake. I take my computer and write, trying not to care about the result too much. Maybe I have to keep it
all to myself. If it's a struggle and only the result counts, the shiny beads of polished insight. Nobody cares how you get there. If a friendly old man has written poetry all his life and he is invited to a tv show to tell about it, the question will be "what is your best poem?" Only the most lean, brushed-up, only the best are of any value to the interviewer. He says we reduce your life to that one poem which we are gonna absorb so all your value, all the things you are worth will be sucked out of you and into us. Your own life is worthless, we don't give a shit about you. Give us your best poem, give us your best photograph, your best painting, your best composition, all free of charge of course, and we'll digest that and poop it out to fortify the encrusted walls around the nidus of their fat egos.
How are peaceful societies possible? Let's not think about that. Let's just rejoice the freaking miracle. Couchsurfing.com has a 99.8 percent rate of positive references. 99.8 percent of
all couchsurfing experiences are good. It's a high number, and since there are almost one million couchsurfers on the planet, it's a reason to be positive about human nature. We are getting somewhere. Think of Obama. Still, it remains a miracle and I think it should. But we are on our way. Miller's Tropic of Cancer closes: "The sun is setting. I feel this river flowing
through me - its past, its ancient soil, the changing climate. The hills gently girdle it about: its course is fixed."
February 16. Jack enters.
I decided to split up. One part of me is sitting in the sun being wonderfully happy, living up to his dreams to his heart's content, he produces reflections like sunrays on the surface of a still mountain like, and he produces the illusion that those reflections will last at least a few centuries. The other part is called Jack and Jack is moving around the city. You have to move around and do certain things in order to spark a reader's interest. Obama understands that. Yesterday he moved around in Air Force One called it a 'spiffy ride' and was all excited about it. The aircraft can refuel in mid-air. The other part is going to roam the city in search of excitement, in search of people with a tough story, with lilac scars covering their pale skins, with a dark history of violence that just sells better than the author sitting in the sun being damn happy. The other part jumps off buildings and refuels in mid-air, spouting a radioactive tail of glistening va
por behind him, he catches big time crooks and turns their faces into rotten tomatoes, he wades through the Tejo with delight and dances up the hill to join the Christ-redeemer and look over the city together. Jack is awake, you can sleep safely tonight.
"Stream of consciousness": there is a name for this writing technique. Just let everything flow through your brain, in and out, straight through. A mouthwash. A good round of gurgling
with fluor gel and antibiotics. A flush of our system. How we enjoy observing this stream passing in front of our inner eyes. We don't need to bathe in the river, neither do we need to
proof that we can only bathe once in it, neither does anyone challenge us to proof anything about the stream. Yet it's not the stream that interests me. It's the phenomenon that you find
yourself urged to tell a certain story, to add a certain comment, to add some news you just heard, or the recipe of humus. You are making a decision to put in something that is at
first sight totally disconnected with the stream. But of course there is a connection, there is some hidden reason why your brain popped out that particular item at that particular place.
You can analyze that later, and you can call it your "subconscious" being that organized your writing. That subconscious can become a good friend of us. We cannot see him unfortunately since he is always ahead of us. He is something like the opposite of our shadow. Jack is chasing him, in my case.
That night we were invited to be the public in a Portuguese tv-show called "pros e contras", they discussed the issue of gay marriage. It would take the whole evening and we'd have to take
a taxi back home. We decided to skip the studio thing and watch the show on tv instead. They had a bunch of people there talking gayrights, homophobia, venting their worries about the
children that would be adopted by the homosexual couples. I couldn't understand them but Cristina interpreted it. She is a good interpreter and I really appreciate it.
por behind him, he catches big time crooks and turns their faces into rotten tomatoes, he wades through the Tejo with delight and dances up the hill to join the Christ-redeemer and look over the city together. Jack is awake, you can sleep safely tonight."Stream of consciousness": there is a name for this writing technique. Just let everything flow through your brain, in and out, straight through. A mouthwash. A good round of gurgling
with fluor gel and antibiotics. A flush of our system. How we enjoy observing this stream passing in front of our inner eyes. We don't need to bathe in the river, neither do we need to
proof that we can only bathe once in it, neither does anyone challenge us to proof anything about the stream. Yet it's not the stream that interests me. It's the phenomenon that you find
yourself urged to tell a certain story, to add a certain comment, to add some news you just heard, or the recipe of humus. You are making a decision to put in something that is at
first sight totally disconnected with the stream. But of course there is a connection, there is some hidden reason why your brain popped out that particular item at that particular place.
You can analyze that later, and you can call it your "subconscious" being that organized your writing. That subconscious can become a good friend of us. We cannot see him unfortunately since he is always ahead of us. He is something like the opposite of our shadow. Jack is chasing him, in my case.
That night we were invited to be the public in a Portuguese tv-show called "pros e contras", they discussed the issue of gay marriage. It would take the whole evening and we'd have to take
a taxi back home. We decided to skip the studio thing and watch the show on tv instead. They had a bunch of people there talking gayrights, homophobia, venting their worries about the
children that would be adopted by the homosexual couples. I couldn't understand them but Cristina interpreted it. She is a good interpreter and I really appreciate it.
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