In Argentina, a coffee Jarrito is a medium-sized cup of coffee. It’s as good as it gets. I have written in a café that whole day. I have to sit close to the enchufe, the plug. What is there to say? It is like office work, sitting behind a computer and hitting the keys on the keyboard many times. By the way, I like this perspective on work. When we answer the question of what we actually do, we shall not quote the social structures (I am reporting to this person, I am instructing that person) or the abstract denomination of our labour (I am writing a report, I am being the boss) but only the physical movements that are involved. En mi caso, there are a lot of finger movements involved. So what I do for a living is fingering. I finger the keyboard and that is what is recognized in some miraculous ways. Sometimes I still finger my ballpoint or pencil, by holding them and making tracks of ink on the paper. And what is your job?
Of course, I also think. I have been trained to think, at your service. About the mask for example. The face I am so fond of, the face of the person that ought to be Sara but isn’t of course, it is the face of a Mexican actress. Was it a mask? Was it her real expression? How sincere can a mask be? Wait, wait, before you throw back common wisdom at me. I read and forget a lot of pages about “Sein und Schein”, masks and reality, that should give me some credit. So please wait with the common wisdom. I know what a mask is. It has straps and it can itch when you put it on. Please cross that river and stand on my side. Let’s listen to the rattling voice of the common wisdom together. It says we always all wear masks it’s inevitable. O how wise this voice is. It freaks me out. It leaves me as a philosopher without a job. I cannot add anything to that. We always all wear masks it’s inevitable. Brilliant. The voice rattles on. Truth is not the opposite of the mask, o no, it is rather (beautiful word by the way), it is rather inherent in some aspects of the mask. So now we have aspects. The truth is a patchwork from different aspects that are only accessable through masks rather than the clean antonym of masked existence. The voice rattles on. We smell he has halitosis. But he is speaking the truth. Is ther something more to explore? If you are a philosopher yourself, and I know some philosophers read this crap, you are very welcome to react about it. I would love to explore this question very much or rather, turn it into a question again because for me it has the still-water character of a final answer.
I went to see her that night. We went to a demonstration, a Marcha near the Tribunales metro station. Katia and I bought a bottle of wine, we danced in the crowed and I gave her a kiss. I don’t know who she is. That question “who are you?” becomes a grand question, yes it becomes the question that echoes in my head when I go to sleep. As I said, she was not Sara and a couple of days later it was all over. Now take it from me that this does good. I get a character like old cheese.