UNCONCLUDED.

I have this bad habit. I left many things unconcluded. Drawings, projects, ideas.

A perfect example is this cemetery of unfinished passages, many of which were supposed to wind up here. There you go. No particular order, just a clear statement of my own chaos.

- Its four minutes past eleven in the morning, and the sun is pouring aggressively over my balcony and the city that extends beyond it. It’s getting really hot inside here. I can very easily forecast one of this slow summer days, in which life sways slothfully, and you can’t avoid letting your mood roll along.

I woke up around ten. I was supposed to go out last night, since it was Danny’s birthday, but I fell asleep before midnight, after having dinner with Max.

Danny is the legendary DJ of the party I’ve been going to for the past… three years?

Many of my friends were going to be there, and I bet they had a terrific night, as people lately seem to have when I’m not there.

I’m starting to think about breakfast. I might go to whichever market is open (one of the three or four Chinese markets I have within two blocks from my house) and buy some strawberry yoghurt and cookies.

Today is the last day of holiday here in Argentina. It’s also women’s day (?). As if your gender should entitle you to a special day in the calendar to celebrate it. Do we have men’s day as well? Intersexual day, perhaps?

I’m glad the holiday is over. The city was rather dead over the past two days, and I run out of money, so I’m happy to know I’ll be able to cash some checks tomorrow and be back to “sustainable”.

- I was once in this house in Earl’s Court in London. The house was located just a few blocks away from the internet-less flat I was living momentarily in. The lack of internet was forcing me into periodical visits to an extremely dull looking cyber-café, just so that I could log on to my mail account, and let my fiancé know I was fine. The place was filled with whiskey-smelling old wankers who would unashamedly go through dirty pictures of big breasted women wearing skimpy garments… or nothing even.

I remember the place being always over-heated; which meant I’d have to peel of a substantial amount of the multiple layers my outfits were, and still are, often composed of.

The house in Earl’s Court was the place Tomas was living at.

I was sitting on my suitcase waiting on the sidewalk for the owner of the flat I was gonna stay in to arrive, smoking cigarette after cigarette (I was smoking way too much at the time, more than usual), when I heard someone calling my name. It was Tomas, a guy I’d met years before when he was working at a clothing shop I used to occasionally shop at. I was firstly quite amazed that he’d recognized me, and secondly I could not believe the odds of us randomly running into each other somewhere in the UK.

Tomas plays guitar. He has very good taste in music. I believe he wants to start a band, and I hope he does. That one time I went to his house, he introduced me to his roommate, called Tommy, who enjoyed travelling very much and was an excellent piano player and composer; we had dinner, talked about literature, Borges, music, ways to live cheap in London, the experience of travelling, and Tony Gatlif.

At the end, Tomas and Tommy did some jamming.

I saw Tomas again a couple of times, and then I saw him again in summer, when I went to Paris. He had moved there a couple of weeks after I’d left London.

London was puzzling at the time for me. It was only the last time I went, that I finally realized I could very possibly be a lot happy living there. I remember taking the bus Nº242, on my way to a test shoot with a photographer I was really looking forward to meet, looking through the window and thinking: “East London really does suit me well”. My hypothesis was later confirmed when after sharing my impressions on the city and admitting I had been feeling quite charmed by it in this visit, this photographer looked at me with that very intense stare I remember him having and said: “You should definitely move here, you’d blend in perfectly”.

I didn’t go to London for fashion-weep this time. I was in New York, and the whole idea of risking my money on a plane ticket just to see what happens in London and maybe be lucky enough to do one or two shows, or maybe not even one, seemed ridiculous. I was kind of hoping I’d have to go. I guess it was not meant to happen.

Now I feel like going to the Joiners for a beer. It’s only 6,916 miles away.

- It has recently come to my attention, that I hate my drunk self. Let me explain myself. I don’t hate myself when I’m drunk. In fact, all the contrary, I love myself when I’m drunk. Is once the drunkness has gone away, that I look back at the person I was the night before, and I think, what a twat. Yes, I like to say twat, and that’s something that has very recently come to my attention too. By the way, the whole “recently come to my attention” thing is from some silly videos in Youtube.

- I think people think I’m an idiot. Wait. Why the fuck do I think I’m important enough for people to make assumptions about me?

- I dreamed I was in New York again. I was walking down what seemed to be

West Street, around the Greenwich area. I was in the company of two other people, one of them older than me.

THIS WAS MY AFTERNOON.