Sidewalls

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Buenos Aires is growing

uncontrollably and imperfectly.

An overpopulated city

in a deserted country.

A city in which thousands

of buildings rise into the sky.

Arbitrarily.

Next to a tall one, a small one.

Next to a rational one,

an irrational one.

Next to a French one,

one with no style at all.

These irregularities

probably reflect us perfectly.

Aesthetic and ethical

irregularities.

These buildings,

which adhere to no logic,

represent bad planning.

Just like our lives:

We have no idea how

we want them to be.

We live as if Buenos Aires

were a stopover.

We've created

a "culture of tenants".

The buildings are becoming smaller

to make space for even smaller ones.

Apartments are measured

by their number of rooms

and range from five rooms

with balconies,

playrooms, servants' quarters

and storerooms

to one-room apartments

also known as "shoeboxes".

Just like almost

all man-made objects,

buildings are made

to differentiate between us.

There's a front and a back side.

High and low apartments.

Privileged people have the letter A

or sometimes B.

The farther back in the alphabet,

the worse the apartment.

The promised view and brightness

rarely coincide with reality.

What can be expected of a city

that turns its back on its river?

I'm convinced that separations,

divorces

domestic violence,

the excess of cable TV stations,

the lack of communication,

listlessness,

apathy, depression, suicide,

neuroses, panic attacks,

obesity, tenseness,

insecurity, hypochondria,

stress and a sedentary lifestyle

are attributable to architects

and builders.

I suffer from all of these illnesses

except suicide.

This is my one-room apartment.

and one miserable window

for one breathless lung.

Santa F, 1105.

Fourth ?oor. H.

I sat down at my computer

ten years ago

and feel like

I've never got up again.

I don't know if the Internet is

the future, but it was mine:

I design websites

and this is my cyberspace

I don't know if I'm good

or just got into it early,

but I'm very busy.

I began with my psychiatrists

website for phobics:

His specialty and the reason

why I visit him twice a week.

This game is a hit.

It's for insomniacs

fighting pill addiction.

My psychiatrist calls me

a phobic on my way to recovery.

Due to repeated, violent panic attacks,

I locked myself in my apartment

for years.

I won 17 championships

at expert level.

Four times undefeated,

nine times top scorer.

I beat Federer four times

at Wimbledon.

I became Godfather

of the Corleone family

I was totally isolated. Scared.

My psychiatrist developed

a strategy to help me overcome

my fear of the city:

Photography.

A way to rediscover

the city and people.

A search for beauty where

it's not apparent.

Observing is being and not being.

Or being in another way.

I distracted myself.

I don't take the bus or taxis.

Much less the subway,

and I'd never take a plane.

I only go by foot

and always have

my survival backpack.

Contents:
a Leica D-Lux 3

with 10 mega pixels.

Rivotril drops, 2.5 mg.

Amoxicillin 500.

Ibuprofen. Sunglasses.

A plastic rain coat.

A Victorinox with 21 tools.

Flashlight with batteries.

Condoms, three units.

400 pesos cash in small bills.

An iPod with 60 GB

and more than 8,000 songs.

Three Tati films. A notebook.

And a plastic card

about how to proceed

in case of an accident

or panic attack.

The backpack weighs 5.8 kG.

I've been an architect for two years,

but still haven't built anything.

Neither a building, nor a house,

nor a bathroom. Nothing.

Only models that are uninhabitable,

and not only because of their scale...

I didn't fare well

with other constructions either:

My four-year relationship collapsed

despite my ef fons to shore it up.

If my life were a game of life,

I'd have to move back five spaces.

That's why I'm here:

With my disorderly life in 27 boxes,

I sit on twelve meters

of bubble wrap, popping bubbles

so that I myself don't pop.

This is my new old shoebox

that these ridiculous five steps

make into a "duplex".

And this is the freakish thing,

half window, half balcony,

that the sun shuns all year long.

Avenida Santa Fe, 1183.

Eighth floor. G

as in gastritis.

This is my favourite building

in Buenos Aires.

It's the best location

and the most fun.

It's built with

my favourite materials:

Concrete, steel and glass.

One of the world's few buildings

with an equilateral

triangular base,

it was inspired

by Saturn and its rings.

Even if most people

see a flying saucer.

I enter it expecting

to take off and leave this world.

But in reality,

the planetarium puts me in my place,

reminding me that

the world doesn't revolve around me.

I'm a very small

pan of a planet

that's pan of a system

that's pan of a galaxy

that, like hundreds of thousands

of galaxies, forms pan of the universe.

It reminds me that I'm pan of

an infinite and eternal whole.

A SHORT AUTUMN:

The dog committed suicide.

Apparently it was a 40-year-old

prostitute's only companion

and was locked out on the balcony

so it wouldn't bother her customers.

The dog went mad when

they touched her.

No wonder it jumped

Alone, on such a small balcony.

STRANGE ACCIDEN IN BUENOS AIRES:

A DEAD DOG:

AND TWO INJURED PEOPLE

Sig nature.

Thanks.

DISC ARTHROSIS:

You look terrible,

but you're perfectly healthy.

The only strange things are the fifth and sixth

vertebrae, which you've had since birth.

Otherwise, you'd be screaming

in pain, so it's not that.

Are you dizzy? No.

Just do some fitness training

and lighten up your backpack.

There's nothing serious,

nothing at all.

You see...

Those reports are written by kids

in laboratories or hospitals

who write

down everything to protect

themselves.

They're not perfect.

What can you do?

If you want to worry, go ahead,

but not about that.

You're the same.

Until I can work as an architect,

I'm designing shop windows.

It distracts me

from other thoughts.

I think of the windows

as lost places.

They're neither inside

nor outside.

An abstract and magic space.

They reflect a pan of me.

At the same time,

the anonymity calms me.

Maybe it's stupid, burl think:

If someone stops to look,

they're somehow interested in me.

I've had this book since I was 14.

And forgive me, great writers,

but it's a key book in my life.

It's the origin of

my fear of crowds,

which has become existential.

It dramatically represents

the fear of knowing

I'm one lost person among millions.

Years have passed and I still can't

solve one of the puzzles:

"Wally in the City".

I found him shopping,

at the airport and the beach,

but not in the city.

Perhaps my nerves

have blinded me.

So I'm wondering:

If I can't find a person

when I know who I'm looking for,

how can I find a person when

I don't know who I'm looking for?

"Hi, I'm Sus,

part stuffed animal and part dog."

Seven years ago, my girlfriend

visited her parents

in New Jersey, USA.

She wanted to stay for a few weeks.

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