“I have one son. I love him. He is all what I have and is all the world for me. … No, I don´t have husband. I am from Java. I left home to work here. My husband beat me nearly every day.” She is pointing on different broadness scars in her angular, carved face: Above her eyebrows, on her cheeks and below her chin. Her appearance strong and dominant, masculine and the gracious chest of a mother´s love, adoring her beauty and kindness. Watching her palying pool giving me an idea of how she grew up, between the dirt stamped elbows of a boy´s life.
“Life now in Denpasar, close to Kuta, not far from here. … No, no family here, a neighbour is looking after my kid during the nights. He is going now to school. I am very proud of him.” Shiny eyes. “I saw you standing at the bar. I don´t like big man, big muscles, they are heavy, lying on me.” She is 28. In her black short skirt and tiger blouse. Fancy lady at a hooker´s place, australian owned, in a town of pimps and sinners. “He is a good boss. … I mostly like to drink, with customers. What would you like to drink?”
Her forhead, as she is hugging me, resting on my chin, is a fevered glow. I am begging her to leave, to go home, to her son. Paid her in advance, advance of what? – pretty sure not. “No, it´s ok. Can you buy me a drink?”
she is dreaming of a foreigner or honest man, saving her. She already rescued herself.
She left the bar at 5 a.m., with me. Without. Me dumb scrotum of a moral boy.


Colonizing your home.
Treasuring an inside.
Breathing at the outside.
Disembodied enigma.
Stumbling around.
Loosing pace.
Catching vehicles, flip flops, dirt, sand, dust and an atom of a mermaid´s land.
Tracing the trace.
Crossing roads.
Reds and olds.
Rights and lefts.
Mapping the downs.
Grading the ups.
Pulling the sea.
The horizon below my knees.
Rising in-betweener.
Golden heart of a poor sinner.

Colonizing my home.
With claws deep in my ridges.
Covering an empty cell.
Walking in distance.
Closer to the mist.
Facing a mother´s hips.
Mother of home.
Swallowing a dry tone.
Sagging moon.
White fatty flesh.
Carcass of inglorious chest.
Sucking a dead man´s whatever you wanna call this but it is still dick.
Guarding a last standing order of a chilly marauder.
Bright heart of an arch sinner, you ferryman of a ditching hunter.

Colonizing his home.
Never ending rivers of slithering thoughts.
Rainbow of suns.
Glasses of hollow runs.
A sour coma reigned by a bastard´s ball.
His second lost on the way to a war bride´s scissoring prurience.
Stretched at the shores of the opposite.
Watching the difference.

Loosing my home.
A wolve is sleeping on my throne, peeing on my horny crown.
Howling like a baby.
Hailing the hall of flagless groomed ladies.
Conquering the outside.
Masks of an inside.
A masquerade of extravagant tasks.
Adoring a skinless past.
Homeless colony.
Is lost.
Lost is.
No here.
Compaired with.
An horizon.
A tight spot with sight.


First there was excitement.
Previously disapointment.
– Relaxing?
– Ok. It´s my pleasure!
Then there was time, plenty of… endless, stretching, as long and deep as you can´t retreat.
But oh wait?! I –
No. Nothing.
A national park northwest of Bali.
A parked nation of waiting.
Waiting for the shuttle bus.
From the lodge to the beach.
From the beach to the lodge.
Waiting between to prepare.
For breakfast.
For the sunburn.
For dinner.
For the menue.
For the answers, replying the same questions,
the same pleasantness, certified by the tiny golden nameplates on the staff´s labeled white poloshirts.
The same fucking reactive and radioactive pleasantness every day, hundred times per day, again and again. – Yes, I am fine and I know you are as well, so we are all fine, let´s have some fun and enjoy some finest silence. Don´t force me to be here, just let me be here. Ask me why, but not if and if I am not please, leave me peeing in your dried forest. Be kind, pity! Spit in my soup or masturbate in the ceramic bottles of conditioner.
Poor trainees, under the reign of a manager – sorry for treating your species so bad during school. You are the king. Hail your introduction, hail your leaving, hail fatty white amphibian!
Wild monkeys.
Wild comorans.
Wild deer.
All wild.
The two stored safari shuttle bus, wild as luxury.
Always waiting for us.
Waiting manufactures waiting.
Decorated with flowers and a fresh juice and feet waiting for you to leave.
Loop of waiting.
Waiting for the same you already waited for after before expecting the same during waiting.
For the same menue.
Freezed, cooked, neutral, clean, even the polished spoon seems to be bored, mirroring my extreme impatiently face.
Where is my sticky laminated menue, disgusting modeling food, shaky tables, tiny stools, basket of chili, sauces and cup of chopsticks – Where are my chopsticks!
Waiting, until leaveing to wait.
At the same restaurant, under the same stars, the same sun, the same sky, the same blue, the same paradise, every day.
Every day.
Waiting for the shuttle.
From the restaurant to the lodge.
Even sleeping seems like waiting, wait to wake up and return to wait.
Captured with allies.
State of pleasureism.
“Guten Morgen.”
“Hallo. Guten Tag!”
Do I look like… ?!
No, I don´t like to talk german, with germans, with you germans or about your holiday, and not your holidays, trips, traveling and I am far away from being interested in your habits, your mentality or behaviour, no I don´t want to moan, with you. I am better in moaning lonesome and not about you. – They are doing their best, having holiday, so I can do my best, ignore them, relax, exhale, inhale…
“Good night, german.”
– Yes, why not talk to them? You never know? But why are they greeting in german? What the temple is wrong with you, you grim blinding white with your highclass attitude adoring your trashy dinning dress.
A bomb, ticking.
Ticking and waiting.
After three days starting to greed the germans, hailing their relaxation, their balanced habits… I surrender to the camp.
Wild monkeys.
Wild waiting.
Wild sun.
Wild driving wild.
Captured with enemies.
State of resortism.
Get me out of here!!!

After 5 nights we left, we left the wild, out of the wild, into civilization. all of us felt a deep relief as the car hits the road, the proper road, tared and guiding far away. What I remember is, a perfect dive at Menjungan island, supposed to be and I suppose it is one of the most beautiful spots on earth. And, of course, sharing the wildness with my beloved family, my german family, a supreme side of german. My german culture, just, my state of home.
Before I end, I would like to apologize, I am not a racist, but actually, I am a misanthrope, depending on what kind of species you belong or would like belong to. You see, I am very tolerant, but actually I despise to be tolerant or tolerant men, tolerating means categorizing your racism. So. I am a not racist, but still I would like to be a misanthrope without being your bogeyman, just don´t hang around on my road. And I promise, I will never book a stay at your resorts, I prefer more to watch you from the outside.


So Bali… 8 years after my first stay, my first step outside Europe, as my traveling heart has started to leak, to bleed, sheer finality of an eternal lost. You warmly welcomed me. Arriving getting more and more a routine. Airports? Luggage? Visa? Wriggling queues? I feel nothing than routine… no hurry, no rush, no excitement. Airports are a life between, somewhere, around me but not inside me, just to get outside, to reach the road, to find a place, your place, more places, to arrive, minutes, hours later or earlier, who cares, I have my home on my back. And anyway, a bench is international.
So I left the checked-in area and looked for my pick-up, Agung, a handsome guy, with a sign in his hand, “Plorian”. My first pick up during my travel and I have to admit, maybe I am getting older or lazy or both or neither of it, just only tired of unnecessary adventures, I felt quite comfortable to jump in a car and get a ride to a booked accommodation. I have to calculate my budget new, adding pick-up costs.

Ubud, I hardly recognize you. Even though I have not a lot of memories of the rebelious days and nights we spent together, maybe we never loved each other in a serious way, maybe I was too drunken… but I still know your name! That doesn´t count?! – You become old like a modernized colonialism does. Call it tourism, call it mobile-ism, flexibilism, or try and suck your own boops. You are hiding under that thick leveled organic-eco-spirit-blessed change of a make-up in your masquerade, your smile carved in prejudice of hospitality, meticulous demonized native. – Fortunately retro has reached your trend-setting as well. My retrospective did. About 10 years after the bombing… domesticated by development as usual, so why I am blaming you like a minded bum. I even can´t claim that I don´t like your new face. I admit that there are a lot of adoring effects, sharing ideas and profit, but as I can see in your eyes, behind your smiling rolling eye-lashes, you are missing your peaceful corners on your roads, the slow beating flip-flopping rythm in your veins, the meditating breathing of your hillshores… green bright terraces, like an unoceaned, rised flowering blooming garden, a sinking heaven´s frontgate, drowning in construction sites and investments, suspecting a safe future. The view on your three volcanos, fossiled surrender to a postcard of a paradised retreatment center. – Suspect the safe future in command. But I feel I am just far from my road… I don´t want to blame you for that… my heart is a splatter triology, the cambodian family I left, my beloved and my german family, my beloved ones, loyal partners in fear, surviving and putting me right there where I am.
Leaving Cambodia was as hard as I expected, the fact that I will return in two months eased the sadness and dried the tears, still I don´t have to remember, they are always around, more the experiences, the knowledge, the horizon they expanded… my steps are much more in pace, slow, unrestless and not even aware of walking. Missing beloved on the road sucks, in a good way, but sucks.
Arriving at Ubud, hugging my beloved friends, was not even as dramatic as I supposed it will be or have to be. No tears. Smiling, yes, why not, we are friends, we always had and will have a lot to laugh about. After moments of “let me see, you look… but you… it´s so gorgeous, amazing, so WOW!!! to… after that months of skype and writing… but, so, what we are doing now?” – laughing… we kept on sharing life, spending time together like we always did, like it has been just yesterday, that we said goodbye to each other. “Let´s go to the shop and buy something for dinner!”
After a couple of days, even your sanity tells you it´s different… it more feels like, that I visiting them not they are visiting me here in Southeast Asia. It feels like daily life on holiday, like we will return in two weeks back to Germany together. At this point my sanity reaches its edges. Buddha bless my life! I will leave to continue. So. Ubud, poor hole of a rabbit, you are our stage, to act in this visionary wonderland. Maybe I just will run crazy, run crazy further down the road, keep on running, so, I never felt so purposeless, defragmented. out of order, in order of my outside. I am here. Not here like HERE, like that carpe diem-buffaloshit. I am here like I am, I do what I am and I am what I intend to do, but not reaching the surface of my awareness. I even don´t have to be aware. Try to be aware. Be aware. Come on. Try! Make this pressed strained toilet face. Feel your blood flushing up your head, constipating your “I have to think, solve, arrange, delay, rearrange, take care of, break up and fuck that”-problem shit, like close of a soaked climax or near the end of all anticlimax. I am a wanderer. Passed Ubud. Meeting friends, best friends, traveling friends, practicing Yoga, relaxing at the pool, enjoying my life and be grateful for the possibility to catch that part of beauty the world still offers, if you have courage, a dream and money to afford. And, especially, an indifference towards drama. Drama is luxury, audience boring.