Sure, lots have been written about airports – meeting place, gates of farewell, a final kiss, landscapes between, world´s end, and the beginning of a new adventure, apocalyptic melting spots… I am at Delhi airport, one of the big three. I just wanna have a sleep. 12 bucks per hour in a so called sleeping pod is not worth a night. 18 hours transfer stay. Stay, eat and wait. With not even one shop to distract me with entertaining consumption. With not one bar to get drunken cause i don’t like to be boozed. Sober and awake in or out of this world, in almost the biggest waiting hall, sucks. It´s 9 p.m., only 16 hours more to wait and i am getting close to my sleeping hours. But waking up at 6 as usual at an airport sucks, what a world if there is no change, no night or day, no rest and work, no rest… Oh yes, these little tiny romantic poetic changes, if you just look close, watch attentional… Fuck them, I am too tired and exhausted from the last weeks. And pissed off, by India, they didn’t let me bring in the transfer zone my fired cambodian bullet, which I was wearing attached to my necklace, without an explanation. My explanation, that they, the authority in charge, save it as a souvenir, was not acceptable. And their visa regulations almost brought me in this situation… had to change my flight schedule etc. I could have inform myself more about in advance, ok, but even then… India, we still are not friends. And at the international transfer gates you need to login for wifi. To login you need to register, to register and to receive the password, you need an indian phone number, at an international… ah whatever. How is this survivable? But I am fucking good in waiting, I will beat you, Delhi airport!
Challenge accepted.
Three chinese to my right, drinking Kingfisher and talking to their voice print software on their mobile devices, waiting for the plate of meat. To my left a southamerican, not sure from where exactly, my racism needs to be upgraded. Meditating about the food, in a set of an eyebrow drama, mumbling, complaining, “This food is not like it should taste, not like real indian chicken curry.” Now he is praying, sort of he doesn´t deserve a dish like this and the chicken didn´t deserve to die for. Making notes in very tiny letters, accurate, the pen couldn´t be sharpened enough. “I feel so sad inside, we are living in such a spoilt world.” Eyebrow drama again, he asks for the bill, “No, I am not finished, I just want to pay.” – Two guys, indians I suppose, having a seat on my table, “Hello, where are you from?” How I despise this question, especially without any introduction or efforts of sympathy. It emerges they are working as ground staff and finished their stint, spotted me and decided to get a picture of me with them, hanging out at a charmless bar at Delhi airport. At least one had to order, a beer, to be allowed to enter the bar. Kind of sweet their curiosity or paparazzi attitude, but only kind of. Silly. Annoying. On the toilet the cleaning service always were waiting for me, finished with cleaning my hands, responding to the wetness with a pulled and prepared tissue, like to a priest after he executed his blessings.
I feel very normal at Delhi airport. It must be the end of this world. Just 14 more hours to go…


“Rich people don´t sleep, they always worry, someone steals their money, breaks the lock and take everything. Poor people sleep very well, nothing to worry.” Acting a pleased man leaning back and closing his eyes full of grace. He is nepalese, living in Denmark, being on holiday, visiting his friend, from Kathmandu, born in north india. I arrived at Nagarkot, after a seven hours hike, adequate – how can you not fall in love with a country which names its villages like black metal bands. We are sitting around a fireplace, with us a tremendously, sketchy annoying drunken nepalese tibetian chinese we won´t discover if he is a spy, a douche, a misguided spiritual man, an alcoholic or just a gay guy, who claims for attention. Maybe a bit of everything.
“No living being wants to suffer.” Why thou man reaches compromisses every day, suffering the consequences and consequently make other people suffer by men´s surviving strategy, suffering under the reign of joy and choices, believing being a good person, because you understand the ease of existence, let you appear in an empty spotlight, dark it might be around you, don´t you bring light to your chambers by the ignorance of self-awareness. One fortune cookie quote after another this night. Whiskey. Pollen. And stars… endless falling stars, down from the outside into the endlessness of presence and our restrictive perception. The Himalaya receded, the universe passing through. I was that close to, I nearly dared to stick my finger through one of the myriad of holes in the annular eclipse, me standing in the center, shot.
“Brother, what do you think? We are interested, because you are older, so that means you lived more years than us. That is why we always respect.” “Except the younger ones.” “They have to respect us.” “You shouldn´t respect anyone or anything because it is older than you, brother. Might also means, a person had more time to posion the world with his ideas and quotes.” Living in poverty doesn´t mean living a life of balance (with nature) and on an higher level of awareness, I guess, because I never was poor, it means being more aware of how you survive, less artifical, pathetic and epic, demanding balance, even though madness is your stick to keep you vertical, upright. We lay down to rest, more lay down to die. “I think the poor person can´t sleep, because he is afraid he might not wake up on the next day. Humans learned to exclude. Suffering as a human is avoidable and we are teached we have to fight everything, which makes us suffer. Pain is our enemy and everyone who tries to enforce. But I think pain and to suffer is part of living. You end up in religious or fluffy quotes like you told us, because a world, nature without pain can´t survive. Or do you think pain should distinguish whom it overcomes, who deserves or not, who is right and wrong. Ok, that´s pathetic. You see, I will never be poor, I would die before.” Walking around, being open-minded, talking, sharing, setting up rules how to become a better person, believe in rules, doesn´t change anything, not in your life, not others. You have to change first and this is not about prosperity or poverty, this is about whom I have to kill to change my life for the majority of living beings. The hippies, the peacemakers, the pacifists, the pussies and the puppies, they are the real dropouts, the junk of nature. Without spys, soldiers, killers, assassinators, murderers, blood in blood out, who protect the non-violators, the guys, who need to administrate, control and keep everything together, the tribes busy and in place. Everyone and everything is in its place where it meant to be, because there is no path from which we went astray, we humans.
Is a cat in Nepal a cat or is it a nepalese cat? Is a pig born in Germany a german pig, different to a chinese pig? Does it make a difference or basically a pig is not a cat. Men is able to domesticate, by the power of killing, a cat, because a cat can’t speak to us, even we do understand an animal in its basic needs, survival and secure survival. What testifies intelligence, to industrialize killing or to respect life as a gift and being able to survive its anamoly, in its varity of elemental constellations. This planet, what we call world, created by men and men as a favour in return. As an selfish act of acknowledgment, creat it’s own world, godnesses and idols as an artifical concept of natural progress – not as a model of improvement – as a domesticator and violator against its own, its world and its nature. I don’t believe in peace and harmony, it doesn’t exist, only as part of an alienate planet.
“So, no, I don´t think this is right to say, I think sleeping calm, enjoy happiness in our life is not a sign of improvement or a step to enlightment.”


Fried potatos with omelette and bread, at a rooftop cafe, in the heart of Bhaktapur, Durbar Square, the cultural heart of Nepal, former capital city, not as frenetic as Kathmandu, and not as polluted, well, in the center. My lungs are reveling. The sun is crawling above the hooded misty valley, watched by the towering old town. It´s over and over again and again whelming. I imagine one of my good friends, Simon, who is crazy about potatoto with eggs for breakfast and mountains, sitting next to me, excited, both rubbing our hands, rolling our tows, welcoming another bright day. I can see his smile… sharing experiences, excitement is something I more and more miss. Sitting face to face with the beauty, the one and only, with a silent smile in the unexpression, talking in monologues about the saturating fantasticness. Absorbed and trapped at the same time. Randomly take aware a deep breath, answering the incredibility of this tiny spot on earth with a “Wow. Wow wow wow!” loudly, to turn myself inside out literally – I am here! Companions are a great mirror, occassionally a great wall, even though they deform a bit till destroy, a fullfilment and a pain in the arse. Like chinese travelers, a dead certain one. Rude. Loud. Ignorant, disrespectful and moronic. The best part of it, they always, talking about a country like China you have to generalize, travel in groups and they are obsessed about, they own each other, they are fleshistic. If one of their belongings moves more far than they can spit their regurgitation, panic. Shouting. Questioning. Laughing. At least they are self-ironic. How I survived my travel in China. I remember I said, “Once China, never again!” I doubt that, but I could move around their empire without running into them. How can they get so lost born in a country where you are by birth more a number than a little flag in the lead. But they just don´t get it, young or old, heavily performing a pro version of a traveler or in elephant trousers, they missed the moment when they crossed the border turning their status into a visitor, a guest, a chinese not being in China anymore.
Om. Big OM!!! Relax… they are only chinese. Poor chinese.

Oh Nepal, how I love you. In Bhaktapur my heart stays twisted. I am still searching for an adequate adjective, a word, words, superlatives, but how could it be possible, how I could be possibly able to put such fantastism in a sequence of letters, building words, constructing concepts, images, perspectives, excluding, isolating, one thought, an epic perception, an assumption of senses, a misunderstanding by understanding. Fanatism!
Bhaktapur is much smaller, less dusty, busy, spoilt, no punk rock show posters, less stoners, less hippies.
All in all a good deal. Mode of silence again. No companions, no willing to compromise. But I am sort of a color print in this rosy cheeked, wrinkly brown, glossy grey carved dormant pride, expanding horizontal and vertical, in any direction, like there is just endlessness that tight below the roof of the world. Black ink colors, all what I am talking about since decades. So I am the magnet for the narrow-minded and the rogues. – “Today we are all brothers, doesn´t matter where we are from.” Hanging around with some hoodies, showing off tattoos, stoners smoking, youngsters have to watch, stay put in the pyramid of obedience, gosh I am so glad I don’t need this shit on the road, and pot on top, watching their curiosity and awareness fading… “Are you bored?” – “I am.” Having fun with streetkids on the steps of some temples, taking pictures of us with a remote for whatever electronic device, after denying hundred times I won’t pay for a picture with them and I don’t have money for their snotty noses anyway… playing with a bunch of boys from the neighbourhood ping-pong on a stoneplate, the net some bricks and a piece of string, amazingly intelligent constructed, designed to reuse, the bat wooden, the rubber left the game long time ago. A dog is barking furious, in rage sticking his head out of a common bay window, wooden, planks framing centuries of a men´s fragility and brilliance, mysterious watching carvings, with a wink of darkness, second floor of a beautiful old historic medival house, adored by stubborn impermanence. Left of the tennis table an old pond, a flooded former water well, a meter or so below ground level. Who smashes the ball into has of course catch it. Childhood memories… everywhere is history and people, families, communities following the wandering stretch of the sun, invading through on of the labyrinth´s alleys, turning their faces towards walls or fences, their back on the sun, charging warmness for the shaded hours of the day. Eating. Drinking tea. Knitting. Combing. Petting. Butchering. Playing. Sorting crops. Sleeping. Sharing presence.
This country kills and leaves me bursted into tears to slice me again.
I needed to cry.
Who hasn’t seen Nepal doesn’t know what beauty means.
Souvenir street seller demanded a chat with me in private. I expected, with a 99% plausibility, because they are, loiterung, for lurking they are too wasted, at nearly every corner, touristic corners in particular of course, “You smoke? Weed, hashish, black, what you want. I have. Sir, wait!” But surprisingly, “You are interested in human bones? I have.” He pointed on his left thigh. “You want to see? – Ok no problem.” Not that I don’t want to but it feels not ok to encourage them to sell their ancestor’s bones – Why so moral? Guess, why should I take a look at bones, human or not, what’s the difference, what´s the deal anyway. He wanted to buy my boar´s teeth I bought on Palawan. Offering me 500$, I bought it for 15. But wouldn’t sell it for 1000$. There has to be a limit, even if this is materialism, even in Nepal.

With every word I attempt to describe my Nepal, I fail, I soil the plentifulness, the potential of experience. Naming what surrounds us, tryign to put it in order, makes live easier as we are used of and we know it, but not as we are created for. Captured in recreating.


Thanks to everyone, who didn´t send me silly “Merry Christmas” wishes. – No, you do because this is what you do, I don´t wish you a happy “Merry apocalypse” as well, right? After an amazing chat with a street seller, who approached me interested in where I am from, not because of soccer or Adolf Hilter, but because of Frankfurter Schule. He blew my mind. He understands more than you with your silly red santa heads and articial and flexible, like a stripped bamboo, reflection. – It´s so much fun, I know. And I don´t have kids, I know. Poor kids. Isn´t this the disaster about? Worship and sacrifice a day, the arrival of doom, torture and dehumanization? Jesus birthday? A birthday of a mad man, who fought the injustice of life with the capacity of separation, in the name of mastery. Hang out black flags!


Kathmandu, I have no words for you, for your beauty, your faces, your gazes, your pride, your cockiness, the glow in your eyes, mirroring highlands, your diversity, the rebel outlining history, the poem of noise, the spinning romance of dirt and dust, corny kisses, your hidden backyards, cooling clearings, a resting labyrinth in a labyrinth, wiggling through the medieval crookness.


Today is Christmas. I went as went to the bakery, where Jaime and I met the last two days. We crossed notional. He jumped on the plane to Bangladesh yesterday. his last stopover before he will be back home again in San Francisco, where I hopefully – to whom ever I am praying now, fate, destiny? – will see you again this year, you winderful, gorgeous man.
So 24th. I feel terrible cold. Inside. Waking up at 6 a.m. as usual, under my two pillows, cursing the curse of christmas, fucking christmas, designed and wrapped, commercialized and suffering a growing lack of meaning and I don´t of course don´t fucking care about, wrapped or not, in toilet paper or in your glossy messturbation surrounded by naked angels. But below all this fucking christmas, it is a reason to get together, with family, friends and I miss fucking christmas, lying under the massiness of cold, checking social media for an embrace, cursing the curse. Fucking christmas makes me feel loose and lonely. Without begging for sympathy. I wouldn´t dare to because of fucking christmas. I don´t share any of my respect for, not even a glass of wine, a beer or a bottle of strong schnaps I will gobble for you, you christmess. I couldn´t have choosen my place better, far away, not to find myself having a feast, finally because of christmas. So I went early morning for breakfast. The cashier at the bakery wishes me “Happy Christmas.” – “Thank you, but I am not religious.” Receiving knitted brows. There would be only one place where I want to be, home, but home doesn´t exist, not in your cribs and not in the embracement of donkeys and mules.

“Breakfast will take up to 10 min. [Because of one of the daily power cuts].” – “Oh man, it´s no problem, it´s your tradition, man.” A loud and proud statement of open-mindedness and understanding, with a strong german accent. Thanks for this christmas giggle.
Merry fuck!


On a social media post a follower – No, I am not a guru, not your lifestyle, idol, leader, guide, not a member of a backpacking traveler of a dropout sect and I am not your excuse to behave barberous or the opposite – asked me if I arrived, with a three question mark, commenting my post of an image of Boudhanath, subtitled “What a stunning amazement your are, Kathmandu”. The social media ID is not close to to a mate, so it might be she was more on a search for my outlines, or her dreams, than seriously commenting, additionally mentioned commenting sucks anyway. Arrived??? What you mean? Or you mean it mean? Why should you wish an adventurer to arrive, with three marks, so for good, ultimately, forever. I arrive every day, at restaurants, at food stalls, backyarded, in people´s gazes, expectations, curiosity and furiousness, kindness, in a thought, to distract, pass, cross, to erase, to dig a foss, protect my loss, or flood with a shot of excreations, to understand, to manipulte, to fit in the box, but not resting in what I call with peace infected balanceness, titled with your normativism of enlightment, on the hunt of your identity, because you always felt like there are places in this world where you belong and return, living a life of an isolated, locked down inhumanity. Religion is not, you missed the hit for an afterlife. I arrive in a coffin, made of ashes. – I have seen at Boudhanath, supposed to be the biggest stupa in Asia, white doing their prayers, blowing in horns, twisting drums, disengaging themselves from whatever they felt possessed of, replacing their lostness, nailing themselves on a crossing, to resurrect as a better, more human. They appear silly obsessed. I just pity them. Not because they are white and I think they don´t belong here, sort of Buddhism should be practiced only by asians. They gotta follow to whom they feel connected to, wearing the same marks, the same stigmas for your whole life is quite boring, you follow the trends, you want to go deeper, loosing and expacting a light at the end of the tunnel of mendacity. I pity all of you, wherever you arrived or go to spread your poison. – Praying for peace. My honest condolences, I am sorry for your abandonment. Your non-violent resistance to fight the evil spirits, the bad and the dark world. I ran into people they bow to me, waht to touch me, shake my hands, executing their blessing, showing sketchy respect. How blinded, fey and hopeless are you. Your obedience breaks my sanity. Perfectly matching, I bought a woolen hat, one of this wonderful classy fakes, abouding in huge letters above my forehead “OBEY”.
Long introduction, short, no, I not arrived. Yes I am here, checked out, paid for my visa and touched ground. I arrived in Kathmandu, in shocking cold winter. My first mission, buy thermal underwear, a fleece and a hat to keep your brain working. Thamil, the touristic haven of Kathmandu is of course loaded with all kinds of faked brands collections. From a poncho to a full-body high peak touching stars kind of an astronaut looking suit, keeping you warm or and alive. And in any kind of colouring. I am sure somewhere in this world there is living a dogged hippie community, on acid, tailoring, knitting, batiking, bad tasting, managed by a privy council, consisting of old 68er, some of them gilding the finance market, some just the art fart of a rotten smell, others a harem of how-god-created-us nutters, serving as a low cost version of the sirens, producing this shabby, intolerably, with peace and other meaningless signs decorated variety of horror-stricken cheesiness. Unbelievable! You won´t be able to top if your job is to design a place as bad as taste can be scary. Asking myself, strolling down the alleys of Thamil, who is buying all that shit. This ethnical rape of handcraft. In Thailand or Cambodia the elephant I can shit in this pants without being recognized trousers and other patterns, spirals, camouflages of gazing on needles and lances. Kathmandu´s shops, pure hippie, closer to India. And they do, the arrived, they adopt, it´s a process of assimilation, but like a blind person, who lost it´s other senses during a fight with a patchouli playmate and is as fucked as a smoking brick of goat hair now. Them wear it once, as a holiday performance – I can NOT focus, next to me, on one of the enjoyable rooftop bars, a girl, having a chat and using in nearly every sentence an imprint of “Oh my goooood [god]!” – Holy Shit! The hate speech on elephant trouser travelers must wait.
But so far, Kathmandu is truly a stunning amazement.
And I am grateful I haven´t lost my fashionism – even I am not sure for whom this is embarrassing now.