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…


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.