bombride

The world is a crossing, so I cross, I am human, in an amusement park of a blessed life, screaming the joyride of doom, serving us with rigid shelter, acquired illusions and a concept of understanding, centrifugating in an acid brain washing machine, manufactured use of belief, money, media, drugs and aggression to keep us distracted, based on a misinterpretation of an aged zodiac. Religion is satan. And I come across humans on my road, who are not aware of their immaturity, their blindness, their stupiditiy, greed, indifference and the fact, that they have never seen more than what their world wanted to let them see. Temples. Statues. Monks and meaningless singsong. A proof of power, reigning, in charge, more than ever industrialized before. But just an occasion to rethink the materialism of the west, to replace it with the enlightment of the orient, an exotic outburst, a different chassis, an upgrade, update, preventing an overload of followers – amusement needs its variety, being amused new creators, idols, guiding brands, approved and labeled by the system, so named artists, self-made men, escaper, heros, who seem to have been at the right time at the right place, igniting their ambition and desire to be different and make a difference. And not one of us, not one of them, creates ever a difference. There is no difference. Ending up finally be nothing less than a pimp, worhipping a myth, in a state of money and slavery, global. Pretending distrust, a lack of interest in politics, not wanted to be involved in a system of corruption and crime, as far as they have money, honestly earned of course, however that worked. What does that mean, in a system of corruption and crime – a farce and pointless, and producing a rebelief of an existing, peaceful, sincerely system, concept, idea – even not a square is real, did ever and will ever exist, because it is too late. So fuck your temples, your traveler attitude and your hippie transfigured whatever you think it is real. Your enlightment is an egoistic self-protection. Your run away, your dubiousness, a worst conypiracy against men. This is life, this is what made you an human, in an artistic way. We are, all is a product. Artifical. Your physical vulnerability the remnant of humanity. If you think you can be different or make a difference you only keep the coin turning. Being different doesn´t mean you are mad. Madness appeases your pain. Madness allows you to breath, provides you the space to let off some steam. Being against, feeling proud of being a part of a change, treats your pride and eases your fear, you as a member of a movement against, straight up with your head in your capitalized arse, with your looping dreams, visions of a new disorder, a disorder in order, till your ride come to an end, some kindly cotton candy for your servants and by remote maintance off you leave, in your spiritual abscence, afterlife – And now imagine you have to go through this again, HELL! […]

“This kind of mafia-like structures as part of the system is impossible in” – here we go – “Switzerland”, a swiss company, as we were talking about corrupt systems, like Sri Lanka, which faces next election on january the 8th. – The best I have heard for months.

“Why you think the government doesn´t want you to be educated?”
“I don´t know.”
“Exactly.”
“What you mean?”

The sun is shining again out of my arse! Guess I had too many conversations with men-made men, in the last weeks, on their search to reach, regain or belief in humanity. – I appreciate my regained silent madness, even if it is artifical.

goodbye

“Today we have to divorce.”
“Yes, unfortunately, I have to leave you pregnant.”
Laughing both of us, but me for sure with a smile of sorrow in my corner of my mouth. Jose runned 101 marathon, all around the world, for about 20 years. And still the idea of having a belly, cute, small, barrel, doesn´t matter, you can see his self-potrait horrified and outraged.
Thank you, Jose, for being a best company, you are still in my head, questioning everything, providing me a smile and lust to be the monster – not the rasta man. See you again, I am sure we will. Love and passion, stay and run who you are.
The world is a crossing…

rastanaged

“Mr. Tattoo man!”
“Hey monster.” How asian people called me during my first travel, more than 10 years ago.
But finally, a term about I can hardly smile, actually not at all, “Hello rasta man!”, which I heard mostly down south. Morons are everywhere. I mean seriously, rasta man?! And offering me Bob Marley shirts and rastafari bracelets. I would rather cut my hand off than wearing a rastafari bracelet, and my ears before, just in case they turn on some reggae dope, my eyes first, not to see their donkey smile. You guys really have no idea, stop smoking!

sun

You sweet yellow glowing loveliness. I kiss and embrace you, eternally. I won´t leave you again. Stand by me, let me stay on your side, inflame my heart, my tender passion, look in my eyes and arouse my energy, my strength and at least, thank you so much for drying, me, a sponge-mutant. – We arrived in Galle. Down south at the coast. Oh my Buddha, Mohammed, I tell you, what a relief! First, we emptied our bags, washing, I just packed all of in a bucket, put a greedy handfull of washing powder on, water and just stepped on it, stamping grapes, mashed dirt, sweat and humidity, under a hot shower, cleaning myself and my possession, manic-relieved and so contented.

Galle was my mannequin climax so far. “Hello!” – I should stop smiling at people, they misunderstand this as an offer to talk to me, “Many tattoos, can I take picture?” A group from Bangladesh, business men, four, one by one, than by twos, and as they started a quick-tempered foursome, “Game Over, my friends. Insert coin.” They looked at me, smiled, appreciated and went off. Unsuccessful business idea from the first level. Sri Lankan, mostly teenager, “Me and the monster.” I know I put myself in chains, somersaulting, monkeystyle. I don´t care. I do not. No. Ok I am bored. In countries, where capitalism has cast its downfall, worthless values, ideals, movie stars, blockbusters, brands, lenders and fancy pants, loaded with a rolled stack of dollars, gold on their fingers, blood under their nails, nevermore dirty hands… why not me, a show of a “handsome” – pop – gangster making the difference. And the ukrainans know what I am talking about, posing with a couple, in the embracement of a typical eastern monster of a man, his hand on my plated shoulder, a freshly nested egg between the set of uncompromising by blood darkened teeth of a wolfish fox. Out of his jaw a strong pouring flavour of his last loot, schnaps. Me, the skinny stick next to flaming like a match in a second to a pile of ash. Nice guys.

Maybe I love Sri Lanka. As longer as I stay as more I understand the mentality, the humour, their smiles, their background and why I was wrong. Chatting with farmers, market sellers, fishermen and outcasted low class bums, I enjoy their beauty and loveliness, feeling like to give them a hug, at least touch them, pinch punch tip them with my sincere sympathy. Just to see them smiling, from the bottom of their heart, for a very short moment, filling me with so much peace and affection. My favorites roadbusters, ideals when it comes to take life as it is, even you have to shit in front of its gate. – I was wriggling in the nets of Galle… Sri Lankan mosquito gangs are chasing me in the early morning hours on the street. I have no idea how they manage to sneak through, searching for flesh to poke their bloodlust inside. The mosquito net, not sufficiently anti, so “Let´s tap him!”. Bastards of freaks! Waking up at 5 a.m. or more apposite deciding to stand up, being horrific pissed of being sucked, feeling like a sow, involuntary farrowed, I made the best out of it and enjoyed my first sunrise in Sri Lanka, on the bol walls of the former fort in Galle, on my excursion to one of these treasure hunting moments on the road lostwards. I found myself at small fisherharbour with some eviscereting stalls roadside, beyond the walled fort, selling the fresh catch, straight from the boats. Harpoons, knives, wooden chopping blocks, buckets with dead wide open last gazes, remains of a hunt floating in blood, the seacarved faces of the workers, crows feet in wait, for chopped heads, the giblets and intestines, shredding black beaks, screeching claws, what else you need in the morning – fuck off coffee, especially when it´s nescafe. Different story. “You have cigarette?”, they keep asking me, surrounded by them, harshness in their eyes and the energetic blow of the sea shaping their pyhsical strength and tenacity. On my second morning, of three in a row, I had packages with me, as an offering, empty before I located my lighter, being blessed with their thankfulness and in particular their hospitality. I stayed. I watched, I chatted, I got undressed. Before I left, with heavy regretfullness in my farewell, falling in love with these kind of character, again the tempting invitation to join the hunt, starting at 2 a.m. In boats, don´t imagine big boats, I am talking about catamerans, with my not existing experience being at night out there, on the Indian Ocean, what a dream of a dream – and “Damn it!” I rejected, thinking twice of staying one more night, but did a reasonable decision, bringing my screwed collarbone, my ligamental strain and the next trekktense stopover Kathmandu to my mind – no risk no miss. Helping them to pull the boat on the beach was hazardous silly enough. “Come with us. No work, sit, look.” “Like a captain?” “Like guest.” But the idea not helping them made me feel more uneasy, rocking my idle tiredness and for sure jamming their working routine. Fuck off nescafe, temples, sightseeing and tours, dip into the everyday life, worth a stay, extending my day. The salty madness in their eyes I will miss, guess I found a good reason to return, to Sri Lanka.

And Jose, my loved friend, reminded me with his type of a character, unwanted for sure, but anyway, to create relationships, not to disagree moody with the efforts of men facing you, for whatever reason, giving me a hard time, being the person of interest, spoilt my curiosity. Even he sometimes is driving me crazy, asking at nearly every shop, interviewing nearly every seller, who was looking, staring at us, at me, and back at us – we must appear like a comical gay couple, “How much? – And these? – And that? – Ok, I come back. – Is this the way to [placeholer]?” Not even one corner later “Excuse me, way to [placeholder]?” Asking him why he is doing this, thinking it is rude, knowing he doesn´t want to buy anyway, and annoying, because I know the way and his map app anyway. And me and him wouldn´t even mind to get lost. “I just want to know if they are polite or telling me the truth.”, he said. Better facing them first, before being faced, leaving the bubble of the observer, functioning more rewarding in Sri Lanka. So I did accept his unaware excuse for annoying me. And we both have lots of fun.