I don’t need anyone – I don’t need dependance. I don’t need a home – I don’t have only one family. I neglect the concept of need. Therefore I am resistant – stubborn- when it comes to desires. I get yours. Your urge of creating relations. To feel connected, to be part of this madness, not to feel insane, not to feel like it drives you crazy, crazy like I am alone, everyone is, I am wrong, I hate all of it, the acquisition and inquisition, the errors and effortless tries, the love which is a set up, the politics, staged and a shit show, sex and other lies. All of it. The planes bringing you to the beach. Your job providing you opportunities and the money, THE money, fuck right money, what a great thing to have and to sacrifice yourself for. Luxury. Of course you want a part of, a dime slice at least, just for fun, fun, you need it, you need some fun, what else for money is. And you are born into this malicious operation, you deserve it, my friend. You yes you who can read and understand the perspective – well you don’t. Your reward, the worlds pleasure. Take it all. Take take take. Imagine there is the greatest sale ever called life and you would be the only one left with bare hands. What a cruel disaster. All others would have something and you not one single thing, only yourself, your life, your materialized life, prized and stored on a dust bowing shelf.I don’t want to mean something to anyone. I believe we are not meant to be meaningful. Meaning is based on values and values create meanings and meaning in its repetition – o how good we are in that – meaninglessness. Potentially we would care more if we don’t mean something to others or everything to ourselves. Self absorbance. A monster men installed. And most of us feel pretty pretty with it. Being here and only once a lifetime wandering on this planet justifies you, your needs first. Imagine back in the days tribes organized based on a Facebook like their survival. What a social impact that would have made on evolution. Christ and the other idiots piss in their solidarity racks for a laugh hanging on the cross doing pull-ups. – How important you think important is? How important are you? I never felt so disconnected and free in my lifetime, because I am replaceable, we all are, accept it, move on.
Me living in an ideal my world and not my world being dictated by idealism…
… save cash again to sit in 2 years time in my own studio, where I create what I want, what I need because I need. Where I can be me, without people asking me who I want to be. Where I can create my own values, my own present with no future, because it doesn’t fucking matter. And I am not talking about services to be clear on that – or if you better got some more cash on you. I am tired of wasting my talent – yes I got and I admit – for people who don’t get what it takes to be where I am. I hate you greedy capitalists. Yes we all are, we all have the color of money on our hands, dirty as fuck. But you think on top of that you deserve more just because. Fuck off. I serve you with all my sovereign contempt. I never wanted to work for you. Never. I only did and do because I had to learn to play the game to be able to manipulate. Unfortunately I realized the dice was loaded from the beginning.
… I need time. The next part of the road has to be tough otherwise it will be the wrong road. I want to be stronger, better. For myself and for other people around me. For this I need to rescue my nasty commitment for work and transform into another addiction to set me free. At the same time I need to break with other addictions, basically my whole habit of addiction. Alcohol. Weed. Love and self denial. Self denial first of all. Stop sacrificing myself for people who don’t need me or you want me but I don’t need them. Especially when it comes to creating.
… I need brain chow. A lot more. Not love. Not your illusions. Not your dreams and visions or your self-esteem. Not knowledge necessarily. Fuck off with your assumption, believes and attempts to poke through the big question of why we are here and behave like someone would care, except us, the person next to you to impress and depress me. Not interested. People who think visual and feel downright. The rest I will need you to stay in your own eclipse.
… I need the next years to cure myself, my heart. To cut me loose from everything which is you. And this doesn’t mean you don’t mean to me the world, because you are the world I know, but it is not what I need, a world. This world made me for half a lifetime sick. I only have memories of pain and deep despair. The rise and fall of my parents. My sister, my dear fellow in misery. My friends dragging me drunk and bleeding back home. Me dragging myself trough ever mud hole I can find to punish myself for being and not being different. Not saving the world. Not changing anything. Not being Superman. Not being pure. Not being good. Not being free from good and bad. – how much I still hate to be human. This never ending anger inside of me. Don’t you feel it?! Don’t you feel anything is wrong here, it started wrong and will cross the finishing line in a loud fulmination. We kill – I say intentionally not murder – every day far beyond a natural survival strategy. Though there is nothing than nature, even us acting permanently against doesn’t make us less part of all what is. We just can’t accept that all what is not only us. How I hate our arrogance. And we even invented the concept of it.
… and I need much much more time for myself. Alone. Solo. Me and all of it at once.
… and I am feeling pity for my father. For this great chef who never had the knives to stand up and challenge his greatness, always trapped in money as the solution for existence. I am sorry you were born in the wrong part of the world. Imagine you were born in a poor country and the only way you would have think of is up because there is no down. You would have made yourself great. I know. Because you have one of the greatest and purest hearts I never touched. But I know it is there.
… mother, I still cry.
… I am not writing this because I am turning 40 tomorrow. I write this because if I don’t change I will not be here for my forty-one.
… I can not take the responsibility of a family. I am not grown up, I don’t feel I have something to give or to look up to.
… I feel like I have to leave for a while to do my duty, to serve myself, my privilege of being, and being able to be better.
“You are a very lucky man. You want to know why?”
– “Because I don´t believe, yes. So you dare to follow me now.”
Hypocrites. Believers. Followers. Blindfolded lemmings. Or just business, business with the despair of people, created by these people… argh gross, always and again.
“Where are you from?” A woman at a travel ageny in Bangkok asked me.
“Really? No. I don´t believe.”
“Sure. Germany. Why not?”
“I don´t know, you don´t look german, you look… I don´t know. From somewhere.”
What a nice compliment, not because I don´t want to be from Germany, or talking about pride, nationalism or that kind of shit. I don´t care, better to be from there as from somewhere, but it de-citizens me, cutting the strings, lets me feel just and more human.
BKK, you only had smiles for me. But I was sadly, not pitiable – keep it, not able to heart back, barely to mouth back, to return the embracing welcome, with this cemented snot in my head, thanks to the english white senior fat royal bitch of a lady, with her red-rubbed nose and compassionate line of sight, line of spreading her sickness around like candies or a cool breeze in the midday insolation on the airfield, countinuing trapped in the isolation of the winged quarantine capsule. Two days after I was lying on my hotelroom, kept trapped by a flue. Did some random attemptable moves to treat, to recover by ignoring. Meeting friends, soften the cemented facial expression with smiles and illustrating stories, met my friends Amber and Eric, the husband in tow, living on Bali, challenging life abroad with successful blogging – I know why I despise that business – and Eric selling balls, not his, unfortunately, would earn some passion. Anyway. People change or don´t or don´t want to or are not aware of doing so. We went together to a touristic Muay Thai Show, which was on the athletic side impressive, but shallow as drained paddy field. So boring. Shooting after with the crew, blogging needs to earn its promotion. Couple of beers and a late night dinner with one of the actors, far from calling him a fighter, lovely guy thou and anyhow. The food poisoned my stomach and felt that close to a magic healing by drinking, on the next day this attempt made just everything worst. But hanging around on the room was no option. Roaming around in Chinatown, a roamer not a wanderer anymore – no lenses, no guidance, no sight in sight, only a feeling of havng a stopover in one of my favorite cities I could call home, easily and frivolous, avoided to stay close or kind-of-still nearby to Khaosan Road this time, and for sure the next time again. BKK is too huge anyway to stay only and on top in one of the most dull parts. I realized again how I love and missed the big, the real metropolises.
A homeless rubbing the top of his head, furious and complaining – supposable, listening to the raise and rage in his voice, at a branch of a tree, in front of a school, to the left a small channel, not a venetian, more vulgar in its motion and carriage business.
Another bum reading newspaper, studying a supermarket full size christmas promotion page, with one armed old glasses without lenses and nails as long as you can mistake his hands with claws. The micro consumption temples, for young and old – but not for the poor and the crestfallen, naturally, a credit card away from the finite fountain of youth, smelling like success. Impresses and disgusts me at the same time. Finally this move to treat my flue didn´t work out as well, I left with tears in my eyes. For a brief slow motioned moment I felt the weight of pointlessness, a black spot, a falling insatiable hole, eat you up from the inside, leaving behind plastic and bloodshot promises and an infinte loop of needs and carelessness. I bought half connected to and from consumption, bewildered wild, on an emotional warfare, a pair of closed shoes, for the posh clubs I never go to, for the trendy walks I never take, in one size too small, cause my feet are not used anymore to fashion, only to comfort. Another pair of flip flops, faked Birkenstock, causing blisters after a walk and getting lost. What a waste. What a hassle, what a realistic hassle.
The third attempt to distract me from surrendering me to the flue, getting tattooed. At one of the most lovely studios I have ever dropped in. Six Fathoms Deep. The studio loaded with Master of the Universe characters, toys, whole scenes. I felt like a kid, me as a boy. And how the studio shows off! Its uniqueness. A place full of treasures and the artists setting the distinguishing marks in particular. How I miss that, not the rustic spirituality, narrow-mindedness, but the megalomania, without being aware of, just because of surviving and riding the rigidity. My true inspiration. I wanna be inspired, not a guidance. Matt, one of the artists, did a great job, finishing, or shall I say continueing my forehead. And can´t wait to get the heroes of our childhood – Ralf – on the back of my feet, next year, dedicated to the soil of our friendship, let´s throw some sand out of the pit! But so far, well, the visit was a pleasure, a reminder, the snot still stayed put, dooged and increasing the pressure. In three days I will jump on a plane to Kathmandu and I will, I am yearning for.
But first some rules, understandings, hindsights and blindsides:
1. Don´t just widen your range of skills and abilities, practice!
2. Stop drinking and smoking. Practice!
3. Get back to vegetarianism. Why? I love animals, but I wouldn´t mind to kill, we are humans, we kill, loving or not.
4. Don´t you dare stopping to express yourself, pussy! Free yourself is a process, but do it at last! No being of freedom and love, it is almost worth the excitement, thou a peaceful balance of an embracing serenity, processing self-creation and disformation might be as adequate as challenging my emotional abyss. Bit more courage, if you please! Metropolitan cities like BKK, as much as I miss the vibrating varity and the madness of it corners, bruises and amorphousness, the unleashed commercialism lets me pull by my narcissism. And I fuckin hate it! This is so far from free. With all its new reinventions, promotions, opulence and aversion, decay, melting hubs and sinking pots. The metropolis is the alive standing ruin of the world, the real apocalypse, the final corrossion is only an act of conformity. Keep floating on the bloodstream of money, stay attached not drowning. There is no against or with the current, this is pathetic. Disorder is order as order needs mayhem. We are all and all what is. Weirdness doesn´t exist, only if you wanna buy or sell it. Weird is only that I still don´t give a fuck. I pronounce to free myself! Cut myself loose, the driftwood, the solitude, as a concept of multitude, broken walls, open the last gates and always a knife in my pocket, just in case. Be as mas as you can!
And no, mad doesn´t mean to party, to have fun, take drugs, drink booze or be as stupid as you are anyway.
More findings (to) follow…
The cruel – on purpose thous not unprofitable – and scary unregulated secondary effects of systematic and controlled crisis of war illustrate the most threatening outburst of social eruption, causing radicalism of any kind.
It´s not that everything is connected – by men, but you can point on links, even phenomenons, based on psychological disfunction. Lost in plot. Failed in anger management, escaping in one of the carefully arranged concept of enemies, agitators, undemocratics, misanthropes. Exploited human junk.
How will the siege of Sydney affect the sales quantity of Lindt chocolate in the coming days? How automatic and subliminal is the act of sympathy and sorrow? Allowing you to move on…
Look at you.
I am getting old.
All this marks on your body.
Confirmation of kills, a campaign of return and exits,
not to forget my creation, my artificiality and state of alienation.
I am growing old.
Perceiving the weakness of flesh.
Scarred. Signs of agony, I never owned,
but borrowed, to dissect the menace of humiliation.
Marks of setbacks. Written in blood on blood,
and always be,
in the razor-thin dark, to seal the light beneath.
Look at you.
With your hairy belly, your crooked posture.
The underwear, worn out, shed its fit.
The legs, finely spun.
Your feet, with a flip flopped smile of the sun on the back.
Look at you.
Through a feverish gaze, blurring boundaries, red-necked.
Look at you.
You, who is still here.
Being, alive and dead, has its space of matters and causes,
its meaning and identities, its fashion and fugacity,
allegorize a summa of touches, crossings, impacts,
intersections of random despotism and purpose,
of a permanent reincarnation of newborn,
a spontaneous micro bang,
extending in its directness and irreversibility,
a multiplicating reproduction of a recreating creationship.
Being all exists in parallel universes, in memories,
flashing dances and totem rituals,
on a mental and physical level.
We wander in a parallel universe of a universe of parellel universes,
changed with us, by us, altering inside us,
as a theory of penetration, occupation, establishment and imprint.
A blur tangency of a pale momentum,
less than a squint against the light,
but a sparkle of an ignition, to big bang!
I live now in dreams of my touched and imprinted,
They live in me, dreaming inside me,
An identity never repeats again,
escaping in a glorious chaos of an eternal vast.
Life is the complexity of myriad and perpetual universes and reverse.
We are crossing and creating.
We are producing our reproductionism,
adjectivizing versions of me, us, a new dirty parallel universe in tail.
We live in everything and nothing,
in our selfish and simultaneously and timeless sphere of being.
And every momentum I am God,
I am the creator and the creation.
I am, was and will be created, as long as I cross.
We all live in parallel universes.
We are the universe,
because of our efforts of understanding,
(Book of misunderstanding, psalm of despiritualisation, verse 1)
Elemental life, by implication.
In order of borderlessness.
No feelings, but humanity.
Nothing of your concepts to gain,
to strain, to fuck, to maintain.
Balancing the unrest.
Of dirt and dust.
A truth of deformedness.
The beauty of madness.
A loose nature of evolution.
All what matters is between.
All what matters is life in between.
I wanna feel this virgin moment, to depart the western world. At and by a place no one has acceded yet. Discover a place, hasn´t been touched by a white – beside the fact, that the place was founded by the people called natives, tribes, communities, farmers, local bums, whoever. Where no one speaks english. What an adventure!
We, the travelers, wanna find that place, on foot, by taxi, boat, plane or by a guide, had to promise that no tourist has seen that place before. There must be that kind of a place, waiting for us, to get venomed by our appearance. Keeping the wheel, the vicious circle, of tourism turning.
Expecting something rural, primarily, back to the roots, instead of we are cutting the tree to eat the fruits. I find myself in this dialectic hunger, a labyrinth of wrong paths, desires and sensationalism. I hope i will change. Feel a deep sadness about that minds crossing my road. It´s kind of seperating, splitting men into races. Don´t wanna feel and act like a racist in it´s beginning. But I do. Still. While trying to move in awareness of respect.
Uncover that places suprises the expactations. In a similar way menkind is isolating his nature from the nature, the humanness from so called other humans. I´d loved to be without efforts of narcissism and ignorance. As a consequence I´d to leave my camera and stop publishing. Or maybe discover a way on that wrong way. Maybe that´s the real strike. Accepting that there will be never a way out and find a way in.
Just travel by myself and for myself. Not trying hard to avoid tourism. It´s not about where you are, it´s about who you are and why you are there.
We are all travelers.
We are all racists.
We will never be humans, because we are humans.
Maybe its kind of an instinct. Maybe it´s the impact of issues of media, capitalist systems and religion, instructing that we have to be someone, reach something, be different, be individual. Search and exploit, handing the discovery over to industrialization.
Searching for a moderate claim to finish.
Last night in Bangkok, for now. Young skinny loony mastered vampire, eyebrows up like wings of a bat, furious dark hairfire, suck sucking sucker of a burmese ladyboy, kept telling me he is not gay at all. And the sexy lady next to me, whispering her desire to lay down with me in bed, just for hugging. Escaping the lady, sacrificing the ladyboy, feeling his knees tremble at my toes. Good Riddance! I was too drunken. Appreciate the Sang Som, again.
Overslept. Waked up in disorder, gathering, focusing, rised in a moment of shock, felt like bounced against a bar of perception. My flight is today!
Two hours left to tight me, myself and my backpack, splattered on the floor of the four walls hotel room. Check my creditcards again at the ATM near Khao San. Spent the last two days calling my bank back so called home and going to again and again. And again. Probably tried all kinds of, ATMs, Exchange counters, banks, business banks, international banks, just to get the message, call your bank. I got it at the first time! My beloved bank told me in a very friendly and naiv way that i should be fine and try again maybe tomorrow. What kind of tomorrow you mean? The tomorrow when i start my new carreer as a beggar or what? So today is tomorrow. Still. Doesn´t work at all. Fuck the banks. Fuck money. Fuck rushing around. It´s all about that worst addiction plastic shit, cracking my asshole. I was getting paranoid. Is this kind of curse? Caused by my negative approach about Bangkok? Or is it because of my black cross upside down shirt? Does the government want to get rid off me because i drink all the Sang Som? Or is this fate, tries to tell me not to leave to Yangon. And i just will, and will remember that moment, as i didn´t listen to fate, saving my life, toothbrush whatever.
In Myanmar only cash is real, no plastic, that´s their – the travel pimps – advice. Because you never know what´s happening in a country like this. 8 years ago, i was part of this political game, but today, changed a lot and fast.
I am so pissed. More about myself then the rest. Why i didn´t take a third creditcard with me? WHY? I feel like a busted falling traveller down to the ground, to reality.
Will i be tomorrow in Yangon? Will i survive Myanmar? Will i get money there? I am surely be too proud to ask other farangs to run a money deal and supporting my pace back on the road.
Do i have to… what?
I am sick of these browsing questions in my head, zombies of lost security, transformed utopia of a certain upright life.
I have to do NOTHING!
I will do what i want.
Pock that in your fucking head, brainmachine!
Nothing is hastening, not time nor my feet should.
It´s all about present. Should be.
Maybe that´s kind of the weight you have to take care of by travelling lonesome and it comes to money. Feel like a black honking donkey.
Will i catch my flight?
Of course, easy, i catched. The lady at the hotel told me i will be ok taking the minibus two and a half hour before departure. Bus takes only one hour. Trip through the metal smoking traffic jam of Bangkok made me start thinking different. After 65 minutes i was standing in front of the baggage desk. Right now sitting in the Air Asia Boeing. Now everybody can fly. The slogan of the aircraft, forced me to imagine a kid nosing down hundreds of screams in a rice field.
Leaving Bangkok feels so liberating. And i am also kind of proud, haven´t visited one Waht, royal place or Buddha posing for flashlights. Proud cause i don´t feel disappointed about at all. Never wanted to be a traveler, adventurer or tourist. I am all of it and less. You never see all sights, there will always be one more, more authentic, more local, more of the most wanted. The advantage of that? I can do what i want to and i will always be a boring conversational partner with other farangs. I can´t advise you anything, and then, the best at the end, i was here more than 8 years ago. Yes. That was technical K.O. – Wow! That must be like totally different in comparison to today. I didn´t thought you are that old, you look so young.
I can show you how to drink with locals or gettig around with no maps and guides, getting lost and don´t feel like a shadow of your own, fearing the dark side of the void.
Where are your from?
Where have you been?
Where will you go?
Where are the hidden tracks? Have you found some?
You know what? Drink. Shut up. Drink. Or leave, just leave. Or even better, don´t start to chat with me. Yes. Again. One more day without talking to someone.
I am disgusted by farangs and to be one of them, it´s like a second skin, which you can´t burn, even by the sun. I start to deny, deny being not in my home country.
Conclusion: nearly missed wake up calls, buses, flights, responsibility, awareness or my promise to take care of myself.
Solution: Stop drinking. Start to be focused. Start to share the ego, maybe it will stop mutating me from the inside.
I am a louzy traveler, don´t have a map, a lonely planet or a kind of backgrounds about countries i stay. But, so, i can´t dispute at all.
Mybe i should just shut up.
I have to.
Noisy dirt. Streets soaked in crowds. Water channels. Bridges. Bridged sewerage. McDonalds. Burger King. Starbucks. No fakes. Army of stalls. It´s a fakes world. Miles and Miles. Shoemakers. Shoeblacks. Sew service. Tailors. Garages. Blocked Specialisation. Vibrators. Spanish flies. Porn. Censored youporn. Blockbusters. Hollywood. Bollywood. Barbies. The royal family. Buddhas. All kinds of, looking like a Disneyland edition. Toys. Toys and more toys. Fruits of all shakes. Fins of sharks. Jaws of sharks. Shark soup. Insects, deep fried. Scorpions, deep fried. Wind of no change. Deep fried everything of anything. Travelers. Adventurer. Snoops. Beggars. With or without limbs. Sleepers. Peepers. Reapers. SS Hotel. 7 11. German? Hitler! More Chang. More cigarettes and smokers. Ping Pong. Soccer. Basketball. Modern architecture. Colonial-style. No architecture. Parks with open air bodybuilding cages. Tuk tuks for whatever you want to transport, your crew, your furniture, kids, ripped to a collage of school uniforms.
Bangkok has it all.
I can´t imagine that there is something you don´t get here – excluded silence. Even the AC seems to vomit.
And i am… maybe just fake.