From the information and news, be it in emails, messages or portals dumped in this ME here, from these, I drift towards the lunch that I loved so much with Shinta, this horny brunch, this coffee and juice feast, the first of two breakfasts in cozy snobby solidarity with the hobbits among whom I linger, who partly forget that the beauty of Austria is at home in sloppiness.
But I am particularly intoxicated on Corpus Christi, when the birds fly out, the flock is driven to the mountain pasture, to the Church horror cabinets, long weekend vacations on the beach, getting fit again in the spa or at the Buschenschank for the next week's hamster wheel - there the proximity brings peace, while during the week it is the other way around.
My relationship is one of pure conflict, towards the herd, towards people, towards the masses. To what the masses become when education, epigenetics and cultural tradition fight for the little bit that remains, which, depending on the degree of robotization, either whines for help or becomes egomaniacal extroverts.
It's like the Schöckl of my childhood, gently on the edge, don't touch the electric fence, and meanwhile wolves are already allowed to be shot in some Pradajodel rutting areas. Risk management is easy living basic.
It's like the Schöckl of my childhood, where the cows are more than happy to be petted if you're nice and respectful. It just depends on how you make yourself comfortable, and you should never be snappy when you're being unpleasant.
We know this from many details, also like sheep, pigs, fucked in a dull question mark haze to slaughterhouses whenever someone thinks it's time.
What are you planning to do with us now, my dears? Something is not right. Puff. Zack. Drip.
Your Milka cow
Modern times, dear Chaplin, it is an advertising poster tunnel between kindergarten fence and hospice. Human value cast in terms of gross national product. And one should not fall for left-wing or anarchic romanticism, the percentage of those who understand it and translate it into action is very timid. It will probably not be able to gain a majority for a thousand years.
And yet the paradise of the left-wing green dreamers is much closer than generally discussed, but ironically it is engineers, scientists and everything de-cultural and anti-secular that will ultimately bring us a hamster wheel-free Gaia. The dictatorship of paradise.
Heaven on earth
And not just about Berlin. Up to that point I am a tempting, grumpy, loving pet. When I growl I am a dachshund at best and I can't even impress children that much. And yet, over the years I have been taught to be aggressive. It is astonishing what some of these frustrated creatures are capable of. They bite each other bloody, half to death.
Like martens and minks, they pull the skin off their bodies while they are still alive, cut off their fins and hope for potency, then throw the helpless remains back into the sea.
The dachshund is no longer enough for that.
Pause would therefore be the wrong title, my longings, my playful otter fluffiness, it passed into the puma of this old medicine wheel, to do justice to this card of power jewel from the 80s.
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But of course, like all esotericism, it's just a pre-emptive attempt to understand the world. No explanation that creates reality. But I was fourteen, so that was still OK.
Pandemic, climate change, conservative-authoritarian backslash, an explosive mixture awaits the traveler wherever he goes.
Insight and understanding shoulder responsibility, even if it remains with a smile. We know why fish kiss. Morning and afternoon sex solves many things, dear Indonesian idiot. We should retry.
But it's a good thing: orphanages, animal shelters, permaculture farms, peasant revolts, legitimate piracy. Lawsuits, blockades and hacked pipelines, decentralized disempowerment, alternative energy and economics. Modhi is a dead man walking. Like Victor.
And antidepressants from the last millennium are really no solution, but the new, old, better, the prevented is on the way.
We, the future, the designers of the morning, must caress more tenderly, offer better food and life models that are so attractive that not even the most ready-to-do praying cattle see any point in postponing the beauty of existence until a life after death.
There is no ideal point in time at which private or social behavioral change would be ripe or necessary. Friday for Future is the order of the day, daring to take on this planetary therapy in an emotionally dynamic way, but it is still far from lysis. Crying, angry children are perhaps the most impressive form of what we currently have in our arsenal.
Embarrassing enough. Good has too few leaders. My generation is vulnerable and broken. Chomsky, Ziegler, Klein, Rifkin, now supported by more and more politicians, but it is dragging on at many other levels, and not just since the goblin chancellor's super bullshit that it would work without sacrifice.
Back to me. To this early piece. Once called Morning Sites. Now again.
And yet also an emergent integration measure. And an endless essay. Because I am still fighting for my place in this change, overextending myself and acting too hastily. The patience of a billy goat is on the verge of extinction.
While I try to put my multipurpose Blog network on a healthier footing, straighten it out, report, summon Mercury himself, raving about Loki in the same breath. And only a few can follow me through the puzzle-like, scattered linguistic structures because neither everything nor from the beginning has been read. That is urgent and requires bonus new beginnings.
It is a favorable time in which my inner and outer nobody's wonderland could materialize in all its diversity and gift after all the doubts and fears, all the stagnation and also the encouragement and fortunate coincidence.
Madhatters Home as an immaculate logical development. Enchantement. I'm a master of the art of failure and constant rebirth. And my brain is on the go, even if the trotting is getting harder and harder to reach my feet.
And if this inner boxing leads to being able to focus better and formulate things more easily, then it will have been worth the fight of the last few months. The inner battles and cramps. Which made any kind of being in love with yourself or an idea or external projections impossible. Well, almost, at least, Amanita.
The blue of the black swan in which I bathe here, inspired by the template, is design drama borrowed from the hatter. I like change at the touch of a button, jumping off the edge of my plate with a high-tech parachute.
The best of all worlds. When I discover such smart ideas and actions in Vienna as extensively funded DIY facade greening, then I'm channeled back into my treasure trove of note boxes, ideas exchange from the late 80s, dripping with blisters to bring something like the culture pass to Berlin and from there bring something else back.
But I'm just a multimedia author reinventing myself, and my influence has yet to emerge. What annoys me is how much influence lies dormant near and far and is left to the idiots. That's an acupuncture point of the present.
I'll explain later why my Mad Hatter came from the Bunnygod and is actually a Loki. What cool brands gods are. Am I right, Nike?
Need for rye toast with fried egg instead of an empty glass. In the shady exclusive of a really worth discussing for hours, maybe with Eternity or someone more sustainable than Irina.
The real secret behind Pride is even more beautiful. It is this tender consent to build a better world together. That is why LBGTQI+ content in my path, including other disruptors such as polyamory, needs to be viewed in a more differentiated way.
For me it is about evolution, transformation, consciousness, art science, all of which are happening much more rapidly than conservative thinking and action, reactionary tradition could understand. This deep problem of the biosphere has reached boiling point due to strange events.
Seven billion partially conscious quantum entities with increasing IEQ are an extraordinary, unprecedented situation.
A third of them are young and/or eager to create a new level of life. This is who I ally myself with and what I am committed to.
In the tradition of Leary or Wilson, from which I personally come and happily come, despite the emancipation that has since taken place.
But it is the time par excellence, the decade, the twentieth, the fiftieth, in which everything explodes in an unbelievable way. The UN remembers and expects a quantum structure peak of around ten billion.
I expect relative and subsequent absolute immortality in 2-3 generations.
And no, I am far from the banal transhumanists who only manage to create as much vision as their time allows. Science fiction would be my hobbyhorse if it were not dictated by the same nerds who also limit computer games to the intellectual level of the last millennium.
But what I'm ultimately struggling to do is create a wonderland in this no man's land, all the clay is warm and soft, my world is a Minecraft existence.
Simeolia
I am Meyrink's golem. And I am a dovecote.
In the mask of the writer, everything can be traced back and forth from the seabed of Graz. It is still grumpy and mournfully pale to have wandered barely two kilometers along the detours and wrong turns of the Internet. From the basement to the first floor. From the cupboard bed to the pallet. From the prison yard to the sunny south-facing balcony.
But these finds in the backpack, all the rare jewels and strange fossils, all of that is worth the counterargument.
Could I joke about it without scars?
The tendencies of being overwhelmed and confused, of the baseless fluctuation between megalomania and inferiority complex, bipolar autism with post-traumatic libido, are CBT and yet at the same time my rabbit hole.
In the future, algorithms will be able to identify bestsellers, and I hope that soon they will also identify professors and assign their jobs. And it is similar with all the art and the unfavorable, with entertainment and dating, with the questionable, in need of answers, way in which we organize ourselves and the world.
I dish out less than the article title suggests. I want to represent a positive expression of Dadaist youth in gradual decline, balancing on the second half of life. Again, the LSD doctor, but also a slightly less over-the-top version from the 60s, is a useful role model.
I would love to reach out to others from other eras, but let the fact sink in that those who could fail on many levels, and those who would like to, like me, often despair.
My ability to simulate, to scan the sprawling fantasy as a real alternative, for example to anticipate an erotic encounter to such an extent that it no longer has to take place, but instead serves better as inspiration for the moment of manifestation, is probably something I was born with as a storyteller since childhood and was refined in my psychedelic turn of the millennium.
The most important prepubescent influence, apart from sexuality as a master of disaster, was and is multimedia products of all kinds and forms. At the time, this was unusually intense compared to others of the same age.
Not just a child from the basement, but also a child from a tobacconist. I was presented with unusual diversity for my social situation at the time. It was like a street dog being adopted by Doctor Doolittle.
Today I pay for these strange mixtures with a Scary Picky.
And when I recapitulate all of this in one go, I no longer doubt it and it bothers me that my own development is dragging on, that I am talking in such a viscous and contradictory way.
I can hum and dump on any topic with ease, always staying true to myself, but fucking sexy.
Which is why half of my words still resemble a therapeutic cut-up, as if Burroughs had raped Marylin Manson together with Bukowski and given birth to a female Quentin Ende who ultimately loves and lives together with Dolly Buster and Emma Watson in a triad. And writes about it in an online-savvy way.
Yes, that's right, my worried, astonished reader. Kafka is in the room.
This is the other side of the Panspermium cryptocoin. I am a bureaucrat of time.
It is afternoon and every syllable weighs like heavy metal in the heart. The feeling of brunch is long gone. Unread, unheard, outrageous.
Maybe I need a manager, and it makes sense, relieves the pressure. My multiple personalities neigh resistance. You are your own best friend within reach. Whisper the macaques.
avant-garde
And no further insights emerge from the darkness. It's a bizarre Groundhog Day situation. And not to forget Groundhog Nights.
Groundhog texts.
I can't and I don't complain, the muses are always disgustingly delightful. I am indebted to the muses, not to the drones. I write for a colorful, moist crowd of free witches, gypsies, warriors of the light, system breakers and misunderstood good-for-nothings, at best for the audience that crowds around those who indulge in expressionism at festivals and prides and other performances.
I condemn many, but the desire to get even the damned to nod is growing.
And perhaps that is precisely why I spit out compromise and bowing at them, and go for confrontation, although my nature is worthy of a mediator. I still care too much about the opinion of the masses rather than the class. I can't get my way through either fish or fowl.
And then you show up, and you, and you too. I write about all of our tears and dreams, our failures, our misses and our fucks. I am nobody, I am them.
