I am the speechless writer, I guess, but that doesn't have to be the case, I can still do it very often on all the god who doesn't exist damned planes of existence, my fingers fly over the keys and articulate the mild needs and nonsense of a stumbling winter.
Happily pondering with dark shadows on the strawberry cake of existence. I don't feel like laughing or proving anything, I just want to troll along until the earth depopulates itself in slow motion and becomes depraved like the heart of things, listening to which is meanwhile an abomination to me.
Of course I'm here for you, of course I'm here for you, it's all in the Birdcage and that's how it should be.
Random
My inner self takes stock and is still paralyzed by the imponderables, I open one of those late harvest bottles pregnant with memories, ejaculate in Tina and think of chestnuts.
Neither of them has contacted me during the week; it is a (holiday) week without substance. I should expand, consolidate, rework my (Blog) network, develop one or two never-thought-of centers beyond this personal place, but I am still failing a little because of the diverse visions of yesterday.
Suddenly going for realism, partly because of a changed situation and fewer options, is not my thing. I feel like one of Nick Hornby's everyday neurotic heroes, and I'm so jealous of the successes of young, new, unconventional writers that I want to do that too. I want to take the mined poetic mandala of the nineties into a new era. I have the great benefit of glittering like a never-discovered gold treasure, like an extremely expensive Onlyfans locker.
Everything thaws inside me in genderfluid book form, the frozen and the burned loves and desires, my hair turns snow white like the noise in my brain as a protest march. I learn that there is also pink, brown and red noise, maybe someday an invisible too, and I grope my way sideways towards my Kaliyuga.Rocks, which I paid for separately. Out of the wait for Anythinginanutshell, I must admit.
It begins with Joseph Beuys' "Everyone is an artist" and expresses the fluid reality, this Schrödinger galaxy of confused ego planets, full of stamps. I work with the material that is given to me, with the effects and deconstructions of the present, with the projection into a world that will soon be tomorrow.
The conflict between democratic, ethical, religious, autocratic, financial and philosophical values explodes in our astonished mouths. While in the Wonderland obsessions, hat making and the like I try to hide in the Rabbit Hole, Oz or the collective unconscious, taking others with me so as not to wither away alone, working through and reflecting on what is happening and what threatens or tempts to become of it is a different but essentially the same coin.
I push concrete facts forward, beyond dystopia or utopia, sometimes going in circles or backwards, but what I make of it is self-sufficient.
Not even the Hindus show agreement about the Kaliyuga, its duration and meaning. I love Crowley's dark warning, which I picked up in my youth, that the transformation process would mean many thousands of years of chaos, and that the phases of relaxed paradise were a human illusion due to our short lifespans.
Today I'm turning this youth brand into a Rocks supplement because I can. I'm thinking of The Verge or Wired or whatever good, strong online content making is out there, I'm getting lots of different inspirations and perspectives on board, but I'm also sticking with the explanations of change-crazed Demand Editions presented in Multipurpose and in the more dedicated to Bloging or writing. With a dynamic that's based on the gaming industry.
This Content Is Only For Subscribers
My wish is to be bought multiple times or, in the best case, to simply follow the nonsense sponsored by the crowd. One should be able to pay homage to this nonsense instead of dejectedly imagining a Van Gogh instead of Van Life.
The ever-new editions of a title, the changes as a life's work.
But I am neither afraid nor lacking the desire to arrive. So when I try to implement the new publishing ideas, it is a value-free attempt. I simply want to wake up in the morning in various inspiring places and in beds that I like to visit, and throughout the day devote myself to art and teaching, writing, inspiring, helping and supporting those who touch me.
But I don't want to have to belong to or follow these absurd and even terrible sets of rules that disgust me when I see classic Matrix Social or Artwork. As mentioned again and again, there are many new ways of thinking and living, new outside the box strategies, many of which are either adopted or blown away because they refuse to be adopted.
A gap in the market in itself. Change work.
Fear and sadness
are reliable companions. I rarely talk about the lead in me, the dark hours, the complete paralysis of the hero.
Some events of the last few weeks have set this carousel of thoughts in motion, accelerated it, and it squeaks and creaks like a badly oiled merry-go-round. Like a playground full of rust and doubt.
And then I see in my daughters messengers of what really counts, their suffering becomes mine, and yet I am grateful to be able to imagine how one feels with all that really torments. Unfortunately, they do not have this gift and I cannot transfer it one-to-one, or rather, I do not yet have the key to my being, this healing format around which everything revolves.
Just the clues where I have to look.
On the one hand in language, on the other in the changes to this language and its consequences. Emotion and expression are thus intertwined companions. One influences the other.
Since my first neurodiverse friend, I have dreamed of being a healing force rather than a supportive one. To combine my knowledge from different areas of life, from art to psychology and the transpersonal, into a safety net for those who are desperate (about the system).
Even rejected concepts like those of my shamanic friends from Tierra Madre are already so evident in this very mix that I am almost shocked by these cross-references to the bleeding world of scars.
My own darkness is that of Parzival, I lose its whispering in the creation forward.
The answer for the career advisor can only be that I see the coming independence as I did before my foray into the classic NGO world this year: creating something for the injured and those who have stumbled that helps them to have a better attitude to life and a better sense of meaning. But in doing so, I leave the well-trodden and obviously only partially successful paths of the established.
That is the meaning and purpose of my art. Art of Life. Lifeart.
This brings us to the
Psychedelic Garden
including a petting zoo and beach access. And the questionable distance from my own best state of being. The total blockage of man and his armored corset of specifications and induction.
I never lost myself in the process, but all the necessary things that were squeezed in are more noticeable than they have been for a long time.
While I sit in my (writing) workshop, my (dark) room, in my (pirate) hideout and disappoint myself and others. Surrendering myself to that flood of kind that I so hope to be washed away by, if only because it makes me cry and love again.
Of course, there are very mundane details like content recycling or the difficulty of finding affordable housing in Berlin or Amsterdam; I have one in Poland.
But it is also about goal-achievement processes, about finding out which beliefs hinder success and manifestation beyond the work of art. Perhaps a fault of the pragmatic, unstable inner citizen, this Austrian in me. In the many wonderful and no matter whether weird or a little hasty projects and pitches of the young generations, the climate uprising or even much more in the
Death to the dictator
Cry of Iranian women, suddenly everything is in order, I see and reflect my own wounds, my desire, my willingness to dare and to do.
When I then chat over coffee with a lovely social worker on the sun deck, and all this reported sighing and arranging manages to calm down any dizziness, then I naturally retreat into fiction.
Nevertheless, neither stubbornness nor a return to the hamster wheel is appropriate here.
To try to do even better in everything that flows together here and finds its various expressions all around the network, it hardly needs more than 100, 150 Steady or Patreon supporters and sometimes the odd pay job in the spirit of the modus operandi.
I didn't want to do all this alone, I would have really been looking forward to a companionship like the one I still dreamed of in the hat-making business. There were loose opportunities, from a farm in the south of France that has since burned down to an old church in Main. But I also had to pay tribute to the pandemic and my health and ultimately that of my loved ones.
But using this to save yourself from early retirement is neither dignified nor feasible within a reasonable time frame. If only I had drunk a little more.
So once again around the Monopoly board, as always the future is an unpredictable game.
After the collapse of the Russian Federation, a Wagner Republic or other successors linked to ISIS will get their hands on some of the nuclear weapons and before they can be stopped, Warsaw, Berlin and London will be nothing but smoke and mirrors. In the chaos that follows, some other parts of the world will prove to be unstable hotbeds of unrest and battle zones with increasingly fatal technology. Taiwan. Sahel. Arabia. Korea.
Everything is a powerful and explosive culmination in a climate chaos driven by tipping points of self-inflicted political and economic errors, which is of course also countered by a wild but cheerful willingness to get everything under control.
I cannot count on getting involved in this Kaliyuga now, instead of staying in slow mode and hoping to get through the confusion with gardening and electric cars while consuming too much sugar, as if the term "island of the blessed" wasn't something from the 1990s. My focus is all the more on the global creative movement.
That is my original problem, this comfort and these blinkers of my dysfunctional local generations and their relevant actors. With a certain hubris, what is being done would be enough.
That may be so, but the facts tell more of a bitter turning point on the horizon. And of course not in the apocalypse mode of the Christians, it is an imaginative rebirth of all civilization, but also a cruel, Kali is this one-devoting love that can be felt everywhere.
Like when we look at our beloved pet and our livestock next to each other. We are simultaneously destroying the planet by petting and eating meat. Unstoppable. A tumor with a sunny disposition. A hedonistic sponge for marketing purposes. Embarrassing greed babies from the eternal suck the nipple quest.
Maybe that's why I have such a strong affinity with the Ukrainian and young female Iranian people, two pseudo-democracies and crowds that have not yet decayed into this complacent, cheap indifference. They stand up for each other and for what they hope for. It doesn't matter whether the image they have of freedom and independence, of their attitude to life, sooner or later rots into the decadence that is so typical of our system.
In defense of the “West,” it should really only be said that our self-cleaning processes are a little better, a little fairer, a touch more development-oriented than the alternatives presented so far.
Unfortunately, people usually only learn through direct perception; fictional perceptions may provoke fear or reaction, but if you need mass, you need mass catastrophes.
Crisis is not enough, and they also play off each other; hardly anyone can deal with Covid, Ukraine and the climate crisis at the same time. We are stuck in the dream of a golden age that has never existed and has only ever been up for discussion for a limited number of people.
So while I'm tinkering and working on adding new dynamics and new aspects to somewhat dried-up material and mindsets, while at the same time not allowing my inner and outer emptiness to grow any further, the influences are happening faster and more powerfully, actually fitting for my art and activism concept, but to put that on the road to success?
That's the fucking cake
Stephen would say.
The hole and the rupture of my heart and stomach chakras, this feeling of functioning only through reason and instinct is fatal. But that's another essay. I am by no means an energy body fanatic, I use many things and words only for communication, speculating about the rupture of my diaphragm is one thing, but in the end I got fat during the home office years and had banalities of civilization stuck to my being like Post-Its.
And every visit to the doctor was a shock at the catastrophic state of society and how lucky I am when I compare myself to others.
A friend recently captioned some of my travel photos with the caption “That's good for you, you look good as a traveler.” How right she is. Visually evident how full of pain and complexity my travels this year have been, the charisma speaks a different truth.
The desire and need has never been greater. Now it is time to bridge the gap between mindful parenthood and the wandering art and changemaker outlined here. Something that can give everyone involved a positive vibe.
I'm still limping too much and I'm aware of my very leisurely pace. The Hurry Up Rodeo of the summer has thrown me into exactly those constraints that I hate: time and space limitations.
But where to put down roots has not yet been finally decided.
The retreat center for all these ideas can probably only be implemented in very liberal regions, for example, cannabis and psilocybin require legality, which brings the Netherlands, Portugal, Brazil, possibly Denver and Similar into focus.
We're talking about 5-10 year plans, philanthropist.
When I report on this vision in my encounters, there is rarely a spark; everything is so divided between the few who still dare to do it and the many who join in, even if they are a little skeptical, sad or numb, but well paid and well entertained.
Our donations say a lot about us. We give others, these few, a fraction of what would be necessary in return for them keeping us as far away from being unmasked as possible. And in the meantime we continue to enjoy ourselves with a share of the pie that is 5 to 6 times too large.
Not only when it comes to the CO2 budget.
Waiting for good hallucinogens and a free domain has brought me back to an old acquaintance. I like Mr. Mulzer despite his somewhat stupid gay sexism and decadent asshole dreams. Basically, he is one of the good guys.
So, to refresh my memory, I'm going to look at the leaked Practitioner from 2020. Which I had planned back then before Corona interfered with everything that could be planned, like triads or millinery.
Curiosity about what and how he has changed in his teaching over the last few years, honest admiration for some of his successes, hope to participate more in them again. I am also thinking about working with my coach from 2017/18 again. Trips to other coaches quickly failed due to their mediocrity.
Let's see if I even buy the evening trances, I'm actually reluctant to pay for his Puh Erh tea.
Even though a little research was enough to catch him as the dumb one in the story, nothing about this tea beyond its branding is worth the extra cost. Similar to that salesfuck called Manuka honey or truffles.
I could often scream about this global stupidity regarding true value and actual prices. The root of the problem is not capitalism itself but the fact that for a long time now no one has tried to develop it in a positive way, which its biggest profiteers are managing to prevent. In harmony with these stupid tea and honey buyers, truffle eaters and iPhone freaks.
What does work, however, is to enjoy Chris almost for free as a little comforter and brain boost. I always intended to combine this very individual form of NLP, actually a creative freestyle that fits deeply with my thoughts on modern magic, with the psychedelic and transpersonal ideas of Grof, Wilson or Leary.
I realize, dear readers, that all of this is splashing around the world and contemporary history, most people have probably already dropped out, but now perhaps it will become clear how I feel during job interviews or loan applications and what feelings I generate in the process. In the meantime, it is getting dark in winter.
Didn't rush out again
How do people manage to stay in the same city, with the same city, and interact with the same amenities and fellow creatures throughout their lives? On a single average train journey I experience more togetherness and novelty, boosts of all personality traits, than in a year in the same district.
I know that a lot of things are usually covered up and concealed by the social community, but this echo chamber of personal comfort zones is a soap opera without purpose. A sack over your head alley.
Scientists recently discovered in one of their somewhat unnecessary but certainly interesting studies that people, even if they are rich, well connected and full of life, are EVEN happier and more content if they have a lot of superficial and varied contacts with others. The travel factor should probably have been investigated here as well, but that is usually assumed for the majority of those who earn more (of course not). For extroverts of this level, it is probably an eternal festival of being.
For introverts, the traveling life itself, without the hassle, is recommended. From me. Subjective, but perhaps even logical.
Before I sink into verifying that I have adult ADHD because my texts always meander from aspect to aspect, I'll return to Tina's backside, which got me thinking. Are female charismatic trans people something for me after all?
I mention this because Chris of course also presses the sex therapy trigger, the kink, similar to other trance work on all channels. But someone who goes to his workshops 15 times and listens to the same old stories is something that makes me train my forehead to wrinkle, but for a friend, or why not girlfriend on the other hand, the unconscious as anima?, it's probably all second-born. And it simply levels up.
The opening day of sex, lies and videotapes was about beliefs and I myself have to recall the old order before the pandemic after a long blockage. I have drifted so far into the old white man standard forum reader Chomsky existence that it is good to be an alternative to the toxic right, but that was not the noble, beautiful plan of the black swan.
That's why taking two steps back to take one step forward is, for once, okay.
So I'll stick with the positive changes and effects since I came out as a professional teenager. At the moment it's not possible to decide whether 2022 will be a lost year or a year won. This feeling that hits me so hard of having to catch up and overtake, of having to make up for what I've missed, of not having enough time, all these deaths of personalities, heroes, VIPs from my youth don't help me relax, but at least it's much more relaxed than the past. Drama-free would be nicer, it seems that's not possible for me.
I force myself out into the fresh air and wave to those who remain reliable, the ducks in the Augarten, the crows in the backyard, the cat in the alley, the barking dog on the stairs, the nobody in the mirror.
