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200 doctors of happiness

we evolved. from what we do. to how we feel. from what is shown. to how we see. from what we are. to who we are. from what we give. to giving. from what we experience. to experiencing. from love. to loving. from the guts. to the heart. from the heart. to hypophysis. from hypophysis. to genitals. from being. to believing. from making room. to progressing. from passionate silence. to mute passion. from thought. to expression. from X. to I.

200 doctors of happiness are roaming the earth. procession of life coaches, personal trainers, yoga instructors, serotonin watchers, sex advisors, relationship gurus, holistic therapists trying to create what can only be created. to be born. active passive. no experts.

 

Forced into being. Forced into walking. Forced into schooling. Forced into falling. In love. In tears. Laugher. Forced into taking dump. Forced into locking doors. Forced into saying yes. Forced into saying no. Forced into checking inbox. Phone. Teeth. Wallet. Forced into pain. Even more so pleasure. Forced into being again. Being someone. Being friendly. Being alone. Forced to use deodorant. Laugh again. Change channels. Change lover. Forced to change. Forced to stay the same. Check the inbox again. Forced to revolt. Forced to accept. Forced to lie. Tortured to tell the truth. Wear high heels. White canvas bags. Tatoos, organic water, growing nose and ears. Eyes never grow. Forced to jerk off. Forced to need. Forced to want. Forced to dream. To fail. To press play. To be photographed. Forced to write this. To think of meaning. Forced to freedom. Bound by chain of events. Locked by desire. Hostage of your own name. Self reflection. Their reflection. Forced to be visible. Dismembered. Edible. Forced to be more. Less. Forced to be stretched in between. And to hope to be saved by the white space. By unsaid. By unbeen. By the remainder of the forced equations. Even if it’s zero. You need it. So desperately. So compulsively. So forcefully.

Absolute suffers neurosis. We are the symptom.

There’s a thing about the tram drivers. No one ever saw them pissing. As if they just materialize out of a thin air right there in the drivers’ cabin, and disintegrate back to nothingness at the end of the shift. Unless, that is, if you happened to be leaning on my window sill and staring at the half-ruined ghost building in front of you. Then, and only then, if you just turn your head slightly to the left you might come to realize that tram drivers come equipped with bladder. From time to time you will spot one going in and out of a barrack which says ‘fotostudio’. Pretty flashy place to do your natural duties.

That’s the priviledge of living next to the last tram stop. But there are some others too. For instance, you can miss the tram, and particularly because you need about 35 seconds to reach the station.

Berlin’s treats come in heaps. As I type this, I can see about 15 cms of clear sky with planes landing to Tegel airport. I’m waving the passengers, but no one as of yet rang my doorbell to say thanks. Which brings me to the science of waving.

How it looks like? Simple. You’re standing on the bridge fence on Le pont des arts in Paris, tourists walk next to you and couldn’t give a slightest fuck for your existence. Then you turn your face over the fence and there is a bunch of ecstatic types on a passing vessel, totally into saying ‘hi’ with their limbs. Why do people when they get onto a boat or a bus have this sudden urge to wave around? Once grounded and using their feet they couldn’t care less .

I won’t go further into how they are actually not greeting anyone, but trying to make you notice their exceptional state of being on some transport vehicle. It’s too depressing to be elaborated.

Another treat. In Berlin you can’t find fresh calamari. Although, if you need a 234th version of a sausage they’ll be glad to shove it down your throat. Not such a tragic fact but what do you say on a pre-recorded female voice that will tell you  ‘all change please’ as you reach the last stop? Which basically means if you continue walking or just stay sitting around, you’re kind of breaking the rules.

Saying that, I prefer a metaphysical interpretation. Berlin S-bahn company wants you to really change. To become a better person. Arriving to the last stop of your journey is about the most natural moment to do it, wouldn’t you say?

Finally, Berlin has a blissfully melancholic side too. This guy knows better:

Behind all the paintings that hang nailed to walls
Below all the carpets your feet stepped upon
Among the pages of the books that rest closed
In the air of empty rooms and deserted halls

In the moment just ahead and just before your time
Under the veil, in the blind spot of your view behind
In your eyes when you close them in the night

Beneath the words that tell the story of your life
Between the frames of every motion that you redefine
Under the dust on the moon’s darkest side
In your mind when there’s nothing left to be revived

Between your hand and all the things that it touches
Behind all doors before the turning of the latches
In every song just before you press play
You I’m waiting for.

Please, help me out with my scientific research “Are most important things in life more on the left or on the right side?”. Imagine a route from where you live to your ‘treasure chest’ – a person, place…, you don’t have to tell. The point is that you write down all the left and right turns so we can see of which there is more. I got 6 lefts and 7 rights. Great. My heart is a right winger. No wonder it’s in the permanent conflict with my brain which prefers leftist ideas.
As well, it would be great if you could add few picturesque details that you usually find on your treasure map route.

Left.
Left again.
Straight down.
Right.
Pass the phone booth.
Some guy is sleeping inside.
Left U-turn.
Metro.
Down the stairs.
Ticket holders entry.
Security ramp.
Jump over.
Smile to the camera.
Right U-turn.
Down the hall.
Posters.
Discover Croatia.
Left.
Second Right.
Down the stairs.
Number 5.
Direction Place d’Italie.
11 stops.
Stare.
Right.
Down the stairs.
Right.
Down the stairs.
Left.
Out.
Right.
Straight.
Right.
Train station.
In.
Left.
Pass the machine with hot drinks.
Watered down caramel flavored coffee:
1.20 €.
Ten steps straight.
Full stop.
Stare.

God is an animal

Jesus was wrong. And not only he was wrong, he should’ve been a hippopotamus. If you want to see god, look not into the face of fellow human. Look into a face of a dog. A giraffe. A spider. It’s alien, impenetrable, mute.

If there is any spiritual motion in the universe, it appears blind and questionless to our brain. It happens. It is. It goes away.

Automatic. Almost mechanic. Full of drive. God is an animal. If it comes it’s where we don’t think. Where we can’t theorize. It’s a new born instinct. New spontaneity.

You will piss yourself out of joy. You will howl at the moon. You will pose your horny ass to lustily receive all that comes that way, like a cat bedazzled with the spring desire.

That’s why theology never worked. That’s why books on spiritual matters produce people who read them, not the thing that they’re trying to address.

All the debates, reflections, hard work of synapses concerning religion, faith, transcendence serve the same satisfaction as proving you were right that the soup was too salty in some family forum during Sunday lunch. That is god as human. Worthless, pitiful, misleading. A subject.

Even further, if there is any – god is an object. A thing. It hits. It doesn’t answer to our request, wishes, prayers. It reveals. Unexpectedly and contradictory. As a bull pit that kills its owner one day.

To be spiritual is to be insane. That’s were st. Paul got it right. If one is looking for a harmony, balance and peace with surroundings, inner and outer, one already found a substitute. A pacifier for the torn heart and mind, for the wound that one should’ve cherished as the only chance for the encounter.

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There will be a day when you’ll turn and look back, and all will be petrified and silent. Like a text. Like a sculpture. All the blood, all the tears. Your screams, your sighs, the unbearable motions, the unbridgeable gaps. Crisis, nervous breakdowns, hopes, orgasms. Forming a line, a carving on an immobile embossment of what you were.

No more pain. No more wasted time. Just a picture that hangs in the space that’s been pacified by time. You observe it. The things that once killed. Now they show. Once they shifted your organs around. Now they speak. They finally let you understand.

For you won’t be able to touch into it. To change. To intervene. Once you were the part of the process. Stuck in the eye of the storm. Half way between the desire and the dream. The hypophysis and the stomach. Vehemently wielding your chisel, splashing colors. Taken by creation. Blinded by inspiration. By goals. By the pleasure of conception. By the torture of birth. You couldn’t have possibly known.

No wonder all we leave behind are stones, epitaphs, engravings, mausoleums. Things fixed, precisely cut in marble, meant to be walked around, gazed upon, inflicting reflection. It takes a death to give a meaning. It takes losing yourself to realize who you were.

Like with every artwork, there is a price to be paid to be exposed to it. Or better yet, to own it. The price will be your absence. You will see when your eyes won’t be able to burn.

Is it fair? Probably not. Only, on the day when it happens, you won’t care about fairness any longer. As you’d be sitting with Bob Dylan on a Red River Shore. With Leonard Cohen By The Rivers Dark.

I have a zero dollar quiz question: What is better than my CD rotting away in the box in my cellar?

a) my CD in a pan
b) my CD in the space
c) my CD in your hands
d) just d
Yeah, it’s obvious. d) is correct answer, but admit it, c) looks way nicer. Anyway, I’ve got a little stash of neatly packaged original CDs of my debut album ‘Walkthrough’ that’ve been with me for a long time now, and I had the idea I could write you a personal message on it and send it straight to your mailbox. This thing will feel much better in your hands than it feels here.
You’ll get it for free if you want, or you can determine the price you are willing to pay by yourself. I had almost none profit from my music up to now so any kind of support will fix a smile on my face. The only thing I’m asking for is that you cover the delivery costs which amount to 3 euros.
Inside the jewel case you will find a booklet, with all the lyrics and some sublimely sad, cute and old photos of myself.
I know CDs are long time out of fashion. Consider it a personal souvenir, something that is more useful hanging from a ceiling, lying under the pillow or leaning against your collection of Bukowski’s books than as a medium for listening music.

I use PayPal for transaction. It’s the safest and most common online paying system.  The link:
Ketz – Walkthrough CD

(Enter the price you wish to pay in the ‘unit price’ box and then click ‘update totals’ button. If you wish to keep it zero, just put 0.01)
Tell me if you’d need any further help.

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