It´s not an overload. I can´t enjoy the joyrides. I am with my mind in at the South Catholic Cemetary in Makati, with the Kalinga tribe in Buscalan – deeply tapped-in down down down to the bottom of my emotional and rational compassion and with the street kids in Cebu. Don´t get their moony eyes out of my perception, out of my memory, out of my understanding. And I don´t want to. I always thought I see. Now I saw and it´s badly painful, piercing my mind, I got blind by their unseeing eyes, stranded and hopeless. Searching for an eternal salvation. Deserving closer attention, at daylight and in my dreams, dreams, which lost their virility to change, to reate visions, instead vision in black, if there is no love, meaning no comprehension, no empathy anymore. I fear I can not support the capital, the mean to help, to provide them at least a moment of relief and feeling adopted by humanity. I feel misunderstood. I don´t have any qualification. I am not a social worker, even not a volunteer, not a missionary, how some of them named me. I am a snobbish bum, who searched for the real world and regained himself in the echo of blackness, which I supposed I left, experienced the beat of an achieved smile. I don´t understand why I was there and not beachside or in a shopping mall or at pimp´s place fucking for pleasure full of relish. I am not asking why, why me, I know why. I started this as a narcissist and I invented a myself, based on passion and burning flesh. “Saint Florian, spare my house, set others on fire.”, says the Floriani-principle. I don´t now how to use matches anymore. I lost the enemy on sight. Poverty is much more complicate than walking down the streets and raising your voice against the rich. You need to be rich to help. My constant worry is how to survive to help others surviving. Sustainable? Self-supporting? Feed with it a greedy child´s hand, life-aged, in my white keyboard-nursed hand. I am not scared. I will spare no effort to return and – do something, because this is more than nothing. I feel misunderstood. As an answer or a well-meant advice, some, maybe sorrowful about me, but this more embarrasses me, that I can not help everyone. – I don´t want to help everyone, but I can not forget the one, the humans I saw.
– The australian government is fueling public racism pretending to provide a warmly welcome for cambodian refugees, paying a corrupt system several million, sort of dropping a coin in a fortune’s crimson abyss.
As I arrived today on Palawan, Puerto Princesa, I bought a ticket for a mini-bus up to El Nido, a paradise of islands. The bus packed with travelers. A gay german with his filipino playmate. An american with his filipina, wife, girl-friend, prostitute whatever. A dutch couple. A dutch woman – she disqualified herself from the start, talking to her national mates, in dutch of course, but still I was unfortunately able to pick up, “Indonesia is more asia than here” – Yes, indeed, germany is more europe as spain, you stupid tit of a cow. Later on she talked and talked and talked… social worker, international, goverment programs, New York, Hong Kong, exciting, forced me to apply my headphones and turn on Kvist, high volume. A couple from east europe and a filipino couple, I will not mention anymore, because they just where as quite as a bamboo during typhoon. I was in a rage the whole ride. The german shot, non-exaggerated, every ten meters pictures with his automatic zoom camera, out of the car, presenting the result proudly his playmate, who only was able to simulate interest because they had nothing to talk about, except the tablet the german seem to presented him with. Once upon a time when there were only film cameras, good old times. So they all had their chit-chats. I was watching a dog, at the petrol station. A hellhound of a dog, dismissed from hell, no red glooming eyes, no gnawing teeth, no possession at all, a walking dead, a zombie with a deep shade. His back was ashgrey, skinless, a membrane covering his bones, at the ankles as thin as transparent. He could barely walk, his back in tow. The rest rotten brownish, not less skinny, pitful. My first thought was, why he not just dies, why he not gets hit by a car like so many dogs here. Why no other dogs attack and take his life? He trembling finds a position to crap. After he eats his stool and drags himself roadside. The dutch lady complains to the driver, around 80 km too late, about the 100 pesos she obviously paid too much, having not bargained. “All the others […]”, of course not proofed, “[…] paid 600!” and being proud of her humorless insisting and providing her anger some steam, narrating straight back on the bus in dutch about her heroic act, in this typical west-european hollow moaning ignorance, one reason I would heavily appreciate not have to return.
I am staring outside the window. the landscape, the mountainous green we pass is amazing. The villages we enter and exit, leaving a turmoil of dust behind… I arrived at night. I see plenty of small agencies offering tours to islands, caves. Dives and rides in a mighty paradise. And I just want to be alone. I don´t want to talk. I just want to return to return as fast as possible, to do what I feel I have to. Ease my pain. Satisfy another selfish feeling, turning to good, maybe.
