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On a social media post a follower – No, I am not a guru, not your lifestyle, idol, leader, guide, not a member of a backpacking traveler of a dropout sect and I am not your excuse to behave barberous or the opposite – asked me if I arrived, with a three question mark, commenting my post of an image of Boudhanath, subtitled “What a stunning amazement your are, Kathmandu”. The social media ID is not close to to a mate, so it might be she was more on a search for my outlines, or her dreams, than seriously commenting, additionally mentioned commenting sucks anyway. Arrived??? What you mean? Or you mean it mean? Why should you wish an adventurer to arrive, with three marks, so for good, ultimately, forever. I arrive every day, at restaurants, at food stalls, backyarded, in people´s gazes, expectations, curiosity and furiousness, kindness, in a thought, to distract, pass, cross, to erase, to dig a foss, protect my loss, or flood with a shot of excreations, to understand, to manipulte, to fit in the box, but not resting in what I call with peace infected balanceness, titled with your normativism of enlightment, on the hunt of your identity, because you always felt like there are places in this world where you belong and return, living a life of an isolated, locked down inhumanity. Religion is not, you missed the hit for an afterlife. I arrive in a coffin, made of ashes. – I have seen at Boudhanath, supposed to be the biggest stupa in Asia, white doing their prayers, blowing in horns, twisting drums, disengaging themselves from whatever they felt possessed of, replacing their lostness, nailing themselves on a crossing, to resurrect as a better, more human. They appear silly obsessed. I just pity them. Not because they are white and I think they don´t belong here, sort of Buddhism should be practiced only by asians. They gotta follow to whom they feel connected to, wearing the same marks, the same stigmas for your whole life is quite boring, you follow the trends, you want to go deeper, loosing and expacting a light at the end of the tunnel of mendacity. I pity all of you, wherever you arrived or go to spread your poison. – Praying for peace. My honest condolences, I am sorry for your abandonment. Your non-violent resistance to fight the evil spirits, the bad and the dark world. I ran into people they bow to me, waht to touch me, shake my hands, executing their blessing, showing sketchy respect. How blinded, fey and hopeless are you. Your obedience breaks my sanity. Perfectly matching, I bought a woolen hat, one of this wonderful classy fakes, abouding in huge letters above my forehead “OBEY”.
Long introduction, short, no, I not arrived. Yes I am here, checked out, paid for my visa and touched ground. I arrived in Kathmandu, in shocking cold winter. My first mission, buy thermal underwear, a fleece and a hat to keep your brain working. Thamil, the touristic haven of Kathmandu is of course loaded with all kinds of faked brands collections. From a poncho to a full-body high peak touching stars kind of an astronaut looking suit, keeping you warm or and alive. And in any kind of colouring. I am sure somewhere in this world there is living a dogged hippie community, on acid, tailoring, knitting, batiking, bad tasting, managed by a privy council, consisting of old 68er, some of them gilding the finance market, some just the art fart of a rotten smell, others a harem of how-god-created-us nutters, serving as a low cost version of the sirens, producing this shabby, intolerably, with peace and other meaningless signs decorated variety of horror-stricken cheesiness. Unbelievable! You won´t be able to top if your job is to design a place as bad as taste can be scary. Asking myself, strolling down the alleys of Thamil, who is buying all that shit. This ethnical rape of handcraft. In Thailand or Cambodia the elephant I can shit in this pants without being recognized trousers and other patterns, spirals, camouflages of gazing on needles and lances. Kathmandu´s shops, pure hippie, closer to India. And they do, the arrived, they adopt, it´s a process of assimilation, but like a blind person, who lost it´s other senses during a fight with a patchouli playmate and is as fucked as a smoking brick of goat hair now. Them wear it once, as a holiday performance – I can NOT focus, next to me, on one of the enjoyable rooftop bars, a girl, having a chat and using in nearly every sentence an imprint of “Oh my goooood [god]!” – Holy Shit! The hate speech on elephant trouser travelers must wait.
But so far, Kathmandu is truly a stunning amazement.
And I am grateful I haven´t lost my fashionism – even I am not sure for whom this is embarrassing now.