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Fighting the system – Part 3: Transit

Inoccuosly, one of the cops calmly opens the metal cell door. Have they decided to treat me with respect, after all? Then two cops in heavy armor and helmets come rushing around the corner. I lie still and let it come and happen.

One of the stormtroopers jumps right onto my chest with his knee. I let my body be limp and after a few moments, I end up lying on the floor of the cell with handcuffs behind my back.

I ask them whether they intend to carry me. Drag along, rather, one remarks.

I study the floor and their shoes. The ones who stand right next to me look like a bird shat on the dominant black leather. The pair further away looks more cared after.

You could learn a lesson from your colleague there, I remark, his shoes look much cleaner than yours.

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Fighting the system – Part 2: My cell

The car arrives at the police station. I wait for one of the cops to open the door and I stand up. One of the cops authoritatively grabs my left arm. I calmly tell him that I managed to learn to walk on my own during the course of my lifetime. I slightly stutter as I say it and the cop mocks me for it.

Who cares.

We walk into the station and eyes from the many desks meet me with habituated and empty curiosity. I stare back and study them.

They bring me towards a cell and I have to put off my shoes. One of the cops pulls the cord out of my jogging pants. Classic. Am I proposed the idea of strangling myself to death with it?

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Fighting the system – Part 1: Fistfight with a cop

I walk the street towards the supermarket as I notice an elderly woman arguing with a policeman. She is pissed, because the cop’s colleague is prolonging the process by having parked the police car on a bus stop. Intrigued and amused, I approach.

I join the woman and the policeman and mockingly ask her what kind of horrible crime she has committed. She seems open about my inquiry, but the cop is not. He tells me to go away. The authoritative tone of voice triggers anger in me. I am reminded of all the occasions where I just let those fuckers walk over me.

I tell him that he has no business telling me where to go.

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Afraid of hurting women

I remember this one time that I almost had a girlfriend. After that one, I completely shut off my heart I think. Not that it was not my fault to a large extent, as I was damaged goods already, but it was enough to dishearten me enough, because subconsciously I must have known that the cause for me being rejected was one that would not fade away anytime soon.

Anyway, we were in cinema and I was holding her hand. And she said that it takes a lot of trust to put one’s tender hand into another. She was a violinist.

Sure, there were many components to the whole situation. But the most important one was that I seemed very afraid of touch. Afraid to touch her. Today, I see that a large part of that fear was the fear to hurt her. The fear to do one wrong move and with that move reveal something dark within myself. I was so overly careful that she rejected me the same evening literally for being bodyless.

Those articles about rape I wrote, that all men are rapists. I wanted to believe it is true. Wanted to believe that it is just me who is too afraid to kinda be one. But secretly, even if everybody approved of it, I think I would still have trouble with the whole rough sex thing.

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Is waterboarding torture?

This article has been originally published on Return Of Kings.

It’s been some time since waterboarding was in the public eye, so I’m not in the trend right now. Nevertheless, emotionalism and human rights are topics that persist like a chronic disease. Kids who drown in comfort seek escape from boredom by meaningfully protesting against something in the streets of big cities. Every week I am at least once bound to be harassed by zealots of some good cause.

My Facebook feed happened to spit out a joke about waterboarding today and I got curious. For a topic that attracts such huge amounts of verbal incontinence, few people seem to know anything about it. Fat slobs or experts who don’t seem to have much experience with pain go around telling everybody how inhumane it is, so that everybody can be part of being against something so terrible they lack the words to describe it.

But anyway, what much is there to know about waterboarding for such a deep, intellectual discussion? It’s not black magic. You need a can of water, a cloth and you need to lie down. What the hell keeps me from trying this?

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Soldier Jonathan McCattle

I am in a boat with soldiers. I am one, too. We hear blasts. Blam, blam, blam. We pray to god. Blah, blah, blah. I am in the first row, the front gate opens. A big fat round of some calibre shoots off my left leg. Pang.

Something explodes. Boom. I fly through the air.

I land in the sand and look around. I can not move too well and look down. My lower body is gone. Hmm, interesting problem. I start to analyze the situation. How can we fix this?

Another soldier stands before me, pale like the sand. Whoa! He wonders what to do and tries to comfort me. Boo-hoo. I shout at him: Hey, idiot! A man does not whine! A man finds solutions! Now help me collect those parts of my body!

He is confused. What a moron. I start looking around myself. Ah, there is my dick part of the body. I shout at the guy: Hey man, there are my balls. Come fetch them for me, will ya?

The guy looks at my genitals two meters away and pukes right into my open intestines. Barf! I am annoyed. These youths today simply have no grit.

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Music for the end of the world

I sit in my little flat mired with waste and look outside the window. Dark clouds block out almost all sunlight. Demons chase through streets, devouring souls and tearing bodies apart; it happens before my eyes. The dark god of this world puts on a show for me. How does it feel to be the last living person in a dead world? It feels peaceful, inevitable. From nothingness we came and into nothingness we return. A mild sorrow fills my heart as the planet approaches a black hole in the sky. I look forward to being consumed by it. I look forward to my annihilation.

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I do want to live

Two years ago I almost died in the mountains. Yet I was too estranged from myself to learn the real lesson behind it. I was keen on going through pain to be a man. The more it hurt, the better. I felt ashamed, when my body almost collapsed under the stress, when my limbs jittered and my soul cried out.

I thought my body’s outcry was a sign of inadequacy. A real man would not even grunt in the face of death.

All the while I missed the real lesson of pain and why it makes men. It is not the abyss that is a man’s home. It is the abyss that a man crosses to reach home.

Otherwise, all pain is just a prelude to even more pain and the body shuts down in protest. It righteously asks: What for? Why are you torturing me? What have I done? What will I gain?

It is not a man who is not challenged or terrified by anything. It is a man who learned that some things deserve being terrified of. The lesson of pain is not a heightened sense of pride. It is humility, for you know the pain could have crushed you and all you love, if not for a coincidence. If not for god’s will, so to speak.

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“Big Game” praises a father’s disrespect

Some days ago I visited a nearby forest. It was almost dark and when I approached the trees, I heard animals move hastily. I was afraid. As I entered the woods, I was immediately immersed in a feeling I recall from my Ayahuasca ceremony, as I had been running from the others.

Trying to make out shapes in the noisy dusk, I became very alarmed and realized I had no weapon. I intuitively looked around and saw a dry branch that I decided to break away from the tree.

As I went about doing it, this sheep voice entered my mind again.

But that is just a piece of wood. You are naive. You must ask a professional hunter how to do it the right way. You are not even a real warrior.

That was when I realized how profoundly I lacked confidence in my own judgment.

I asked god for love and trust in my reason and my wish was fulfilled. For the first time since I can remember, I trusted my intuition. God’s respect for me accomplished it.

I broke off the branch. It was hard and stiff. I decided it was a good weapon and moved on without further doubt.

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James Bond: Spectre and Hollywood’s denial of death

I watched James Bond: Spectre yesterday. The intro was lovely, a nice tribute to death, madness and fear. It reminded me of my psychedelic trips a bit, with the tentacles and arrangements of eyes. Quite intense. The song in the intro unfortunately was very weird and seemed to lack the typical Bond chords. Probably an overly eager wish to innovate. Well, so what.

About a week back, I saw the movie 13 Assassins, which left me mesmerized. So did the movie Ghost Dog. Both share one commonality: They look forward to death, each in his own way. Samurai Shinzaemon in 13 Assassins smiles in existential joy as the cruel result of torture of the corrupt lord Naritsugu is revealed. He in no way fears death; quite the opposite: He is glad to finally face an opportunity to die honorably, in the battle against a worthy monster. This is not accompanied by orchestral soundtracks, no, it is just laid out as what it is. The honest warrior likes his enemy, because he needs him. Despising the enemy is to despise fighting itself.

A kind of maturity that can not be expected from Hollywood.

James Bond Spectre is not a bad film per se. It is actually quite fun. But I will use it as an example of a pattern that I notice in Hollywood. It is the crude reliance on the audience’s ingrained fear and alienation from death. This creates dread and puts the viewer into a mode of dissociation, waiting for the terror to stop, yearning for that final release when the evil boss is killed. There is no room for the hero to fail; it would be emotionally unacceptable for the audience.

The self-pity and alienation from death is only underscored by the orchestral score of today’s movies, as it is in the score of James Bond: Spectre. Whenever the hero is in danger, sad music makes sure that you understand that death is shameful and unacceptable. As is failure.

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