Verkartoffelversackung, Diary, 13.12.19

When I found out, that there is nothing for me out there to achieve, artistic, my immunological fragile protective walls collapsed …. since then the biochemical chaos floods me!

It was a train of thought, who I 2014 finally ended: I can't achieve anything out there, because I like those outside, so simple and easy it sounds, no longer wants to please and so I cannot please them at all. Therefore, and that's simple, I can't sell myself (my art), because I:

a: find a buyer, who loves, what I do.

b: loves me and therefore sells me, what I do

c: there should still be real literary critics

d: the person would have to be different, to be equal (so a different culture)

From that moment on, in which had realized, that my obsessive ambition would implode within myself, because I can't achieve anything out there- never could- I will never succeed in this – I was in shock.

I felt, how my whole organism contracted, my muscles, my nerves, ice-cold bands of algae wrapped around my heart ….

The FREEZING and HIBERNATE PROCESS of severe Myalgischer Encephalomyeltis, g.93.3, dem Playing-Dead-Syndrom, now finally set in.

The decline in hypometabolism is comparable to an endless blood sample, where the veins are not hit. For example, I remember one of my first visits to the doctor at school doctor Akert in first grade: It was early in the morning and freezing cold in the practice room. Doctor Akert didn't hit my veins, for a long time he pricked all veins a little. At some point he let his needle stick and I felt a stinging, biting pulling and sucking, almost like pulling a tooth, only worse! I was on the verge of fainting, so I concentrated like crazy on the incubator-like greenish yellowish discoloration of the room … It was just the lamp. (In the incubator I had exactly the same greenish yellow light! By the way. I came two months early.)

Myalgic E., g.93.3, creeping progressive, is like bleeding to death for a long time, for decades, lifelong period. No, not in a figurative sense, the organs actually stop their work, in which they just keep that much energy ready, that one desires, the food, To swallow, sit briefly (when it comes up), have a conversation, can perform. (and only this, if one is not seriously affected, because then you have to be helped artificially with the emergency!)

Since I was connected to the milking machine from the Zellkraft tap, I obviously don't have a chance anymore, Germs, Viruses, bacteria, Fight off microorganisms sensibly using hard-working killer cells, Free radical scavengers and more … In principle, I am lying there with more or less open wrists in complete exhaustion, While fiery flu conditions milk me through, neurosensory peas like birdsong, Door slamming in the stairwell, Talk to me, Cell phone bells and touches sting nervously and sometimes tumble.

Can an animal take action against enemies in pathological hibernation?, who attack him head-on from an ambush? No! It's completely vulnerable!

Before I slipped into this complete vulnerability of the playing-dead state, I had years of hypermetabolism, I was crackling with sales!!! No wonder, I didn't start to burn, like a coastal forest, which supposedly catches fire by itself!

That too can only be understood, if you include, that at the age of 20 I encountered the fragility of physical life for the first time, and was sick for months. (the initial infection with myalgic E.)

Why I got up again? Because I was young! Because of chance. Cuddling away. And because I made life do it, to become a rope of fire, a fire escape, that I could pull myself up on!

I needed a ridiculously small one, everyday vision to it: That I draw a poetic work from myself, a small, but still a little work that transcends the privacy of myself ……!!!!!

Unfortunately, they are not even fragments of a novel, what I now see in front of me, for incoherent passages, which never correspond to the highest level of my current development. (hihi, the water level is of course higher.) My development, the personal, but apparently went faster, than my pen … and thats tragic.

And then the flaw, that privacy cannot be paraphrased in universality. Chew on me. And the vulnerability of the inside, exhibited in the attempt of an artificial framework….that only covers self-expression. Chew on me.

Arthur Rimbaud listened 20 with writing on (absolutely justified according to the season en enfer). He became a poacher!

Assembly, I would also like to become a poacher! And start a new life! I would start some new obsessive private war, Poacher Mjs, like Napoleon, Alexander, Ludwig, Peter the Great, Bismarck and what they are all called! They just started these wars, to distract yourself as best as possible from your own physical fragility, am I right?

The thought, that I can't achieve anything out there, because I don't like anyone, is difficult to digest. But the certainty is worse, that the problem of the mapped, individual death cannot be resolved by anything at all! The longer i live, the sicker I get, the more I feel all of this, what I've always been, even as a toddler, knew: there is only death and eros. (and art is eros and death.) But death is not a solution at all. For nothing at all! Otherwise I would not have taken it long ago?!

But now I have the playing dead syndrome, premature death in life and therefore cannot begin a second career as a poacher and hunter of wild elephants. Damage, for I could go out into the world, for example, and be useful in building something useful by hand!

In the best case scenario, in addition to working, I would also pick up the stories of others, new fabrics would be my ailing one, Enrich and worry obsessively revolving inner workings! In the encounter and the friction with the real there would be so much new, Explosive and difficult to digest, Dubious, that I wanted expression again, to continue writing! (but I wouldn't do that. What for?? I would then hopefully have the courage, Art of living without sublimation and medium! Just being myself through myself. Blaba)

What is my motivation, my engine, my ambition as a seriously ill 22/23 / 24h / 7d / w lying in bed? There will be no therapy against myalgic encephalomyelitis today or tomorrow. There will be more wars again, Fighter aircraft, Give football stadiums and a medicine for first class!!! Research grants, with which one can extend the life of 80 year olds, ingeniously in Silicon Valley, California, where apricot-picking hippies with flower hair ribbons can no longer live, because monthly rents 10000 Cost francs.

I need a mighty fire, an immense incentive, so that he would break through the hopelessness and deadless prospect of myalgic encephalomyelitis, fire me up and protect me …

so that I get up again? But why? Just for myself again?

It would have to be a vision again, so strong, that it dwarfs the strongest whiskey! A vision, with which I could completely blind myself again:

Become a poet. A small private work brought over into art through language and expression, force it down the throat of the mouth of the market! He should swallow something inedible! I, MJS, also had to eat a lot, what i give them, the educators affiliated to the system would have better vomited at the feet … back then in early childhood, when they tried, killing my creativity and resources … and a 0 made of me.

Back then, I still wanted to go back to my mother's stomach. And, this wanting back into the womb lasted so long, until I met my Platonic. After I wanted to get into the belly of my Platonic from about thirteen joint for about half a year, But then I wanted to go into my cat's stomach. Then I met C and wanted to put in his sweater pocket. Meanwhile I think, that even going back into a stomach is no longer a solution- apparently i'm in the—–

SOLUTIONLESS PHASE arrived.

That I can't and don't want to achieve anything, out there, was a long process, a kind of dying process, just as its reverse was arguably an error-based process: That I wanted to achieve anything at all! What a crazy idea!

In our system, to put it simply, I see prostituting institutions and, in simple terms, I see prostituting people within these institutions…. and within these prostituting people I see something …

…. something, that I've been trying to see for years and that has absolutely nothing to do with selling and prostituting ….

That's the most interesting thing about the whole thing. I see weird, lost, people strangers to themselves.

Nevertheless: to sell something of mine (my art), I would have to prostude myself, that much is certain. Prostitution means everything, that is not based on love and voluntariness, I don't make any compromises.

I see it that way: to be able to prostitute me, and to be able to become something, I would need at least one being within this system, of these institutions, these people … a human being, who thinks I'm so good, (by that I mean that, what I do), so prostitution, which would arise thereby, that he'll buy me, would be repealed …

I know, a complicated sentence.

But that is a mistake, Deception and cannot be the case, because I

a: just prescribe my little private shit life, because I

b: only have a little private shitty life

c: produce too little overall

d: there would be no literary critic, who would criticize me properly (but only product evaluators in the instant process.)

What exactly is to be done now?? I have to come to terms with it, that the problem of death through art, may it be so tiny, is not resolved. That I am also seriously ill, without knowing, how so. And have no access to any medicine, that would x-ray me down to the last breath. I am not an important person, and that is why it was not considered important, 15 For years, to revise my diagnosis of somatization disorder and virtually denied me neurological and immunological diagnostics. I wanted to be a little poet, who makes something small big.

I hardly stopped crawling, I stated, that god is dead, but for that

a: my diary

b: that the caressing of male lip flesh makes me forget God incapable of sighs of compassion.

Now I've aged a little.

Life is transformation. Dancing is transformation. 2012 was the last time I danced. I turned to the beat of the music and noted, that below my neck I had become a sack of potatoes. This potato bagging had been going on for about four years, in principle from the first outbreak of my neuroimmune disease Myalgic E. took its course. Back then, in the beginning I was able to call up a strength at night, That made me dance like a wild one! The next day I vomited for a week and had a fever. Then I went dancing again. 2012 I trembled with every turn and lost my grip while dancing, while my colleague at the time and former Püppi literature supporter XY. alienated and sanitized with constant stamping, wet with sweat in his wine.
(13.12.19)