( as factual as i want it to be - or plan b always works )
Revolution...
...was supposed to be about making a big never-ending party,
and not about getting killed by a tyrannical idiot feeling excluded.
el vals del obrero
( for me , so to speak )
...
Dedicated collection of essays
to the children, innocent and soldiers,
who had to die for nothing.
For the survival of paranoïd dictators and warlords
mislead by the many to not say all of us
needily or futily serviced by Swiss bankers
and managers at our multinationals
anxious to secure their next bonus
for as laudable goals as the education of their be-loved and cared-for children
as well as for the next glass of wine
or one or the other merited freedoms that deserve,
... costs what costs
...
Dedicated as well
to my old friend
Markus
who practically drowned when was roughly six years old,
unable to move or even speak since.
He made it to his twenty years
fighting each day, never recovering.
.
What do I know about Luck, you might wonder indeed.
.
May you find redemption
in these writings
...
Dedicated also and especially these days to the
< mass of people X >
and the
< mass of other individuals Z >
( animals , plants , other )
.
who took the pain in wellmeaningly-me
unlike the
< mass of people individuals Y and ... dead spiders A >
who had to refuse my offer
to consider my writings
... for reasons interfering faster
than could consider ,
i do am be in possession of writings ...
...
you ponder ...
... so do i
.
One thing has to be said , when you talk about me ,
that is ,
born with the umbilical cord around my neck three times, my hour had long struck.
...
That said, I'm Tobias Baumberger alias Xibre. I'm born in St. Gallen in eastern Switzerland in the middle of December of 1982. Growing up in a little village close to the city, I had a childhood without life-threatening financial or existential worries in a family of five children of which I the youngest was. There were maybe two events as roughly six-year old that could have marked my geopolitical fantasy void of my doing, which was a hostage taking of a close relative working in Iraq as volunteer. And not any hostage taker, but by Saddam Hussein's Iraqi government before the first Iraq war. A second more vague memory I can't locate in time but also roughly in those years was a family of Kurds who found refuge in our not luxurious but rather big house, who then later could apply for asylum and found their own place in the village.
During school holidays we usually went camping to Italy, mostly Toscana, sometimes we would go exceptionally to another West-European country, once we went to the United States. During later high school, around 1998, I was also once in Egypt at the RedSea on holidays as babysitter, learning in Egypt from the souvenir seller first hand from its citizens how life under dictatorship is and how big the wish for but as well fear of revolution is. It left an impression.
I didn't have too many problems in school. Indeed for as much as I allow myself to be intelligent, I'm lazy as well, and so I paid attention in classes so I wouldn't have to learn too much at home and still could graduate with an average grade. I had an ease in natural sciences which couldn't be said in languages where I would have had to drill myself, which was rather a question of rolling the dices whether I was in the mood for it. Because all my energy in my freetime went into sports, track and field mostly, pole vault and hurdles and later decathlon all together. From ten years old to nineteen I trained several times a week. I became very athletic and had an extraordinary condition. I played as well music, violine to be exactly. I liked it but it didn't inspire me for more, would I rather have played the drums. Surely it stimulated my taste for instrumental electronic trance music which I still listen to, from Faithless to today's DJ and producers. I had a few friends, with whom I had a great escapes playing frisbee, volley or going to the cinemas. The friendships didn't really outlast high school though being spread across Switzerland studying, it's a tricky or personal question why.
.
Born with the umbilical cord around my neck three times, my hour had long struck.
.
After high school in 2oo1, and before I went three months to New Zealand, happened the terror attacks in New York. Just when my sabbatical year - and future - started. I wasn't worried too much about taking the airplane thereafter, considering probabilities but had dark thoughts about the American reaction in the long run. Off I went though "into the dark" : far away to New Zealand to exercise my English. I enjoyed a pleasurable time, part travelling alone, part with friends.
Once I was back I had to go to the army as any Swiss man has to in his young years. The Grenadiers I joined, the Swiss militia special forces, which was very exciting yet after 9/11 had a different taste than what expected. Three months becoming a soldier was an intensive time and Switzerland at peace being, it stayed - and always did thereafter during repetition courses - "just" an extreme physical-mental exercise to maintain the spirit of honour of the Grenadiers rather than actually risking my life for my nation over the dead body of others, which is not to say at some point I wasn't at the highest level anymore and got re-graded to protect the commander of the battalion rather.
But back to my twenty years where after the three months holidays in New Zealand and three months greandier school at the army, I worked for a few months for the local cantonal Red Cross organisations here in Switzerland doing fundraising. I became rapidly team leader and perfected my French working in the Romandie mainly, the French speaking part of Switzerland. Day over day, week over week, we would tour the houses and buildings of the country to promote to local services of the cantonal Red Cross.
Then in autumn 2oo2 I started studies in Lausanne at the EPFL in physics. I have always been interested by natural sciences, but I failed pathetically. My Latin high school wasn't a good preparation for math-heavy physics, despite my good understanding of mathematics. And other reasons. A friend of mine who was in the same "latin" position a year earlier recommended me to repeat the year, that it would be easier the second time, but I had lost interest in physics, feeling missing a part of life i would need anyway to understand physics to its uttermost limits.
I went on holidays in Vancouver visiting a Canado-Iranian friend I had met in Sydney back when I flew back from New Zealand and then I went working for the Red Cross associations across Switzerland again for a small time and as I wasn't tired of studying I decided to study international affairs in Geneva, which satisfied a growing interest : international politics. I made the first year but only just. I with my difficulties in languages, studying in French, should have allowed myself more time for learning, but never really having learned to learn at home because able to survive high school without, it was a catastrophe in coming. Second year was worse because I didn't change but went again three weeks to the army in the midst of the semester. During holidays instead of learning and writing thesis, I went to Berlin for fundraising for an environmental NGO. Had to come what had to come : I failed the second year of my studies in international affairs. I wasn't allowed to double because I only had 24 credits of the 3o required. I was in a very bad position.
.
Born with the umbilical cord around my neck three times, my hour had long struck.
.
I was now 23 years old already and had advanced basics in mathematics, physics, chemistry, biology and geography as well as history, sociology, economics or politics with in the meantime a good understanding of english and french but despite all that baggage of knowledge no diploma to find a job inline with my promised aspirations. From a friend I heard of a program by UBS and other banks that gave high school graduates the opportunity to start in the financial sector. I applied and I got in in 2oo6. After eighteen months of training I successfully passed the exams and I got my banking apprenticeship title. During this time I could visit Moscow as well as Beirut with some friends, what were two very memorable experiences.
I started studying again in 2oo7 then, this time economics at the University of St. Gallen. I failed after one semester. Seemed I was made to learn at work rather. So I went back to Geneva and searched for a job which I found at Barclays Wealth where I was employed for three years as a backoffice clerc from 2oo8, as a data manager to be exact. I managed all financial products on the banking software, their different aspects and prices. It was a great time. I had a good social network, or so I thought, my own flat, good money, and an interesting job that allowed me to continue to travel, again to Lebanon but as well to Ghana or the Netherlands, Berlin and Florence or the Red Sea and also all the way down to Peru. I excelled at work, won one Barclays Operations award for my outstanding work and a team award for our excellent service we delivered.
After three years, in 2o11, the good time was over though, my job was transferred to Glasgow for the usual reasons managers with a job so come up with, and I wasn't really asked whether I wanted to move. So I quit a bit perplexed the bank, wasn't I close to burn-out as well with a demanding job accompanied with regular joints in the evenings and friends that seemed to move on to spheres I wasn't really willing to follow ( chronic alcoholism , some cocaine ). So I rented a car and drove randomly on holidays to Spain alone. I didn't stay long, as I had the feeling of having work at home; things to do at home, I had pushed forward during the stressful time at the bank. Back home, I gave myself three months before looking for a job again, with some cash on reserves which allowed me to live for a while without worries for sure. I opened a trading account and bought a few shares to gain some trading experience, respectively to apply what I had learned at the bank also on my own fortune and not just that of "my clients", and to be closer connected emotionally to the markets, international financial markets and with it geopolitics from my own perspective as individual retail-investor. Of course I continued to smoke a lot of pot, downloaded TV series and watched news channels like AlJazeera and CNBC. It was a relaxing and exciting time at once, I could ponder for days and weeks and started wondering more and more why the United States wasn't ruled by Federal Council and what it could mean.
.
Born with the umbilical cord around my neck three times, my hour had long struck.
.
Not sure how it actually happened, but my mother gave me end of 2o11 a book about "highly sensitive" people while I had been pondering about collegial councils. Highly sensitive people of which I was supposed to be one. With the author's catch-up line, that I must be one of those who has this strange feeling of feeling different to others, to have a special artistic, physical or emotional talent, to have a different, more accurate and detailed perception of this world than the average person, allowing to excel beyond that average, yes I got caught and motivated to dare to act beyond average. Something in principle against my egalitarian thinking refusing to engage in such egomania or vanity - at least not in principle. A psychological modesty which gave me the general social reputation of having potential but not seizing it. Now having a relevant idea ready to be shared, I thought I'd give it a shot. From nothing comes nothing, after all.
My ideas was to write it down as a theatric play, of a niece trying to cheer up her depressed Uncle Sam, proposing him to try it like the Helvètes with a collegial council, rather. Because after years of watching The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, a lot of other news and a few books, joined with a lot of pondering, dreaming, concluding, doubting, testing, experiencing, etx, I had my own ideas about world politics, life in general, but considering the most encountered misery mostly about the Arab spring and especially US politics. A culmination of my knowledge accumulated in years of learning, discussing and thinking about this world and so I wrote the draft of these essays, a theatric play which I called "The Last Kings". It seemed to me the strong leaders of this world, the strong presidents, were leading us the wrong way out of the financial and social crisis from the fall of Lehman Brothers to the Greek bailout, and not even the intelligent and wise Jon Stewart had the answer to it, at least not one that would make a difference substantially - preventing president Obama's administration to bomb rebel strongholds in the war against the tyrant of Libya, as I could learn later. Nothing knew per se, philosophically speaking, if I wouldn't insist on similarities between the USA and Switzerland that tell me a Federal Council could work there well as well, despite the little difference of size of our two countries, and it would do good, and heck of what it would do.
I wanted to share the idea of collegiality for the States and in general with my friends first but it was too big for a mail so I chose to share it through Blogger ( I wasn't aware of Google Drive back then ). By default published articles in Blogger are public to the internet and are scanned instantly by the Google search engine, when the essay wasn't ready yet... that was a big shock, not necessarily traumatic, but surely a turning point. I kept the essay public, willing to take the risk of not being ready for a public thought, knowing in my back-head exactly though - I assumed - what my real point is and what it is worth : can come long that CIA, KGB or whoever will pass by...
In the beginning it was only a small essay that evolved into more and more. The writing procured me with a lot of joy but it wasn't a time without worries lonely on the dark internet and again, what had to come had to come : Driven by a untraceable series of clicks from a homepage in Ukraine that seemed rather the work of a secret service ( couldn't I find the referring link to my page all those clicks where supposed to come from ) and another series from a Cisco-server survey, I turned nuts - to be on the safe side - driven by a bad conscious regularly overwhelming the good intentions. It seemed too easy to say the essays are just a mirror of a hidden schizoïd mind; are just the subconscious expression of injustices I had suffered, mirrored onto the world through a delusional helvetic collegial democratic prisma. Essays void of mentionable intelligence in short and the depressed uncle myself.
Writing and publishing are intended to make a difference in your life, and so it couldn't be - just when I had published my thoughts and asked for a feedback to the basic idea for my theatric play - that my close friends pulled out of my life, because not having seen me enough anymore. This implied of course that they didn't give me a constructive feedback on my online collection of essays. One of them ( or all agreeing ) couldn't resist and after having < pulled out of my life > by mail - after having met after months for one coffee, and finally inspected my blog - had to call my sister worried I could be suicidal, something despite or because not seeing me regularly he was able to suspect to that point... it was the uttermost weird act of my friends I didn't really wish for; an undermining act because there was already a certain insecurity or anxiousness not having a mirror to my ( public ) writings. I kind of counted on my friends attesting me to not be a fatalist actually, despite my cynic writings. Am I not known to be able to communicate, I wondered. As what am I known?
It didn't help my friends to have had left such on a depressing note, because another old work colleague based in Singapore wrote me explosive mails of being suicidal her. A hundreds of mails followed giving me the impression after a while I was supposed to look uncontrolled depressed. It all ended with her offering to invest in my collection of essays to make a book out of it - without having shown one cent of interest in my thoughts about collegial leadership throughout the hundreds mails beforehand. Her sudden offer coincided with the day I had given my army-stuff back. It seemed to me a moment when I was - in the eye of an "appearing" conspiracy - supposed to kill myself out of desperation to be misunderstood. I stopped instantly the work at Barclays I had just picked up a month before and decided to turn nuts out of stubborness for a while, roughly when I wrote in one shot the essay the nothing.
.
Born with the umbilical cord around my neck three times,
it was about the moment my hour had struck.
.
Under some different forms of existential pressures ( not working and having one or the other health worry ) and a lot of odd hazards and continued surprises online on internet - hazards which because I was usually high on weed I couldn't tell or didn't want to accept whether they were just hazards, such as a cynic error in the statistics from this blog as provided by Google deferring the first publication of the essay from the actual January 2o12 to the end of 2oo9, a moment when my ex-girlfriend left and a close friend had moved on - and hazards "offline" so to speak in real life, cooking sleeping washing shopping and wondering what to do with my life. Odd encounters with one or the other old work colleague or neighbour. Or just random but untimely presented surprises, such as an old Grenadier friend with whom I had spent a lot of time and holidays during university time and a few years afterward, who stated on a security firm's online biography to which he had given me the link, that apparently he used to be a "mid-range spy" for the Swiss government. Odd new fact which if true made me wonder the risks I took being his close friend travelling, but I couldn't tell whether he maybe meant his time as Grenadier militia special ops - which in turn again would have made me a "mid-range spy" as well. Seems I had missed something... Such many oddly timed hazards and other sources of insecurity and existential pressures fed regularly on a mounting paranoïa still while editing the public essays, insisting on my point that Switzerland can't be the only country with a collegial presidency and surely isn't the last one of the few that ever existed since "The Lumières".
As I lived alone with my old friends rather far, at least emotionally, and my neighbors rather in a conflict of 'who has to leave the flat so the new owner can renovate the building and place his relatives in the house', with time the pressure became overwhelming to need to know, whether there is actually a (cyber-)conspiracy trying to set me up, to steal my writings or my life, to drive me myself to suicide or into false hands under false hopes, that is based on "their" assumption that I actually had a hypomaniac egomania as promoted by my mother's book, of which I would be unable to detach myself; which would betray me at some point in nostalgic fatalism... respectively depress me to frustrate me to the point where I would move myself slowly but steadily into "useful cholerism" respectively a psychotic depression, through a series of impulsive acts... ).
Despite all appearance I'm not that clumsy though, well, yes, but still, it couldn't be that writing and publishing my thoughts was digging on my own grave and so, having a certain amount of financial luck - which was also suspicious - and having printed a final version of the collection of essays the first time in december 2o12 and having such a physical non-cyber-deletable version in my hands, I took a certain confidence in my instincts and intuition, maybe as well arrogance in being thirty and such at best able to test the universe's limits. And so to help myself I started end of 2o12 writing out my point of view at the perceived conspiracy in front of it online but privately : writing a mail in my Gmail account without sending it, just saving it, or writing in my Blogger interface without publishing. On one hand I assumed that meanwhile the hackkers had installed a trojan on my computer able to read what I was writing. On the other hand, to write not only on my computer but directly on my Google interface helped my delusion as the American secret services would be able such to read what I was writing as well, a - in principle - comforting thought for a former Grenadier.
Yes, it occured to me in the course of 2o12 editing my essays, well before Snowden published it, that the CIA or NSA had a backdoor access to my Google account where they could sneak around without leaving a trace. Besides that, you have to be persuaded though to be of certain importance to the CIA, a mafia or even your old friends, because they wouldn't invest otherwise to conspire, a step beyond automatic surveillance. I of course - considering everything - was persuaded to be of such importance, though couldn't tell whether it's my neighbours, friends, or who knows who with an invisible troian on my computer. A by my harassing or defaming friends provoked narcissistic or egomaniac delusion based on the wrong perception to be a victim, which I knew rationally but alone high on weed with old friends acting odd somewhere couldn't accept anymore. It's complicated. Surely I had aimed too high.
.
Born with the umbilical cord around my neck three times, their hour had long struck.
.
Because, after a few months of explaining myself to the hackkers, I received out of heaven a ( for me ) big sum of money from the work colleague that had ( rather ) harassed me the year before. Apparently I had helped. I assumed I had helped in her suicidal thoughts, but didn't ask. With hindsight I regret not having been more critic when she called to tell me the good news, because that's all I know. It's when I lost it for sure because I was just about to accept my bankruptcy and ridiculousness of promoting helvetic democracy. Who knows with what I had been helping that was worth so much money? It was after all difficult to conceive having saved her life : while I don't deny myself the talent to prevent somebody from killing him- or herself - I'm not known for it, wasn't I defamed as suicidal just last year by my best friends? - I couldn't have cared less and was about to start my new life satisfied I made my blog survive on internet, when the day after I received the sum of money, my father appeared at my door from the other side of Switzerland after months without contact without notice. A "hazard of timing" too much for my in the meantime fragile wishful thinking which just had made me a lot of money when I had outermost needed it.
Was there a good conspiracy inspired by my writings trying to promote them and and with it my life? The field opening up between such an unlikely virtuous conspiracy staying in the dark, saving me from bankruptcy with who knows what goals for me lest them, and an unlikely nefast conspiracy giving me money to turn me completely nuts and discredit me such, tore my fantasy apart and while I wasn't going to harm anybody in a misconception of reality, I turned possessed even more into writing out - now my anger - in my Google drive, talking to the imaginary conspiracy reading my private notes. The official diagnosis would be a psychotic depression, that is, considering no hackkers where around, officially neither. Of course I fell on deaf ears because probably there wasn't a conspiracy reading my angry notes and even if, a mafia of its name would never surprise you twice the same way in order to make it impossible for the victim to catch or even seize their presence, I guessed, was part of manipulating a psychotic victim writing many interesting things in its drive.
In my paranoia of a group of a hackkers present - delusion maintained with a dependence on online feeds for electronic music and with it exposure to possible moments of the feed being cut for I could only guess what reasons... - I lost my ability to communicate with my family finally roughly in April 2o13, when they sent me to psychiatry. I told the shrink that I know it's delusions but the hazards I had to experience, especially the money received, persuaded me otherwise and I would need a few years to accept that for all the suspicious hazards, I had to endure, exist logical explanations. He attested me to be clear-thinking in my delusions stemming from weed consumption - when I told him I had other problems, but anyway.
After a week I left psychiatry all while refusing medication. I can only explain it thanks or due to my training as Grenadier elite militia soldier, years of playing the violin and family constellations that the shrink didn't see my advanced psychotic state. Not that I showed it to him, how could I, wasn't I a victim of somebody and not myself having turned nuts playing computer games 24h/7d. Eitherway, I got sent home, where I went back to my old psychotic habits trying to live a normal life to end up anyway insulting a hackker on my Google cloud.
I guess out of procedure they tried to call me a week later to see how I was doing. Call I missed and as the nurse only left her name without mentioning it was the psychiatry calling, I didn't call back, not knowing her. A day later I had again the ambulance in my house, which of course made the choleric me very sour. And if I say very sour, I mean very sour. And as a shouting man is considered psychologically sick in Switzerland, even if you have reason, or so I learned, the ambulance took me rapidly back to Belle-Idée, as that lovely sick psychic centre is called in Geneva. I still refused medication and could, because wasn't there no reason to give me medication, which isn't to say I had to stay two months in psychiatry.
This time the rather vicious landlord cancelled my flat, willingly or not while I wasn't at home, a way to ensure I would never know about getting kicked out, not having picked up the registered letter, until receiving a gentle reminder a week before getting kicked out. An act of course confirming to my humble self that it was all a conspiracy by my landlord who hackked me, for which I of course I would never find truth but redemption in the fact that I will outlive them most probably, especially after how had treated their client. But first I had to find a flat in Geneva, which is an impossible task, does it take years to find a new one. Of course I didn't shout but called my parents, eliminated the flat with my father to move for a month to my parents in eastern Switzerland. With unexplainable luck - considering my psychic state - I found rapidly a job in a small private bank in Geneva again. I lived my double-life of trying to give a normal appearance while totally smoking and writing my anger out in private in my Google Drive. A recipe for sure failure as at the same time I didn't have a stable flat to live.
.
Born with the umbilical cord around my neck three times, their hour had long struck.
.
Well I found one, I should have refused. Not per se. But the landlord renting me the flat wanted to pass by every two weeks to spend the weekend in Geneva. As if hotels wouldn't exist in Geneva and great ones! But I needed a flat, couldn't I continue live continuously in a hotel and spend half my salary on it. What happened is that I couldn't keep the rhythm of work since I had a note on the Ukrainian revolution deleted on my Google Drive - a rare exception I got hackked in such obvious manner, an unimportant pothead could never proof though nevertheless. A note in which I described my perception of what happens next to Ukraine. Another psychotic depression followed imagining what the hackkers would only do with the deleted note lest to me, turning totally distrusting and unwilling to cooperate with such a society. I failed to show up at work again, got sent to psychiatry the third time, obviously for weed consumption and not because a victim harassed, where I heard as well that my new landlord told my mother I had touched her inappropriately. Something I had suspected as well, could be a way for the conspiracy to ensure I end up as an idiot to be never credible with my writing, lest life, getting accused of having lost it in front of a woman. Wouldn't it be an "obvious" idea for somebody observing some of my other internet activities.
At this moment I wouldn't have found any friends anymore defending me, I supposed, and my family lived far away on the other side of Switzerland. But the landlord had of course nothing to prove her point, because I never touched her. Her used preservative she forgot on one of her weekends below the bed was maybe what inhibited her to conclude on a - wouldn't call me a cleric - but surely respectful man of woman. I have never heard of her again, but it confirmed my instinct taken back at the end of 2o12 to rather auto-sabotage myself in a wise distrust of my own wisdom than have others enjoy the pleasure of sabotaging my laudable goals and have me learn afterward in prison that the world is such (!) a nasty place...
A way of staying ahead of a conspiracy and a way of ensuring you lose everything slowly but steadily. What can I say, it wasn't me who forced me into this lose-lose, it seemed to me, always while allowing myself the cynicism that, yes it is exactly my fault. At first with talent but at some point obsessively. Not smoking hash during my stay in psychiatry and not refusing the medication given, I was let out again after two months, point at which I stopped the medication to enjoy again some good weed. Maybe if the doctor would have given me a whole package of fifty doses and not just three pills I would have continued taken them and it would have given me the time to search for more pills before they were already all used and me, well, who said I had psychic issues ?
It ended with me living for a short while in the streets of Geneva in 2o15. All I had left was my online collection of essays ( and my Swiss passport, don't waste your tear ). The advantage now was that despite my obvious vulnerability sleeping in parks, nothing per se related to a cyber-conspiracy happened to me. Sure I got stolen one and the other cherished personal item, getting provoked one or the other time by 'locals' wondering what I was up to, provocations I somehow didn't have to much problems laughing inside myself away, staying stoic, knowing exactly though that I'm safe but in a fragile place. One eastern european pretending fleeing from France because destroyed on cocaine a scientific lab he used to work in as scientist, as well in his thirties, he "persecuted" me from the first night out, appearing here and there where I was - not astonishing both sleeping in the streets, you could say - and one day he actually hit me in my chest. Guess he didn't like my face, after all. I couldn't have cared less falling on the bench behind me and sitting as I was, maybe he got the point, that barely I his problem am. It was a relieving exercise as a chronic pain in my chest disappeared afterward and I thought if he's sent by a cyber-conspiracy, surely he just did me the favour he wished in his hidden subconscious. Because it had been a pain I had carried around for a while and as the smoker I am, it had been producing a regular amount of certain basic anxiousness, feeding as well into the paranoïa. To have lost or almost lost the pain, was surely a turning point somewhere, because I thought I found what I was looking in my subconscious for ( as well ).
.
Born with the umbilical cord around my neck three times, their hour had long struck.
.
In the consistent absence otherwise of getting actually involved in a fight where I am the target, especially for my opinion, I started to find the reality to not be in abnormal danger, to not have been such an idiot to attract the vicious ideas of a (cyber-)mafia, or at least of living in Switzerland and free speech is still tolerated ( which is not the same as protected ), all in all allowing me to integrate a new group of friends, cards playing former anarchists smoking weed and many no alcohol in the morning. They had a dog and they might have had been the only people in whole Geneva who didn't mind me shouting when angry in my irritability from the still present reflexes of the once useful paranoïa, in contrary. I met them on an old shut-down steamboat parked in the bay of Geneva, where they served breakfast for free. A great place where you could recharge your mobile and back in those days we still could smoke some herb on the deck in the sun drinking a coffee and starting the day well. Point at which the fatalism in front of an overwhelming conspiracy and the will to resist and keep public my written words promoting a multipolar world, found slowly but steadily a common ground and the trust grew that probably it was just all a bad dream, hazards and no conspiracy present and if there was one in 2o12, surely they would be satisfied now with their result seeing me rather dispossessed, unable, discredited to ever find my way back into the world of the glorious banks.
Too late indeed, mid 2o16 I was forced help upon and had to take medication to get a grasp of the delusional irritability, that had installed itself against the perceived cyber-threats. After a failed attempt, I continued smoking weed without telling the shrinks nor my parents nor my social assistant, in return they supported me in form of giving me a better room and regular activity which I had to follow to not raise suspicion that I was still smoking pot. What helped most were the hikes in the mountains with my father ( mostly in Uri, central Switzerland, where my parents had moved to in the meantime, and Ticino, a stone's drop away from Uri ) when I could take a critical look at my delusional performance.
Not that I ever was fully crazy, respectively wasn't I crazy since always and I think always conscious of my rage or "choleric" attitude appearing beginning 2o13, "just" psychotically wishful there to be a cyber-conspiracy - still traumatized by the events of 2o12 and the actual money received, who under pressure of life and weed consumption had found a way of waking up older ones. I don't think I ended up in fatal mental decomposition from 2o12 to 2o16, as the shrink took the decision to declare in 2016 seeing me unshaved with long hair and skinny as I can be. No, I was just waiting for better times, trying there to be time and space between the events ( my old friends ) with the occasional attack of getting angry for no reason other than a perceived harassment. No, I was just hibernating, not on mental decomposition : managing the little social money I got and preparing myself slowly but steadily to be able to take off again. Wasn't I nor a cocaïno- nor heroïnomane, just an unemployed pothead addict to coffee searching for a flat in overcrowded Geneva, nothing you couldn't heal with a new flat or room as they gave me, some new occupation and fresh inspiration. Which needs trust in society I had lost, but not that fatalist I am, a life I had had after all before all this and was going to have again.
The new room had internet which didn't end up with an IP address in FortWorth, Texas, and a fatalist confidence grew that I survived but had lost my call for collegiality in this world, more of it - for whatever reasons. With nothing to do but healing myself from my psychotic traits, I picked up the public writing of the essays slowly but steadily again, trying to not fall victim to act on a gross or psychotic misconception of my environment again and finished the collection mostly during the pandemic. It's never perfect... like my english, which isn't as good as I wish it would be, probably with a german accent. Hopefully my creative energy undid that. And so the collection of essays - the theatric speech - is finished and can still shine, take root in the minds of the people and evolve into its actual physical reflection over time : another federal council somewhere on this planet earth...
.
Born with the umbilical cord around my neck three times, their hour had long struck.
.
Indeed, as I always followed despite my pragmatism rather idealistic goals with my cynicism about how presidential systems are overrated compared to collegial ones, I'm of course not paid and so I had been working since 2o17 in a thriftshop as an intern more or less on a voluntary basis but with the intention to find a "humane" ( normalst ) regularity again in life and since 2o21 had been following a practical employment course in gardening, which gave me a lot of positivity but also realism. I'll pick up a course in basic accounting to find a regular income again. A course I tried before the pandemia but failed in it. Maybe I'll follow it up with a bachelor in geography if my accounting course ends well. Indeed, there is still twenty-five years to my retirement, so the universe wants. In that sense I also started playing ping-pong with my new anarchistic friends, while we continue our passion, table games from killers, our dice-game over jass, the helvetic card game, to domino, which i am still learning. Living amongst declassified people - to be mean - , who though know me fairly well in the meantime and me them as well, gives me some sense to be able to infuse a local herbsmoking scene of the Geneva street with a good dose of decent realism so make it next time beyond the public votation on whether want to legalize weed or not. I still don't drink alcohol, no, utterly exceptionally to see whether I still don't like it, but could, I get why people like beer or wine or vodka with apple-juice, one of my former favourites next to a icy cuba-libre.
.
So am I happy my mother gave me with twenty-nine a book about highly sensitive people when I should have healed myself from chronic depression rather and not shoot myself on a hypomaniac egomania as author having to say something? I might still work in a bank or have found other purpose void of shouting insults in the air for the internet to hear it.
.
One day ,
this Collection ,
in Paper form for you to read
Who knows ?
I don't .
Inshallah ! or so it's said
...
One day ,
this Collection ,
in Paper form for you to read
Who knows ?
I don't .
Inshallah ! or so it's said
 |
My many thanks
to my Uncle,
living in Chad and now in Cameroon
as missionaire trying himself state-building
from bottom up,
through agriculture, banking and many other endeavours.
He has been and still is an an inspiration by
his upright, humble and positive
perseverance.
...
Earthly thanks
to my old History Teacher
who taught us to examine past events
through a combination of four prisms ;
religious, social, economic and political.
He had an admirable talent to elaborate by heart
the various factors and vectors
that might have lead up to a famous historic moment.
...
Thanks as well to my Two Big Brothers
who taught me early
that theory is one thing,
practice another.
...
Xibre
Semper Fidelis
.
Former helvetic grenadier, rusty violinist, failed student,
talented banker, tourist by nature, essayist by passion.
.
Geneva , Switzerland
( 2o12 - 2o22 )
...
( Motivation )
...
