THE OWL IS NOT WHAT IT SEEMS

Studying anthropolgy was one of the most intriguing attractions the town of Bonn had to offer. Situated in an old feudal side building near the river Rhine at the foot of the small Alte Zoll - (old customs) hill it made everynone feel a bit above the common Bonn vibe of being the bore of the nation but being housed in a cosy old fashioned, grass grows thru the asphalt student town were Kaiser Wilhelm once boned his curtisans to escape the Grandezza of Berlins Royal court and his family. The one bigger seminar room they had was always crowded up to the rafter with long haired students with cheesy beards and rotten down old timers who once studied the German-Swiss tribe of the Jenic people and looked like a clichee of them. Old women with Tibet Shangri-La vibe completed the menu of deviants. Outbursts of radical individual speeches and behavior of all kinds was regarded as normal,also skanking down professors in public, It was exactly my taste in the early eighties, it promised to be an alternative reality, not a dream of dope freaks. The real and accepted in the Ciudad of Bonn students were another ilk. They hated us so much that the began to sweat below their ties and tight shirt collars in their dark suits, where their chubby necks were rubbing themselves and turned red with a glance of stale students sweat. They offered free fraternity visits cum drinking until you vomit not beween your feet – that is for kleine Maedchen, little girls, they said, but in a huge bowl fixed in their fraternity toilets. Masters could vomit in there „rainbow-style“, more than one meter apart from the vomit basin to show that being an acadmic full drunkard is an unknown art in itself. Some pubs in germany still have those basins for heavy drunkards, to use every hour again and again – a sign of cultural vice that shows the world the real old Germany, sadly they disappear, look out for them in some old style Brauhauses, brewery pubs. „No, we do not have any place this month, the leaflets are not available for the common public“ he said, without being a bit sorry and showing that with a cold feudalistic-academic attitude from old German lower nobility families and lingo from the late 19th. century. „Kaiser Wilhelms bloody barons“, I said, „go ahead, you are something“. That was no problem at all, in front of the entrance of the old students reception buliding near the fountain, that was the common fighting and class spirit of that age in small university towns in Germany. We ridiculed them, especially when they were doing mensur and that spread thru town, that meant fighting each other with thinly bladed, light swords in their frathouses attics without a helmet but steel glass frames. That was a custom in Germany of the early 19th century inside students fraternities and they simply regarded us as secretely their prey – the non nationalists. As in the German revolution 1917/18, and we totally underestimated that they were still moving below the surface. Officially and in the public they just rejected us with cold voices but there was more. It was them who were sitting around with a pour le merite, fighting class in light blue colour in the early twenties in the coffee houses of the Weimarer Republik waiting for the final solution for their attitude they were hiding inside for a long time, after the disastrous defeat they suffered in the first war.´To show their will to sacrifize – us, civilization, poor soldiers, and women and children, not them – they often had a Schmiss in their faces, a several centimeter long old wound, that turned into a scar. The worse it looked the better, so some of them put a hair in that wound of the mensurblade and stitched it together with it. The result was remarkable. Some looked like monstrous dogs at their Berlin coffeetables in the 1920th waiting to bark and attack anything that was responsible for their loss of honour 1918 with kaser Wilhelm. Otto Dix painted them with disgust like aggressive dogs of the old nobility. But in 1983 they were under the table, still in existence but so far from us and the world that we believed would just arise from the ruins of the Spanish republic 1939 hat nobody took any notice. We were the freaky avantgarde of a promised but non existing new society and one of its cores was in anthropology, sociology, Third World studies of many kinds. The other core was in arts. I was not good enough for those I thought and their behaviour of pretentious and overfreaked girls and gays of the Bourgoisie that I passed. Artists were actors in my private life a bit and I underestimated their viciousness profoundly, being the master agents of the AOI at all or were found dead in their beds early mornings. But ermany had enough of them – now they are absent or work for the AOI. Everything was to be examined and taken apart in cultural anthropology and put together another way. I mean everything. The wisdom of the world had to be searched and found in the smallest groups and cultural niches all around the globe, myths were read, digested and destroyed, behaviour patterns and economical systems studied wit structures and functions. The world suddenly became transparent in a new, different colour. The colour of The Real. Then solutionists appeared. For some and the most it was obviously the Sandinistas and the Farabundo Marti and for others even the curious Sendero Luminoso and others just living with fishermen in Papua New Guinea and sharing their economy or with gypsies in Germany. Dreaming away with Castaneda and his early two books was not in that game at all. Students and professors shared that and accepted each other for that. I very much later studied all of his books in a row and examined the separate reality hidden in it. I excerpted the core philophies of CC and wrote it down in a scriptbook to understand that gigantic occult universe hidden in it. The scriptbook was stolen by AOI agent Winterbottom out of my flat in 2017. Nevermind what it was, not the CC, but The Real, most of it worked in the real world and just had to be not adopted but seen as a way, that a solution in the real world is possible, whatever it may be. And that is that what the AOI feares as hell until today and keeps records of us around the world. Why they even hate the late books of Castaneda, not the early curious anthropology of him remains a mystery. They follow and harass anybody worldwide who dives into this universe. It was nearly dark when I arrived at Punta Gorda in Belize by taxi 2008. I read Tony Wheelers recipies for a disastre overnight stay in Third World countries not to speak of US colonies as Belize and todays German and French colonies as Morocco before and felt safe – then. I still had not found the clue – nobody could, except those who manufacture the keys. They would appear later, much later, when they show of as Merkel. „He is into may things“ a black rastaman told me when I asked for the way to the Milky Way guest house. „What does that mean?“ „You can stay here not with people into many things, you better listen“. I was stupid enough to ignore that, I was far away from the clue but had to learn to slip back into it. The white American was about 50 and had a typical civil war union army old fashioned mustach. His US buddy looked similar. They owned the Milky way Guest House and started their game show with me. „Oh yes, we should always spread that around, Donny, always“ he blurted into his old black telephone hanging on the wall at the entrance. When I arrived, the first moustache spurted to the phone as if fire has broken out, without a ring tone to listen to. I smiled as if I smelled the rat. „yes, yes, they should not be allowed to do that, Donny, I agree, all have to use condoms anywhere, we have so many AIDS cases here, it is so horrible, we have to teach them.“ I was waiting until he had reached an end in his little show of dispersing streamline behaviour and being Mr. Universal douchebag. The other moustache did not respond to my friendly questions for a room, except: „He is the man, I am just another client“, „yeah, off course, that is obvious, you are“ I said, because I can't stand straight in the face and obvious lying of Americans of a certain ilk and kind as him. Reminded me of Mr. Cheese, the American foot stinker I met in Belize City with a similar but smaller moustache and younger, who walked with me in the garden of our hotel there at night and suddenly screamed „fire ants, fire ants, help, help“ and a black athlets guy jumped by with a Bloods T-shirt who tried to steal my money belt while he was pretending to jump around in tears of pain. I was just watching the whole idiocy while the black guy tried to rob me. „What do you want, you two assholes, sirs?“ I asked politely and turned my money belt away from the skanker. „You can't smoke that crack in my room“ Mr. Cheese screamed, „you just can't do that“. „Yeah you know, we all can do that in my part of Europe and nobody cares, it is more legal than weed, you know.“ He did not expect that as an answer to his idiotic lie and showing me off as a crackhead. „Yeah man, Europe, huh, Europe“ said Mr. Bloods. „Yeah, pretty cool, should go there, the girls dig black cock all the way in all holes. By the way, his crack was lousy, smells like his feet, do you score better?“ „I go back to the house, see what I can do, give me 20 bucks dude“. I grabbed the 20 dollar note from my front pant, not my money belt and slipped it over to him in a greasy, slimy mode that was fully accepted. He pissed of with his 250 pound muscle body I had no chance to fight of at all and Mr. Cheese was standing there, the head bowed down, arms on his upper legs. „You fucking German asshole, you goddamn fucking German asshole“ he shrieked, what do you think you do here, they will send you to jail and he will rape your goddamn arrogant asshole there, the niggers.“ „I did not say you cant have fireants on you“ I replied. „They don't like your cheese feet, run the other way and die“ and turned away to my room. I knew this was the end in that hotel. Mr. Bloods would appear with something he called crack, would rat out Mr. Cheese for selling crack what he did not to me and I would end somehow in the arms of criminals, the DEA , police or all. So what to do? Survive the night and leave to Punta Gorda, the fucking mudhole, as it was called by expats in Belize. After half an hour nobody had appeared and I thought that 20 bucks were enough for Mr. Bloods and his brothers to leave me out for more shenanigans. Maybe they would slaughter down Mr. Cheese for attacking their turf. „He wants to talk to you“ Mr. Cheese yelled thru my wooden room door, „that man wants to talk to you, do you understand?“ I opened the door as Sir Walter Raleigh would have looked at him not, but at his feet. „Are the fireants better?“ I asked „You cant smoke crack in my room, man, don't do that again, who sold you that?“ „Where is the black guy“ I asked him without even given notice to his lie rant he had learned somewhere in the white trash territories of Mid West USA to totally squeeze out an visitors and the hand them over to he sheriff. „Outside where we met.“ I went outside and Mr. Bloods stood there with a hollow smile and a gun in the back of his Bermuda shorts, I could tell, because he did not have a belt on before. I knew I had no chance except buying me out, knowing Belize for a while before because I had fraternized a bit with Mr. Cheese on the balcony. They would take me out tomorrow night somewhere in town, if I would pass or I had to stay in my hotel room until the end of times. That was my mistake: just to talk to Mr. Cheese. Instead I should have left with the cool Mexicans from Mexico City there. It is just one tiny micro decision in a country as Belize, that changes ones fate, sometimes forever. Sitting on the common balcony and accepting Mr. Cheese's interesting White Trash rants about everything as in a movie from the nineties instead of the healthy Mexicans. Fucking interesting lingo on that creep also, spiced up by an enormous foot smell. Bloods passed me a small poach of something and demanded 100 Dollars more. That was cheap for my life, I thought and gave him 80. „That's cool“ I said and he agreed by just doing nothing and being silent. I knew now he just gave me some aspirin or his grandmas diarrhea medice but that was good. I rushed into Mr. Cheese's room he left open for me. „Look what have got“ and passed him the poach. „Feel invited“ He did not even hesitate and answer but searched for a tin foil, loaded it with some greyish substance from the Blood's poach and chased the dragon with a bic lighter. His foot smell was suddenly absent. Cheese odor was replaced by a horrible chemical evaporation that filled the room and made me feel to puke and shit. Bloods had just mixed ingredients from his pharmacy to form some horrible grey substance. Cheese did not look too good suddenly, a bit like The Crack's colour. I snapped the poached and ran with it to the toilet. I opened the John and threw the shit into the water. „What are you doing, you fucking asshole, what are you doing? You can't throw away my crack!“. I flushed the toilet and he pushed me away and shoved his arm down where his shit was released into the near carribean sea before. It was sad: Mr. Bloods was gone, his poison was gone, Mr. Cheese was gone too, soon he would leave me alone, I was alive and in good respect with the criminals in Belize City, and the police had no contraband to seize, because Cheese had lost it. I sat down in Cheeses chair again and did not leave now but decided to watch him. „Why did you do that, for Christ sake, why did you do that?“ „ I wanted to save our lives, it smelled bad“ „But we all live to die soon or whatever. What we do now? I mean do you want some girls here? I May ask“ „What is next?! I answered, and he sat there like a statue. „Have a good night“ I said and left to my room, and never heard of the two assholes again, no police arrived and I bought a White Trash cum Bloods and Crips Belize City story for 100 US Dollars. They loved me dearly, Mr. Moustache and his boyfriend in the Milkyway Guesthouse in Punta Gorda. They had just laid out their carpet of intriguing mediocricity for me, to walk on it to be the nice guy from Europe, I thought. I remembered the angry words of my new black friend before: "They are into too many things" I decided not to be, but take them on. They were too much on the asshole side of life and I just could not resist this aura to check it out. "Yeah man, for how long is this story around now?" I bloated out loud. I could not stand the AIDS hypocrisy stories at all, since I had seen to many healthy hookers around the world for too long, for decades then, even in Bangkok Biergarten. It was better than a health and diet council there in the “AIDS time”, they imagined, everybody who wanted to ge laid was there for years, mostly cheering, feasting and greeding for money, jewlery and pussy almost inhibitedly and nobody was suffering from anything but from bad squarehead company sometimes and maybe lost jewlery and an empty bed in the morning.

Two grand moustaches were suddenly fixed in their rough and motionless faces. Pure contempt was oozing out of any pore they had available. "We teach this everywhere and to everyone as anybody does who has responsibility". This hit me as a cheesy fart in an empty bar. I didn't know what came next but I knew I had met the wrong company in Belize again and prepared for war.

I just can't stand this attitude of repeating government newspaper excrements to lost souls and polluting them with it. It is a bit like eating frozen readymade Pizza and belive in an imagined Italian soul in it. And that is a double lie, because there is no Italian soul anybody outside "a family" likes to share and todays Pizza is really a Kitsch swindle as well. Add it to a frozen German supermarket surrogat of the Pizza swindle you are exactly there, where I do not want to be. To add up, an "Italian family" thing usually includes being paranoid about anybody outside the family you met by chance 25 years ago at a fuckin Italian restaurant and talked about the sauce. That is enough for havoc. Another thing nobodys wants when you really know it. And that is exactly the new Beat Wisdom we have today – completely different from the lovely paradigms of the 20^th century and its 70's and 80's that you meet a good soul everywhere with his oder hers unique culture that is sooooo interesting, intriguing, just dive in there and get wisdom for free, honey, it is all good. Kerouac was on of those who got the axe in the head for this, after Dean Morietary and many more. Only Burroughs knew about the evil itself, hidden in everything if you research enough. He decided to play with it too much and searched for it in Ancient Egypt and the Necronomicon. Hassan I Sabbah and the Assasins were one of his pillars of inner knowledge. Coming too close to those always meant schizophrenia for some, slipping into pure evil for less, pretentious behavior for the most and a feeling of greed hat could never be fulfilled for me for example. Seeing that and feeling it at the very beginning I turned away from those energies. Nevertheless, he was the best of the Beatnik bunch, acting out in the world also and had his special way to get alomng that was magic. He needed that bleak and violent energy of gods with faces made out of intestines and faeces to go through the other side. It is just a decision not to do but respect his ways and that bis what I did since I was 16 years old.

I paid for a night to Mr. Moustache and received the room key. I could not resist to take them on again but this time for a harder ride and plced myself next to them on a chair without an invitation and asked for a "big shot of rum". Moustache 2 went inside whlie the other one was staring at me with slight contempt still about what I wanted like "what the fuck do you want here, sport?" and that was exactly what I was longing for. He returned from the hotels kitchen with a water glass half full of a brow liquid that turned into a quite good carribean rum. "A lot of poor blacks here, looked pretty hopeless that btown when I arrived", I said. "That's why it's called mudhole, Punta Gorda". "Who made it a mudhole? I mean the people here are far from being lazy druggers as far as I could get it but just starved out of life, right?!" That made it for me and I knew it, I just could not resist. "Fucking radical thinking on this guy" that Moustache to his friend. I knew what had to do. I emptied my glass of rum, felt a bit dizzy and walked to the toilet in sight, a small hut, independent of the other buildings. When I got out and returned to the table they were yelling: " no drugs in town here, right, no drugs. We do not have anything but some weed here, no coke. "I will check out your bar scene here to get my rocks of" I said, disrespecting their consent to tun me in for soemthing they had not projected but decided to turn against me. They were staring at me in silence, the moustaches motionless in pale empty faces.

I walked along the shoreline to the town centre and knew that I was on a list I had not felt before so intense. I felt like this, this shitty little conversation would have consequences. And I was longing for that, not out of masochism but out of trutherism to know the inner meaning of the fucking littkle sentence "They are into too many things". It did not take more than 10 minutes when group of black and mulatto young to lower middle age boys and girls of the town approached me. "hey man, looking for fun tonight?!" "What do you think, know some cool bar?" "Yeah man, join us, we will take you with us all night if you want". I had a huge hole inside me just from the few sentences I exchanged with the hotel guys and was just feeling released that somebody was not a complete asshole suddenly. Mostly spontaneous meeting like this in Belize lead to bizarre and funny events after while so I was not in distrust. In Hopkins I meet a black guy from the Garifuna tribe who looked close like a Touareg who offered me a ride to the next town in his car. The journey was halted after about 500 meters and I was invited to his sisters home for dining and fucking – the guy never talked about that but the air was full of it. I was into a blacks family wooden palace with a chubby black young woman in pink dress and underwear in front of a giant cooking pot with a giant spoon turning the fish soup inside. Boum were were sitting there an the soup was oin the table steaming into my face and the black girls magnificient ass wiggling in front of me while I tried to eat. Her brother was not inerested at all in that but just shoveling fish into his mouth and throwing the bones on the floor. Our journey went on like this, stopping every kilometre or two to visit family and friends, drinking and smoking until we were back to Hopkins again at midnight totaly drunk and wasted. That could be expected from Belize.the groovy grotesque. But just take care when they slip mickey into your rum. They tried this at Still Grass junction and then drive me into the bush but failed because I exchanged the rum glasses. So I had no bad vibe about the black folks there but something was wrong this time, it was too slick, it missed the roughness of black folks who really bump into you and dig the scenery with you.

We arrived at a dark and strictly local little bar with a lot of room inside and good music where I ordered a beer and was immedatley approached by a nid twenty black girl sliping next to me and laid her arms around my hips and crawling around with her fingers. That felt good and I went with it and we strated kissing around when another female voice said: "you two birds should move away into privacy before you fuck here in the back in front of all, you hear me". That was even more flattering when I felt my purse was removed, my pockets were emptied and they all tried to catch my money belt. I felt the click in my head and saw myself rsing up, jumping at the purse thief, catching him and telling him in loud, stern voice: "give me the purse back, you Mofo, keep the money in it, we stay friends here." He handed me the purse, I tok out al the moeny, about 80 $ handed it over jumped around and yelled as loud as I could: " beer and trum for al and everybody here, all free now, nothing has happened." That turned everone into a calm and silnet mood again, I didn't even look at my girlfriend anymore whe the bottles arrived. The rum came some minutes later and I nplayed as if nothing ever happened and that worked out. Try it in Belize, it worked then. Hours later I stumbled home at the shoreline again and nobody harassed me at all but I knew the scene was set up by the Moustaches to teach me a lesson: stay with the white assholes who turned everything into a mudhole inside the fort and shut the fuck up. The walls in Milky Way Guesthouse were paper thin, the room was a disastre and felt like many bad things had happened there. I tried to sleep and could not. The moustaches were down there.

"Anthropology is just a piece of shit if we do not fight for the people we do research on", a tall blond muscular guy with long hair and pony tail shouted. "We can not do just research with participant observation all the time while our people get fucked over with impunity." I listened to The Owl's and his frieds rants for quite a time without being really interested. It was to flat, that theory was to flat, made for people without any experience on the beat and hippe trails of that world in 70's and 80's. Just as the MG's rants about all and everything we had to witness day by day in the early 80's especially until 1989. The Marxist Group of clean and unspoiled Marxism. It did not feel like reality but as a movie script made by some scientists. "Action Anthropology is the only we we can continue with Ethnology and Anthropology without being traitors, otherwise we have to stop" they yelled in Bonn anthropology department. Later they continued in Cologne with the same lingo and attack on us. Was that radical? Not even that, it was mediocre to walk into people in the Third world as an Anthropologist and then teach some revolution, that was cheesy and phony and it smelled like young girls wishful thinking. I you know the ways of the authorities in Third World countries, somebody with a brain would never start a revolution or uprising like this: on a plate for being shot down. I never engaged in radical politics out of anthropological departments per se, that was an unspoken rule if you were serious about things there and protecting yourself and the people down under. That was the most serious lesson of the Beats I had learned on my trails around the world – knowing the AOI - and exactly that was looked down upon by radical anthropologist. That bis why they failed in both: revolution and science.

"There is a meeting of action anthropolgists in the hills outside Cologne a sympathtic fellow student told me. "Join us there, it is important, a professor form the US wil be there". The guy had long curly brown hair, late twenties and was full of energy. He was one of the real guys in Bonn and Cologne but always on the open side of things even when they brought back our people in body bags from Central America or buried them there in the jungle. But ok, I thought, this is just about Native American shit in the US, who cares, no guns invlved, just lame US things and I was not involved in this at all, I was in the Asian wisdom thing still, somehow and regarded any close contact with US affairs as a suicide attack on myself after their performance in Central America in he 80's, after Peanut Jimmy from Georgia gave us a free ride into a better world with his own Beat that no one would have ever expected in the late 70's after Nixon and Ford.

"We all have to fight again and again for the Red Indians, no one can ever get out of it if you are an anthropologist by heart" the US professor said in a convincing and phony slimetone. It was just like the session with esoteric communities where the invited Red Indians from "spiritual backgrounds". We always looked at each other, did not talk about it and felt a bad rush at our back moving up and down. The AOI had his presence there but had no clue only our gut feeling and that meant: fight but survive.

I looked away so his gloomy and interested eyes could not meet mine in the hills east of Cologne in 1989. He was eager to know me there and get close, that was crawling up and down my spine there and I played the Ex hippie with the India bias, not the Red Indian. The Owl was there and was watching too. My colleague from university who brought me there tried to convince fellow students to meet him privately to "get things on" later.  "He is just a youngster" I thought, who should be out on the mean roads of the world, "man start with a brothel in Istanbul or a bus through Honduras but shut the fuck up". "It is not the time" I told him, "not here and now, do you get this? And who are those Red Indians surrounded by the mightiest army in the world? Think!" I said and left.

Three days later I visited the library of the Anthropological Department in Cologne where they were waiting for me with a tabloid newspaper. Our fellow stúdent was shot dead by Cologne police the night before in the middle of the southern town of Cologne by order of the AOI. They gave him a full page photo on the frontpage and shot him from his bycicle. "They police is here and wants to know his friends" the left wing German professor told me with a disgustingly slimy grin while walking only to me. He was the star of the institute teaching about texts of the Red Brigades in Italy in discourse analysis. And waited for interested hand signs of the students – I never gave him one. The Red Brigades of Italy were even worse than the MG and their action group, the RAF of the police and the AOI and had to fuck themselves.

After the party in Punta Gorda with my wanna be robber friends, courtesy by the AOI, I woke up and they were waiting for me with a slimy smile for breakfast in the Milky Way Guesthouse. "Here, have a free milk shake". I took the glass and poured it on the floor in front of the two Moustaches and got the fuck out of there. I saw one of them an hour later crossing over to Guatemala by ferry to buy and sell children for rich fucks. He was steaming with hatred, that I had all my money and made friends with the wanna be robbers and murderers who were paid to stab me down by him and his friend but did not do anything for them. He could not believe that he and his friend were my prey from now on when I smiled at him when his ferry left with him to Guatemala.

Copyright by Ronald C. Kaiser 2020