How might a VON STAUFFENBERG be disposed in TODAY GERMANY?

Having been incarcerated repeatedly in Ward 5A ( An enclosed ward with outdoor privileged sanctioned by some so-called PSYCHIATRISTS who really just cut and paste bullshit reports, often longer than 10 pages.) I was literally locked in a ward with NO FRESH for 1 MONTH, without OUTDOOR PRIVILEDGE. AND IF SO, I HAD TO BE ACCOMPANIED. IT was for "pre-cautionary measure" because I burnt some paper in this cesspool of cigarette stubs called an ASH TRAY. There is a SMOKING ROOM that one can freely enter. It seems all patients in 5A smoked incessantly.

The WHOLE WARD is designed to make you ILL AND SICK. There is only what amounts to a L-Shaped Corridor, probably in total as max 20 metres long. If you don't have OUTDOOR PRIVIDGE, that's your only form of exercise. This corridor is a perfect fire tunnel, with literally no EMERGENCY OUTLETS. There is a fire hose. But it either locked up or broken. Definitely as useless piece of junk among other junks. There is no after thought for WHAT HAPPENS IF A PATIENT DECIDES TO LIGHT UP THEIR CURTAINS. In my PSYCHOSES, I fantasised WHAT IF SOMEHOW THERE'S A WAY TO CONNECT ACROSS ALL THE SCATTERED BUILDINGS that form Bremen Öst. AND COORDINATE A SIMULTANEOUS BONFIRE, burning EVERYONE AND THE WHOLE WRENCHED COMPLEX TO COMPLETE ASHES.

From the outside, with old buildings scattered across lots of lawn, it actually looks quite like the fabled Bletchley Park, with Turing worked his wizzardry. Btw, has anyone one even bothered to read his seminal paper? It gave me a headache not unlike being electrocuted. The whole paper is basically what seem to be formulas after formulas. He only briefly mention MEMORY in just a few words. It's astounding for someone who built all these clock like mechanicals, when if you read about Turing's biography, is his attempt to resurrect a BOYHOOD CRUSH.

As far as I am concerned TURING's WORK (actually belaboured by women) belongs not in serious scientific papers about AI. It belongs to the pantheon of VICTORIAN GOTHIC NOVELS, like the non-fictional version of Marry Shelley's FRANKENSTEIN. One man's repressed grief and rage against God, so that he may resurrect his boyhood crush. The whole fabled of how Turing defeated the Enigma, stopped further carnage (not even adding OPPENHEIMER to the picture), is an attempt to resurrect Christopher Morcom back from the dead.

So today, we are surrounded by many FRANKENSTEINS meet METROPOLIS MARIE. Right on that APEX is none other than the longest Alpha there is, Elon Musk. Even Bezos is saner in compparison (I credit him for enabling second books lovers me to access troves across the world, actually Amazon Germany is a great source for these discarded books. It's also very affordable). Musk is THE AFRIKAAN PER EXCELLENCE, hiding in plain site. How can the world's richest person channel the Earth's precious and very limited resources based on boyhood fantasies of COLONISING a planet that clearly has not evolved together with the rise of Homosapiens?

Elon Musk is that mad scientist with a permanently bad day, like he has his finger permanently glued to a device that creates electrostatic hair. Fritz Lang' vision is still astounding aicheivement of the Weirmar period. I rank it as the best ever cinematic acheivement of not just the 20th Century, but a message in the bottle bobbling in the ocean for each new generation to decode. Citizen Kane is no match for Metropolis. It's just an Agatha Christie version with a twist ending, where the reader's perception is totally disrupted.

Frankly, it's not so different from the stories that I indulgence in writing that none of my Modernist teachers understand. All due respect, Mrs Crawford, it's not the character than needs to change, the kind of Hero's Journey that Hollywood can only tune out. George Lucas, how about reading ARISTOTLE BEFORE READING JOSEPH CAMPBELL? Why not instead of the character going through Jesus Ephinany in the Desert character arch, why not change the READER'S PERCEPTION?

I've got to say I now thinking I deserve the top English prize (so there Leigh Sanderson!). I wrote a story that started out from1st person's perspective, someone full of rage, in the end, the big twist (not unlike Fight Club) is that the reader discovers this hell raising character is an Australian BUSHFIRE. I am an quintessential AUSTRALIAN WRITER wuth many other sensibilities infused in my creations. Like the poem I wrote together with that notorious photo essay where I justaposed snaps of my cousin's wedding, mostly low angle shots ala Leni Reifenstahl with Neo Nazis Rants, quoted from the Australian Bulletin. It was a time when Racism did not stop at Sydney University's gates. In toilets, there were stickers with No Chinamen signs.

On lecturer,(please lets get back to a time when Lecturing is not the same as some hyperluted professorship designed to structure the Publish or Perish Eugenics Dogma that plagued Higher Education WORLDWIDE, governed by the tyranny of the H Index), whose wife is Thai, was standing by the City Road busstop, right at the gateway to Sydney University, some one threw a cup of urine on her. Actually, that was once this very rare occassion I had been targetted myself. I was staring blankly when this punkish girl, disturbed my thoughts, with this out of the blue snicker: Wat za staring at Chink? On my way out of the bus, she stretched out her Doc Marten in an attempt to trip me over. Neo Nazis were burning Asian owed shops. In Foreign Policy class, private school boys openly claim that Indonesia could invade Australia any time, an assertion that the Lecturer, think that was Keith Sutherland back in the golden era of Gareth Evans as Foreign Affairs Head, did not even bother to challenge such ridiculous assertions. Get real! It is hordes of Australian tourists invading Bali.

Yes I have derailed from the plot (which one?) again, but I would like to add that otherwise bus rides back and thro to Sydney Uni were like the community Living Room. There's always someone you know and bump into, the ride is usually just long enough for some catch up chatter like Wat ya been up to? My sometimes better, sometimes not half, would say, give her time, she always come full circle...

I want to go back to Metropolis and the Weimar period. Actually I think I do owe a fair of allegiance to all that provactions with Absurdity Theatre and Entarte Kunst. Actually I am influenced by everyone and everywhere, but ultimately my sensibility is Australian. I no longer remember my poem in THAT HONI SOIT ISSUE. But fellow Honi Editor, an a poet himself, said he liked it. But it has totally bypassed another Honi ed altogether. Nicole Moore, do you not see that poem was written like a Lawson / Paterson's ballad, only that instead of the Man from the Snowy River, it is my parents' odessey as refugees arriving on Australian shores.

I do hold grudges, now in my reflection. Whose idea was it to give the same mark for both terms in Semiotics? We all worthship at the foot of Liz Grosz' penetrating stare in her overflowing seminars right inside the ivory tower of the ivory tower, the main quad (yes anyone can zigzag across the lawn). There Grosz would weave her spellbinding discussions from Pierce, Barthes, looping around Foucault and ultimately Derrida.

Frankly, now I say with couldn't just simply condense he unreadable wank with just this: the logic of Western binary should not be used under the operation OR, but rather AND. Due to time constraints, I submitted my essay, written in a graveyard shift that annoys the hell out of my sister, my room mate because of that frickin light, to two courses. One for Philosophy and one for Fine Arts, the former returned with credit and the latter with distinction. One Earth shattering thing I really took in earnest from Grozs is that assiduously made lots of comments in the margins, ALL WRITTEN NOT IN RED INK, BUT IN PENCIL. It is the most profound gesture that I emulate as a marker.

Anyway, was it Liz or was it Terry Threadgold who dangled 84.5% final assessment mark for both semesters in Semiotics? At the time, I innocently thought, damn, yet so near and yet so far. Half a percentage to HIGH DISTINCTION! Now I think it's an act of cruelty, from supposedly liberal/ liberated/ progressive scholars. Perhaps even racist. Then there is Patricia Springboard from the the Philosophy of Technology class. I wrote this incredible essay of how cars are designed allow sexual lines, focusing especially on the front grill design. A measley Credit. Bitcht!

In my typical inimical way, I included great images to go with the essay, printed by my way too slow dot matrix Mac Printer while minutes mean mean catching the secretary before she closes the office.

Not to mention that my parents remorgaged to pay for that Mac SII, only for the friend who wrote one of my essay to stuff up what think was the harddrive. I didnt get around to have it repaired within warranty. My friend Malcolm, another one of those geeky genius at the time, came over with a few floppies, couldn't resusciate it. And the tech repairs guy, like everybody else, didn't have one of those asterisk screw drivers. W

hen I first arrived in Oldenburg, I carted it with me togther with folders and folders of photocopied texts. I only kept my thesis and threw out all my other essays. I wasn't sure what I would do with the Mac, where I ended up writing my thesis with just 2 floppies, one for the Word programme, and the other for my thesis drafts. As for the Mac, I twist and turn, undecided for quite a time, whether to treat it as some heirloom piece or sale it. When I looked carefully at the box packaging that my dad, like he grad wrapped the Britannica, had kept the packaging intact to protect something that costed $2500 as compared to my original HECs debt of $9000 for 5 years of undergraduate study spanning across triple major. Anyway, this cardboard boxes were WHITE, as in A4 WHITE. Arsehole! For that fancy cardboard, my parents paid with blood and sweet. I ended selling the lot on eBay for 10 Euro. I am no fan of Steve Jobs. He hyperluted ship looks like a tank. And Jonathan Ivy, might have had the midus touch with Jettison "BONDI BLUE", but his influence comes mostly from the teutonic sensiblity of Braum, Hugo Boss and Ann Sanders. Streamlined, minimum details, all surfaces but no skin. And what dickhead would design a circular building in the name of collaboration and cross fertilisation. He should just add a tower in the middle and call it the Panapticon.

Which finally (at last girl, says Flora Chan) brings me back to BREMEN-ÖST. What dickhead would design a mental asylum with intersecting Hexagons. The disorientation is real. Same with 5A, that corridor, the lighter get brighter and brighter as the evening dawns. Even in the highest state "security" (like who's fucking safety) solitary confinement in the US, is there a mandated 1 hour outdoor a day? Even Aleksei Navalny in Putin's Siberian Gulag, did he not get that 1 hour outdoors? I try not to google and just play guessing memory games with myself.

For some one with an instinctual capacity swerve and meander out of any confinement, I have a deep fascination with those capable of surving and enduring under years, decades in solitary confinements. Jaycee Dugard, Natasha Kampusch, Elizabeth Friztl (most repulsive example), the Angola 3, and the Justaposition of combining and comparing 2 very similar and yet starkly different cases: China's Last Emperor, Puyin and Nelson Mandela. Why is there not a biopic of Mandela's time during his 27 years imprisonment? His Road to Freedom is very much of his development as an unruly hot headed activist and his triumphant return as the grey haired statesman. This development happened all under incarceration. In a cell perhaps smaller than my walkin (6m2). Strangely even when released, he recreated the same configuration of his decades long confinement.

Finally!!!!!!

This now brings me back to the story of Torsten, the Von Stauffenberg of Today. I first noticed Torsten, where he worked as a volunteer for this little coffee shop run by ex-inmates for inmates. At the time, I have no idea, but my 7 year old, according to her dad's retelling, asked him to contact the Jugendamt (staffed by incompetent so called social workers who is clueless about Family Therapy, as we as a family eventually discovered). In one swoop action, a letter arrived. No due procedures, not subtle investigation like in Oz where they got kids to draw and chat. ZILCH! Bang right there, I was notified that I had temporary lost custody of my kids, something I had assiduously being the first Australian to get a Consent Order in the absence of a divource. That Consent Order allowed me to bring my brats back to Australia with the neck chain of the Hague Convention.

Shit did hit the fan because this whole Police bullshit was triggered by not my better half 's inability to take that I meant METAPHORICALLY, I am just going to burn everything. He was lying in hospital with yet another severe outbreak of Neurodermatitis, like The Singing Detective, our favourite Dumbledon to the X & Y Gen. Like the character my not better half was bandaged almost like a mummy, actually it isnhe who was inflamed.

International relocations are real nightmares. We had already done several loops because of the precarious nature of Academia labour that pretty puts you on par with Food Delivery workers. A higher salary, but same uncertainty. I have definitely played a huge influence on my not better Half. The guy struggled to write a paragraph despite scoring the jackpot of being PUBLISHED IN NATURE for his Diplom. He did not even know how to apply for a job, having simply worked his butt off through University, just easily progressing from stage A to Stage Z. I was his TECHNICAL EDITOR for his first English publication. I knew nothing about his Specialty, and I thought how can anyone find fun in a WINDOWLESS LAB, SURROUNDED BY LIQUIDS AND GLASS. But I totally cleaned up his paper. How? By just deploying my finely hooned Functional Grammar skills, polished by the now non existent tutelage of a one to one tutoring with endless time (Arlene, where are you?). I just bracketed my way through his paper. Actually, we are a perfect complement. His work was about how NATURE COMMUNICATES, like through Pheromones etc. I am interested in how PEOPLE COMMUNICATE.

I always thought, I could go anywhere in the world and I'll find my feet on solid ground simply by the virtue of my Chameleon capacity for SELF RE-INVENTION. Wrong! I had suspended my Masters to accommodate our transition to Bremen. Decades in making, he finally got TENURED. In between he was an Economic Refugee, bouncing from continents to continents. For this tenureship, we waited for 2 YEARS between his interview and his offer of acceptance. I played no small part in helping him to secure this tenure. He practicesed his Lecture presentation on me and my brat number 1. We both fell asleep. It was MY IDEA TO RECONFIGURE THE WHOLE LECTURE. I started with the iconic opening of TARTORT. Then he would present a crime scene. The crime scene would then launch into the Science of what ever he does to identify compounds through use of lightwaves. Then, he added his gimmick with jelly babies. Bonza, the students representatives LOVED IT, and he admits no one since could top that presentation. He went a head, leaving me to sell what I thought would be my final home run, back in Sydney, where I always planned to grow old and fat.

Basically I am the investment banker and he is a great accountant. We eached played to our strengths, I could stomach and maneuver my way through huge sums of money, knowing astutely how to scale the wealth building process. It was my familtpy business before being forced to be refugees. Like the success stories of many astute overseas Chinese, it's in the blood when it came to entrepreneurial clan based manufacturing, that very engine which drive the rise of the Asian Tigers. At a time, when Li Kai Shing was couching in a street stall hawking through plastic flowers MADE IN HK, my dad had already pivotted from lending comic strips (he counted the pages when they are returned, soy sauce bottle lids until an employee stole his mould, then he pivotted to eventually printing medicine packaging, then to some special chemical that produced something like pvc cladding equivalent at the time, then switching to raincoats and rubber boots for the US government. The US government still owes us payments but they defaulted. Another story.

This my dad did as Vietnam transitioned from French Colony, the Japanese Invasion (horrendous, my maternal grandmother witnessed someone literally pumped with water until he exploded), where my mum's family actually headed to Hongkong, only having to return to Cholon, another story. My dad kept pivotting through the partition, the CIA's arrival, then some troupes, and then more, whilst Saigon exploded leftbright cenntre from day to night, daytime belinged to US, nighttime belonged to the Vietcong. My dad acheived these transitions seamlessly by being self taught, in different languages and different Sciences. All in the absence of Libraries and definitely no Google. The whole Enterprise employed the whole clan, even my mum's brother was the cook. He did have a few non family like his Vietnamese secretary. He indigenised and reverse engineered from Sales Brochures, especially the German ones. Instead of machines powered by electricity, he changed to mechanical engineering. We were finished arrived in Bremen, we headed to Munich and visited the Technology Museum. I recognised my dad's machineries straight away, especially those heavy rolling presses which his brother poured most of the capital into endless expansion, instead of sending the capital to safehaven like Hk (as my dad had preferred after the Tet Offensive).

My not better half family business were accountanting, tailoring (I am still lumped with Oma's sewing machine), and both parents in teaching. They count pennies whereas I have no interests in such trivialities. Together we are perfect complements. Worked reasonably most of the time. With each move, I took on doing what Aussies and Americans do best or obsess about - doing up houses. Only I don't flip. I am the architect, he's sort of the builder. I designed the furnitures, he built them. Etc, etc, I am trying to there, patience people! I was left to sell our Terrace in Sydney, no small feat. My sister and my dad helped. My dad, a natural, switching from Vietnamese, back to Cantonese and to Mandarin. The prospectives buyers loved him, he came across so down to Earth, not like those smooth talking agents. Again, I was the first to break in the one of MorDOCH local papers, the last stream of advertising still pouring in via Real Estates ads. Only real estate agents are allowed to advertised. I did it in through an intermediary. But I did tell them off for sticking ads for prospective sellers on my webpage. So one of petty nasties avenged by totally blown the scale of the ad. It would not normally be noticeable as a Pdf, but I spotted the font size minutes before it was going to press. It could have sabotaged everything with this blown up ad next to hyper polished ads by agents staffed by different spatialists. I was a one man band. The ad campaign time in Sydney is just 1 month. The idea is to push as many people through the door, even most were just noisy busy bodies. We are talking about $30,000 campaigns. That's the average. Plus I was pretty much handling practically our whole assets.

Yes I was extremely successful, ironically with the buyers who were the previous agent who actually failed to sell this very terrace. I told them the repairs that they should pay attention to, but it just washed over their heads. I was worried that they would let the Heritaged listed Terrace to rot. Only about a year ago, they put it back on the market. Painting all that hardwood features in white. The whole garden has been razed. Not a single plant left. They were the last trees where cockatoos, parrots, mapipes, and even Kookaburras rosted, making this whole noisy cacophony of croacking (Aussie birds are LOUD like as Cantonese). It was the best feature of the house as the sunset in its magnificent hues that I have only seen in Sydney. In this urban juggle, we even had a goanna. Scared the shit out of me when I first saw just its head - fuck, a massive snake! I don't recommend anyone selling their house themselves in Sydney. I felt like I had just narrowly avoided a major frontal car collision. It was in this mindset, that I arrived in Bremen.

As a reward for my dad's and my sister's contribution, I flew my niece and my dad over for a visit. It was when shit hit the fan, starting with that clogged toilet in houseboat we rented in Amsterdam. My dad, having not rode on a bike for half of a century, managed with my equal half cycling a tandem. Stress was bubbling to the surface. Worst yet, we were sleeping on the floor before that fourty container arrived. It stuffed up my shoulder blades. His stress exploded with full blown Neurodermatitis. Still, he found 3 hoursnto talk his right hand man whilst in the hospital. Only previously, he left me to deal with that cunt (his wording) of a landlady. The shower door wasn't sealed probably, the drain was blocked, which turn out to be a roting rat blocking the pipe.

Here I was, a well travelled global metropolitan sophisticate, and she had the audacity to insinuate (Germans do this often, they use subtle gestures to try to provoke you, then you screwed up if you dare to express anger) that I DIDN'T KNOW HOW TO USE A SHOWER, coming from someone who has definitely seen less showers than I have. Her plumber took several sessions to seal the shower door, not without using my thick large white towel as a rag to wipe off the gunk. It totally stunned me, SUCH LEVEL OF UNPROFESSIONALISM AND DISRESPECT. I have traveled North South East West, and I have never encountered such malicious disrespect.

After a decade here, I CONCLUDE LOTS OF GERMANS (hell yeah, I am entitled to conclude) have inferiority complex, prone to envy and resentment, insecure about what it means to be a German (only if the Mannschaft is winningnthe World Cup), petty, parochial, repressed rage, sadistic which goes hand in hand with Schadenfreund and ABOVE ALL, SELF DISRESPECTFUL. I am saying based on my encounters in Bremen, which even my German teacher from the South complain bitterly about this Hanseatic State. Oldenburg was different, but that was 20 years ago. The social climate has definitely deteriorated. Alot.

RESPECT HAS TO START WITH YOURSELF BEFORE YOU CAN RESPECT OTHERS. Why would one touch a dead rate, a dead raven, scoop up dog shit if only to terrorise your target. Why would you waste several weekends gathering mugful of Dandoleins seeds?

To be continued....

I know of 1 case where such reports go on LONGER than 100 pages. This is a story about the Von Stauffenberg of Today.

These reports, if one actually give a go at reading it, rather trashing it into the bin by reflex, are literally GIBBERISH.