A Contemplative Journey
I consider it a privilege having had problem parents, and no ideal parents.
The problems helped them to cope with life, and they made me learn coping with life. While I know that most people in hedonistic consumer society want enjoyment, I myself, as early as in childhood, set out my life for learning. Learning for me is enjoyment, and the most delicious form of it.
I was a passive learner, picking up whole patterns of knowledge instead of single tidbits. I knew as a child that all is connected in a quantum universe, without however being able to express that insight in words. You can also term it active learning and passive learning. I may have learnt actively more from females, but passively more from males. For example, I may have learnt intellectually more from the females in my family. From the males, I may have learnt to oppose. To drink. To be nasty. To be indecisive. To be weak. To be dependent. And to a certain extend also, to be aggressive.
I saw a lot of boredom in my family. That taught me the value of being busy. I was busy since my youngest years. I remember that my mother sent me for shopping when she was ill; I was just three years old at the time, and with the money purse in my hand I adventurously crossed even major roads without child protection. Fortunately so. And luckily that at least at that time, my mother was not overly obsessed with my security. Later she was and that almost drove me crazy.
That boredom was not natural. My parents were intelligent. Their boredom was resistance. It was the result of a missed life.
Both of my parents were living missed lives, or at least believed they had missed their lives. They were talking about nothing else — or almost.
And accordingly, I set out my life, as early as in boyhood, to assisting people lost in conditioning and imitation, to find their truth, their own truth. To build their real identity, to become authentic.
My frame of mind being large and cosmopolitan, I have been highly suspicious from childhood regarding sexual, political, social and spiritual conditioning. Following my intuition, I knew early in life that I was bisexual, and had a tendency for loving the young and immature. For this and other reasons, I consciously avoided to get immersed in any grouping, maintaining from high school a sort of happy marginality and an extremely small circle of friends.
It’s not the luckiness of being well groomed. Not at all. It’s the lucky wisdom that comes from suffering, from a difficult childhood. It’s strength. It’s true soul power.
All true development is self-development and all real developmental aid is assistance for self-development. It is with this perspective in mind that I work and create, educate and coach, and live a life of social service. The only real teaching is the teaching of spiritual laws and values, as all terrestrial laws and values are only valid as far as they correspond to their higher spiritual counterparts. In my thorough analysis of laws of consent, or sex laws, I found that they do in no way correspond to spiritual laws as what they do is not protect but enslave the child, not safeguard personal integrity, but render personal integrity a statutory fiction.
Most important in life is self-affirmation and the conviction to swim in one’s own waters and follow one’s intuition, thus keeping true to one’s inborn nobility. I am indeed convinced that every creature possesses an individual, personal nobility. I am not talking here about the nobility of castes or nobility as a social privilege, but about the nobility of personal integrity which mirrors the purity of one’s original soul being. It is in this quality that every creature participates in the nobility of abundant creation, and thus partakes in the creator principle.
It’s the spirit that grants man true nobility. And as there is nothing impure what mind has not made it so, man is not in any way limited in the forms and manners he wishes to live, construe and build his world. What is beautiful is naturally good and love knows no shame and no harm.
Spirituality is individual, intimate and private as is sexuality. Organized spirituality is obscene and besides that, ineffective. It cannot replace our personal quest for truth, the way of realizing our true self. All sorrow for finding truth tends to drive us away from soul, instead of having us embrace soul. We only have to accept grace. Then we live with grace.
Many are lost in the empty promises of gurus, saviors and heroes and deny their own inner guide, relegating themselves and their Way, their Tao, to garbage. Truth is not searchable and not follow-upable. It’s only findable. It simply is. In our hearts. I made the same mistake. I searched. Yet I was lucky because one day I discovered that I was found. And with the search, the searcher disappeared.
More cannot be said about spirituality. Really not.
The organ differs from the cembalo by a mysterious tenderness of its softer registers, those that are primarily used for choral play. While the cembalo also has softer registers than the really aggressive Plenum, the difference in timbre is that the organ pipes whereas the cembalo hammers. Soul is breath, the breath of life. It circulates within and around us — and this breath is the soul of the organ. In love it’s like in music. Sometimes it pipes, sometimes it hammers, but there should always be soul in it, because otherwise it’s but about piping or hammering.
My relationship with tradition seems to differ from what is accepted.
For me tradition is dynamic. Today however tradition is but the rigid form of endlessly repeated rituals. That is stagnated tradition, not living tradition.
Maurice Béjart once defined how he sees tradition. The journalist asked the famous choreographer in an interview if he, as the avatar of modern ballet was not per se an iconoclast? Béjart replied that, in the contrary, all his artistic creations were founded upon classical ballet; in this tradition he had grown and through classical ballet he had learnt to dance. Without this tradition, he explained, not one of his many choreographic inventions and innovations had been possible. And more generally, for Béjart every artist is something like an assimilator of tradition because no art was thinkable without tradition.
And the task of the great artist was exactly to renew the tradition through his own personal seed, his artistic sperm, so to say, in order to create a new form of art that was in its uniqueness fostering and developing the tradition it was founded upon.
From childhood I felt I had, not like Goethe, two souls in my chest, but three souls. I was artist, scientist and lover.
This ancient triplicity has been reduced to a duality that can be seen in German literature not only in the antinomy Faust vs. Mephisto, but is expressed also by Hermann Hesse in Narcissus and Goldmund or by Thomas Mann as the artist-citizen problem in Demian, and can as well be found in the music of Robert Schumann as Eusebius and Florestan; it actually pervades all German romantic poetry.
What is symptomatic here, and in the whole of Western culture, is that art followed mathematics, in following the Euclidian principle of tertium non datur. In good English, the lover was constantly overlooked and denied in those dualistic schemes of personal reality.
It goes back to the concept of logical duality as we find it for the first time with the Eleatic school, Parmenides, Plato, Demokritus and Aristotle, or in the old myth of Castor and Pollux. The human psyche is a landscape populated with many entities or psychic energies. To conclude, there is not only a triplicity, but a multiplicity, in our psychic setup.
I have nothing to say about marriage. Some can manage. Some not. In many marriages I observed an infantile symbiosis between the partners that haunts me when I witness it. Man talks about Mummy when talking about woman, and woman talks about Daddy when talking about man. Marriage in our culture is a madhouse. Or an ersatz, but nothing genuine.
Most marriages are enormous waste-reservoirs of human potential; time and energy gone to nuts that could have served a really constructive purpose. Needless to add that most marriages are programmed from the start to end in trial and destruction, for self and other. Not to talk about the devastating consequences for the children partaking in disastrous marriages and conflictual divorce.
I would like to end this philosophical note with a saying by Johann Sebastian Bach that every composition is already a transcription. Bach meant it’s only by transcribing the original idea that is a pure thought-form into mental or sensual expression that art, literature or music can be created. By the same token, every statement is a transcription of truth. And truth is beauty.
Looking at my career pattern, I can see that anxiety was doing a lot of damage. It is hard to say if the anxiety and disturbing timidity to affirm myself was the result of my pre-life karma, or the humiliations I suffered in childhood, or else a pattern that was molded by a mother who throughout her life complained to suffer from a basic life angst that she never really tried to overcome.
Probably, all three factors contributed to distill a lot of angst in me, and this anxiety was just spoiling all in my younger years of professional realization. This constant anxiety also let me procrastinate much more often than going forward with an idea, and many projects were prematurely dropped because of that fear pattern. However, looking positively at it, I must say that I am amazed at some of my achievements as they really needed a great deal of courage. However, social, academic or financial reward has not followed any of these achievements.
Shame, guilt and fear are a terrible union of disempowering forces and real inhibitors on our way to successful mastery of our lives.
I have tried to find ways to understand this pattern by looking at it from different perspectives. For example, I tried to find this pattern in the lives of famous and successful people, but I found it very seldom. It was present in the lives of, for example, Vincent van Gogh or Juan Miró, and the anxiety pattern was strongly present in the life of the pianist Svjatoslav Richter.
However, Richter did not show any signs of shame and guilt and the anxiety was thus much more a result of his titanic ambitions than a residue of any karmic or childhood pattern.
Where I found the pattern closest to mine was in the life of Charlie Chaplin, but his autobiography is by far not intimate enough to retrace how the shame-and-guilt complex manifested, while the anxiety was well present and consciously mastered by Chaplin. We are all different and comparing ourselves with others by looking at the talents and accomplishments of people can only be an additional element in an analysis that focuses on the unique accomplishments of one’s own life and mission.
And again, a pattern-oriented and cyclic analysis helps comprehend one’s life, and also to make it understandable for others; and it’s much more functional for this purpose than a linear and timeline-based account of facts.
When I take up again the shame-guilt-anxiety pattern, I can find it not only in my own life cycle, but I can detect it also in the lives of family members, grandparents, parents, uncles, and even outside of the family, in teachers I have known, in the girlfriends I have had, and so on.
Now let us explore more in detail where this unique combination of guilt, shame and anxiety was to be found earliest in my childhood and all around me in my family. After that, we are going to look how I could somewhat alleviate, during adolescence, the burden this pattern brought to my life.
When I look at my grandparents, I hardly can find the pattern. For example, in the life of my grandfather, the pattern seems to be absent, but this may be due to lacking information about the intimate details of his existence.
Regarding my maternal grandmother, in the many talks I had with her during my childhood and youth, it appeared that she and her husband both made something like a straight career, but that she never had what today we call a childhood. She was working from her most tender age for the bakery of her parents, and had to get up at four in the morning for taking out the breads and cakes, whatever the weather was, in the neighborhood and even farther than that. One of her repeated sayings was My mother never ever took me in her arms! Her father seems to have been a harsh and even brutal man without finesse, and supposedly also without a real education, while my grandmother, contrary to her sisters, suffered all her life from a real thirst for learning, and tried to compensate for her missed education by reading and traveling extensively later on in life. She reported that her childhood was pretty much a shame-and-guilt kind of thing and that anxiety was something so natural to them as eating and drinking. The father’s fist was never really far and small mistakes were harshly punished.
About my grandfather’s childhood I know nothing and I have never known him in person. I only have a few anecdotes to share that my grandmother told me and that my mother repeated like a living tape-recorder throughout her life. He had married young yet his wife turned crazy during the first night of their marriage. Later it was found that the marriage had been a cunning arrangement of the girl’s father because it then appeared that the girl was mentally disturbed since her childhood, a fact that had been carefully hidden in front of my grandfather until the marriage was consumed. I do not know if my grandfather, as a result of this unusual event had experienced shame, guilt or anxiety. My grandmother never mentioned any of this when she was talking about him. For both my grandmother and my mother, he was the ideal husband and father until, slightly over sixty, he died of a terrible bladder cancer. My mother was fourteen when she lost her father.
When I explore the level of my mother’s generation, I see the pattern, and very much so. There are several circumstances that were quite unusual and that made later on for a lot of stress in the lives of these four children. My grandfather, because of the emotional shock he had suffered from his first marriage, waited until he was forty-nine to marry again. And he chose the mother of my grandmother, until he first visited her house and saw her daughter. Then he frankly expressed his desire to marry my grandmother who was at that time just nineteen years old. This age difference of thirty years later had of course an impact once all four children were born because the younger children, my mother and her younger brother, experienced her father as an elder who was small, egg-formed and bold, and not as a young and dynamic man. However, this was not an impediment for love.
My mother always said she had been her father’s favorite while it seemed he gave more of the greater favors to her older sister who at fourteen got her own bank account. For my father, to be brilliant in school was the most important, and my mother’s sister was really brilliant. She played Liszt on the piano like a grown pianist, already as a child, and she had a wonderful voice and sang Beethoven Lieder, and school was just nuts for her. She was loved by everybody.
My mother very strongly incarnated the shame-guilt-anxiety pattern in all of her life. While she stressed with almost an obsession how kind and gentle her father had been with her, when she had drunk, she used to tell an anecdote that threw some different light:
He could not stand when somebody was lying or stealing. And once an apple was missing in the fruit bowl and the suspicion fell upon me to have stolen that apple, while I had been innocent, and he had beaten me up with such a brutal violence that I managed to escape, ran down the stairs, out of the door and right to the house of my Jewish girlfriend Alice … where I felt safe. Later he was harshly admonished by my gouvernante and my mother to have done wrong, but it was too late. Something in me was broken in some way …
Another of those key stories of her young life regarded her relationship with the two brothers, one older and one younger than her. I felt that most of her guilt, shame and anxiety was resulting from the accidented relationship with the older brother. And for both she was strangely enough expected to be some kind of servant, whereas there were several maids around. In her endless repetitions, I got to hear this story, as all the others, a thousand times in my childhood and youth:
I had to iron their trousers. I never understood why I had to do that because we had several servants. But my mother expected me to do it. And one day, I will never forget it, my brothers just threw their trousers at my feet and in their grinning faces was not the slightest spur of respect. I was just a servant for them, and they treated me worse than they treated our maids. This was the greatest humiliation of my young life. I got to experience even worse only later with your father!
I saw the patterns in the lives of my uncles while I never knew my mother’s sister who virtually turned crazy at the end of her life and died in total solitude. Her son, my cousin, had broken with his mother many years before she died. My uncles were the most dreadful men I saw around, and as I knew no others, I could not, according to my psychiatrist, define my maleness and role as a man before I was able, within the therapy, to emotionally embrace the reality of that vacuum.
One after the other of my uncles had problems in their marriage, divorced and took refuge with my grandmother. And then they dominated the household and behaved like rotten adolescents. Many holidays that my mother and me usually spent with grandmother in her villa were spoilt by their incredibly unruly behavior, their temper tantrums, their reckless alcoholism, their hubristic arrogance, and their rude and violent attitude toward their mother and their sister, and myself.
Their outbursts were defenses against their strong shame-and-guilt, and their anxieties found appeasement in many liters of beer and brandy every night.
These living wrecks were in front of my eyes during the whole of my childhood as incarnations of male machismo. What damage it has done to my generation and many others before can probably never be measured and evaluated. And from what my mother reported, my father was not better than that, but worse, while I cannot share her opinion. As they separated and divorced when I was just one year old, I have no memories, but in the words of my mother, her decision for divorce had been clear and she motivated it with basically three arguments:
He has stolen me all the money from the cashier of our coffee shop, and this at repeated occasions. Then he went drinking for two weeks and I had to find him, somewhere somehow, in a street gutter, totally unconscious. Later I heard about the stories he had told the bar girls, the prostitutes with whom he drank, because our town was so small and they knew him all. They called him the coffee king. But worse, he got a syphilis from one of the girls and infected me with it, and I had to hide that in town because they would have chased us around. So I went through the worst of suffering because I did not dare to call a doctor, until I finally left with you for another town. And eventually, as he abused of me so much when he was drunk, I could not stand it anymore that you witnessed all of this.
I got to know my father a bit closer only later in life. As he was most of the time not paying the much-needed allocations for me, the court granted him only a minimum right for visiting me. That minimum right for visit however turned out to be still too much for him as he was so busy with his various girlfriends and the debts he was making for them. When, once in a while, he was picking me up, we usually went to a bar where he would drink one coffee and ten brandy, and after that a few liters of beer; during that whole lapse of time he would tell me all the trials he went through with his girlfriends that he described as being either hysterical or psychotic, or both.
All this did of course not interest me, but I was intrigued about his dependence on alcohol and early saw a connection between that and what he recounted from his childhood and youth:
I hated my mother. She forced me to dress like a girl all through my early years. I was teased and beaten up in school because of that. She made me feel so shameful and guilty by her stupid attitude, because she understood nothing that is natural in life. Sex was a dirty joke for her and the story went around in the family that she had refused herself to her husband shortly before he died of tuberculosis. I lost my father when I was only nine years old. While I had been revolted already as a child, stealing, smoking and drinking, the army killed me. I could only stand that with lots of alcohol. I was against Hitler and they wanted to shoot me dead three times because I was refusing to fight for the system and refused to shoot. I escaped every time wherefore they called me the escapee. Finally, I was hopelessly addicted to alcohol and if not a miracle happens, I will never get away from it.
The miracle happened. He did a therapy with autosuggestion. But it was only half of a miracle. He was still proud to have filled the water tank of his camping car with wine instead of water; when people would hold their cup for brushing their teeth, he would hold his glass for another drop of wine.
When I accompanied him for a tour, he was drinking every evening between twenty and twenty-five small bottles of beer. That was, in his opinion, just a bit and proved that his therapy had been successful. And when he woke up in the morning, he was dry and depressed, and I felt that he was full of repressed anxiety, and perhaps anger, and so insecure then, so morose and apathetic. And even the many cups of strong coffee he used to drink did not alter that condition. Only when he got his first glass of wine, then, at around noon time, he eventually got a smile on his lips. My father needed the magic of a little glass to be able to smile.
After that tour we stayed in correspondence, something we never had done before, and my mother was acid about it:
Why do you want to talk with Your-Majesty-Mister-Father? And what? He has done nothing good to you nor to me. I just hate him. I can’t get over this hatred. And you go for a tour with him …
After my parents had divorced, my mother then confined me to a Catholic home where I got neither attention nor support nor even decent meals. Instead we suffered cruel and degrading treatment on a daily basis. These tortures were inflicted upon me and my comrades by two widows who, utterly frustrated about the loss of their husbands during World War II, were practicing a fanatic and neurotic Catholicism as a salvation ideology and fake remedy for their rather psychotic minds.
Among the tortures were standing for hours against a wall in the kitchen while the ladies went to church, forgetting us on the potty, locking us up for hours and without any food in a dark cellar, beating us up by hand, with broom sticks or shoes, hitting our heads against the wall, forcing us to eat the food that was generally burnt, and in case we vomited, forcing us to eat what we had vomited.
Throughout my childhood, I never experienced even a faint feeling of protection and was almost constantly facing violent, intolerant or highly irritated reactions by other people, peers or adults. As a child, I was as good as mute, and target of constant aggression from the side of other boys. Instead of taking the challenge and fight back, I suffered and passively endured all these humiliating assaults. As a result of that heroic suffering, I was unable later on to initiate action.
My pattern was to go on with enduring life, instead of creating and initiating my own reality. I just passively abided by action set by others. I was stuck in a passivity pattern that was the mirror of my stuck aggressiveness. I became conscious rather early of my emotional blockage and my timidity.
In a later hypnotherapy, a good deal of this pattern was rendered conscious and could then be corrected. My wise psychiatrist helped me to affirm myself and assisted me in mastering my anxiety, guilt and fear pattern that had done so many ravages in my early life and youth. But a residue of that unconscious fear remained and bothered me for fifteen more years to come, but became gradually dissolved.
Looking at my love-and-sex pattern, I observe that for the most part of my former life, all my true desires remained unfulfilled. The only light was an erotic relation with a boy in boarding school that lasted for almost nine years. We loved each other the first night we had arrived, both of us ten years old, and kept our love and sex relation intact through the eight years we stayed there together, and even some months thereafter.
This experience showed me, for the first time, the value of real love, friendship, togetherness, tenderness, mutual commitment and sexual fulfillment. It was giving me clarity about the need for sex and the healing power of sex in the lives of children, in our society. This tender relationship helped namely both of us cope with the emotional and physical stress in the violent and sadistic environment of the boarding and the adjacent high-school. This relationship ended through our natural turn into adulthood, my friend having his first girlfriend while I met my future wife a few months later.
After having turned into adulthood, I brushed off my former school loves and forced myself to comply with a majority-standard of loving adult girls, an endeavor that, as one might expect, was not crowned by success. It namely resulted in a marriage of almost twenty years that left me exhausted and without the fruit of a child. After all, turning away from a love that had been the first real good and beneficial experience of my life was a paramount mistake!
Compared to my easy fulfillment with boys, loving girls was a real crux in my life at first. When I was seven I fell in love to a little girl of my age that was the daughter of a policeman in our neighborhood. She was beaten up with the horse whip very often and the parents did all to destroy our love before it ever could take off.
When I was eighteen, just having passed into adulthood, I fell in love with my aunt, a young attractive woman. My uncle had married twice and his second wife was my silent love for years. As long as they were married, I never wanted to interfere but then they divorced. When my grandma died, aunty came and in that night she slept in our house, and we watched television until past midnight. I was decided to have sex with her, but my mother destroyed my plan, spied us out and made her down so brutally that I heard her crying through the wall.
In the morning, she told me what had happened.
— Your mother said I wanted to seduce you and she would not let it happen, she said, crying.
When I met my wife, that was just one year later, I let it all happen. For the first time I could sleep with a girl. She was already twenty-four and had a lot of sexual experience. She’d had sex relations from age three, first with her brother, then with several boys of her neighborhood, and finally with a French soldier who possessed her completely when she was just around six. This went on without hurt until her adulthood. She had a rich love pattern, while mine was rather poor: and yet I did not see the only jewel it contained, my long-lasting fulfilled relationship with Philippe, my intimate friend in the boarding school. I did not see the validity of that pattern and tried to suppress it, and from that love denial problems resulted.
From the foregoing it may seem that I am utterly negative about my family, but this is not the case. When talking about my parents, I do not imply my ‘family.’ That may sound very strange, so let me explain. Both of my parents were queer people in the sense they steered against the stuckness and conservatism in the larger or extended family. They were antifascists and had to suffer for it.
In some way, I was privileged and can say I had wonderful parents. Such begins the life story of all successful people. Why? Not because they really had wonderful parents, but because they see their parents that way. Why? That’s all the magic there is about success. It’s the way we see the world and face people. I am not joking. I really had wonderful parents, but perhaps not in the common sense of that word. They were wonderful because they were deeply wrong in almost all they did but always were human, and not haughty, superior and arrogant as most of those righteous ones that think they have to be ideal parents.
My parents were problem people who were struggling, fighting all through their lives. They were people with many faults and weaknesses, but this is exactly what makes them so lovable for me today in hindsight. I say today because only after their passing away, I became painfully aware that I had loved them, really.
I had wonderful parents because they were honest and straightforward. They spoke true language. They had not a spur of hypocrisy about them. They could be rude, even vulgar, but they were outspoken, and I could talk about all and everything with them. There were no taboos, no non-dits. As they both came from families where almost all that is human was taboo, they broke with the family tradition. They struggled through their childhoods and years at school and university. They struggled for their own identity, for their own values, their own philosophy of life. They both were almost violently anti-religious, but that was what made them deeply religious. They believed the right way, aware of the trap of organized religion, of power and of hypocrisy. They did not know about Krishnamurti yet they knew all this and followed that teaching in their religious attitudes. Their problem was that they could hardly walk their talk because they both had an alcohol problem and could not master their emotions.
But when I compare my parents with those of all the people I knew and where I got a bit of insight in their families, I prefer mine because they were human through and through, without a stain of falseness that is so typical for today’s postmodern culture.
My parents were critical people, self-thinkers. They both studied journalism and that was how they met and found they shared most of their interests. They both were acutely aware of political realities and had a stern sense of judgment and a keen outlook on the realities of life.
Compared to them, I was a dreamer, and I see today that I must have been a strange breed for them, after all. I was extremely sensitive as a child, and almost mute because I could hardly cope with my sensations. The world was just too noisy for me, just too busy for me, just too superficial for me. I had a real thirst for silence, for meditation, for being alone and undisturbed, all through my childhood and youth.
In accordance with Wilhelm Reich, I believe that if people, once grown up, remembered their longings, and kept that memory hot and alive, they would never become persecutors of other people’s love choices. All these honorable members of the hate brigade are for the most part unaware that they are on the cancer side of life.
I have kept an intact memory of my struggle for identity as an adolescent, which was first of all a struggle for living my love. I did not need to grow out from adolescence to understand that most people or what could be called the historical majority have built a split identity, one that is based on a schizoid perception of life.
There was a point in their lives, usually around adolescence, where the cut with living occurred, and they swapped for no return into the abyss of the death instinct. It’s not fifty years later, when the actual cancer appears, as that cancer was born during their youthful years and as a result of the seeds of hatred they fertilized so eagerly. I have met such guys as early as in in boarding school. To put it in positive terms: great people can be recognized as early as in school. They are to be recognized by their being different from the herd, and by their persistent refusal to let others walk over their love choices.
Adolescence is an incredibly important time in the life of every human, but all major societies never recognized that fact, and that is why in the lives of most people, adolescence is connected with so much suffering, revolt and strife.
The exception here are the tribal populations. Adolescence is indeed a sane affair when you see how it is supposed to be. And by the same token you see that adolescence is an insane affair when it’s lived in a way that is contrary to nature.
In running away from that pattern, I ran away from myself. Yet the pattern was not viable as attempts to love boys later on, after the breakdown of my marriage, clearly failed. The pattern was a replacement pattern, not a genuine love pattern, and it was viable only in adolescence, not in adulthood. Of course, it had been a wonderful experience, but an experience that was not transposable to my later adult life. Simply because Philippe and I were of the same age. To transpose the pattern logically would have meant homosexuality, not pederasty. Here is my disagreement with society because it considers men like me as homosexuals. I know better. I am not homosexual. I have no attraction erotically for men, not the slightest, and not even for big boys that most pederasts find attractive.
The original pattern is that I love females, that I am heterosexual in the first place, only that these females must have a certain quality of freshness, that is in our society well a question of age, but not in all societies. In Nomadic cultures, for example, girls in their twenties still have this freshness, and they also have the smallness of figure, and breasts that arouse my sexual interest.
So it’s actually gross oversimplification to call men like me either homosexuals or pedophiles, for we are neither. We are simply lovers, we are the real avatars of a society that considers the best qualities of the female, while this present society shuns the female in every possible aspect. And that is one of the reasons why this international consumer society is structurally homosexual.
Extramarital relationships I experienced with Asian women were not more fulfilling; in the contrary, they tore up my soul and kept me out of focus.
There was Hyosuk, a Korean girl, who was unhappily married to a man from her culture. We met in the music room of the university where we quickly became acquainted and practiced together, she singing Beethoven Lieder, I accompanying on the piano. She had been the better pianist and I was learning from her, until I found, with a big surprise, that I loved her. I frankly told her about it and she answered she loved me, too, but that there was no hope for our love since she was married and soon a child would seal that marriage eternally that had been arranged by her parents and the parents of her husband, against her will. It came as she predicted, she got her child and they went back to their home country, and a strange vacuum remained in my heart.
Another relation was of a similar pattern. It was a Japanese woman, married, who had two children. Yet she feared her husband to kill her if he’d find out. So after two or three happy matings, she changed her phone number and I did not see her again.
And the pattern continued to manifest. I met the love of my life, so to say, a Chinese girl from Taiwan, a pianist. I met her at the music school and because of our wonderful relationship, I quit the law school and entered a masters program in musical education. Yet while the girl, who was adhering to the Baptist religion, affirmed to love me, she said she had to marry a Chinese because this was the tradition, and that God had told her in a dream. Sadly, I had to let her go marry her Chinese who had no sense for her art, a total brute. The day of her marriage, she called me from Taiwan, saying:
— This is the worst day of my life. I will never stop loving you.
After a suicide attempt, I reoriented my life and while I had to finalize my law doctorate, began to work with children, as a pre-school teacher, and also in families as a babysitter. I found this work very fulfilling, and it was out of this interest in education that I later become a corporate trainer and coach. Finally I had built both my my professional identity, and my identity in love. And while those relations with Asian women were unlucky, I continued to feel attracted to Asian women, especially those from Japan, China, and Indonesia.