The fishes living in these waters will reincarnate as fishes if they are not eaten by humans. Water will reincarnate as water, plants will grow back as plants, and the moon will always be reflected on the surface of the lake. What would happen if we turned the trees upside down? Would the tops become the roots and the roots the tops? Perhaps yes, because the mission of trees is only to connect the earth to the sky, to create the effective protective layer, under which any earthly being could prospect and prosper.

So... why did human power become master of such an effective, simple and vital mechanism? Why is the development and progress of humanity so great and impressive?
Everything has a reason for being.
Swimming in the fresh water world where I couldn't survive. In every moment it can take over and absorb me to let the bottom composting my rests. But the lake holds on quiet and hypnotic. It's surface, cosmically mirror vibrates the frequencies of impenetrable dimensions. So I swim on the pressure of the thousands of the cubics of liquid and I fear for life. Night is singing with the forests voices and the broken branches are falling with mortal noise on the hummus ground. But all around is quiet. Fire talks and talks, it's syntax is not complicated and it's rhythm is the beginning of all. No Fish on the pan but sausages hunted in supermarket, one bottle of wine, a few paprikas, onions and potatoes. The vegetables fried in the industry meet fat heated on the camp fire.
It smells very good. Once added the mix of the herbs, the fragrance of the dinner excites every being living around.
So I sing the Gypsies song.

I came back to this peaceful place, so many times already. Collecting the woods for cooking, hanging the hammock between the trees and chopping the vegetables in the pieces. Silence is an event which happens rarely, but it takes a place specially on the lakes, in the forests or around of the tops of the mountains. This happenings are during only a few instants. And it can be so terrifying, troubling as amazing and attracting. So many friends camped in this silence, and have been forever taken away from hysterical noises of survivals. Whenever I visit them, we eat good, we drink well, we smoke the next best harvest, we talk and we talk until the silence takes suddenly over. We are observing how the screams, whistlings, whispers, winds, cracks and cricks, shadows and highlights are shuting progressively down. Until even the breath of the wildness is vanishing for a few inexplicably dangerous and unknown moments...the sound of Everything has got shut down. Silent universe, it goes so, that I don't care to hear a beat of my own heart. We smoke the joints, we look into the stars and we listen to the silence.
And life is coming back, but theses so incalculables silent pauses of everything being are probably theses braking points between life and death.
After such a thing I stay outside sitting comfortably in one recycled coach, drinking my wine and meditating over what just happened. Everything is becoming only a blink. And the night is going to escape from the sun. Light up one cigarette and pull on the wine, life is only now.
The owls are screaming, shouting and whistling, it's a predators vital space. Here life ends as it begins, with yelling.

This region is a part of ancient Slavic Imperium. And Imperium is too much said in this case, but in fact Mecklenburg was the west last region of one vast territory of Slavs. Here also began the real troubles for the Roman Empire Army. Funny, from one side Jesus's, from other side Hans, one two three and no more Roman Empire. It happened in such a way that those troubles were only the perfect arguments to execute the most incredible transformation of one criminal organization. Oh Yeah! Whatever... Mecklenburger Seenplatte, also known as Switzerland of the north, or the Country of the Thousand Lakes, it's a rock'n'roll beauty. It's a wildness in the hearts surrounding the supermarkets alimenting the populations living in the small, often very old towns, with cheap bananas, fake tomatoes, industrial milk and meat, as like with cheap alcohol and tobacco, . Those towns from the centuries and some of them from over a thousand years were founded on the base of trading markets where the fishes from lakes were exchanged for corn from the fields opened with the axes in the woods. In almost every town growing on the side of the lakes exists the fishermen houses quarter. They are the smallest in the city, and very often they were the nests of many generations of fishing families. The industry of transformation of meat from the fishes into meal for the humans is very developed and however traditional. The smoked, dried, fried, marinated, cooked fishes were the natural product of traditional from over a thousand years every day alimentation. Millions of people have grown on the fruits of the lakes and of the Baltic Sea, until the supermarkets like Aldi had taken over the local markets with offers of global origin products, cheaper than fishing the fishes, or collecting the corn. 

Whatever... The Mecklenburgers, soft and very hard people, did survive all kinds of invasions. The Vikings, The Goths, The Franks, The Romans, The Christians, The Napoleonians, The Allies and The Communists...those are only the meta examples of the intrusions of the foreign forces into The Country of the Thousand Lakes. So many events, troubles, facts and victories have been recovered here by the forests and absorbed into the abysses of the lakes or consumed by the waves of often very cold and very brutal Baltic Sea. Between those lakes, rivers, forests and beaches, so many people killed so many people...as like everywhere in the giant world. But the Mecklenburgers remain what they were, a folk strongly connected to Nature. To find here a quarter of wild pig at the right price is not a rarity. Salami of deer has become local specialty. Cooking one original goulash on the wood fire and Gypsy way is frequent. Oh Yeah! I really like to have a good ride on this parcel of the globe. The roads are sometimes so forgotten that, still made out of the stones from the fields. I love to listen to their stories. Sometimes I follow them till deep in the forests where they are becoming older, just the large paths on which the wooden wagons pulled with giant horses were transporting the corn to Rostock. Those stories are those of the folk walking and rolling from lake to lake, from village to town, from town to Capital, for the centuries seeking the better profit, and from around hundred years spotting the best places for holidays. Social revolution has found in this region particularly favorable ground. The Hitlerians have built the sumptuous camps of national health care, and the Communists took the control over those places and did actually the same, just a bit less extreme. You could have a feeling, by reading, that I am a fatalistic person. Somehow yes, because I love to ride my hundreds of kms, to build my camp in the wildest corner around the lake, to have a rest on the side of a fire and to finish my bottle of good wine, and always the dramatic of the Nature comes to me. It's inevitable. I am a human observing from behind the huge oaks body the other humans doing their business on the beautiful Land. Very often it is not good what I see. And I feel, I think, like the indigenous were and are feeling while observing the imperial forces taking this land in possession. At least the invaders have built the sumptuous villas, castles, and palaces for the hunters. I was living for a while in one of those. It is a quite old big residential house, constructed in the middle of the nineteenth century, and already in this period this really huge Villa, a la castle, was self-sustaining. The canal streamed water was pushing on the wooden wheel activating the electricity generator, which was producing the power kilowatts large enough to support the house, and the surrounding farming installations which belonged to the owner of the villa a la castle. The generator of electricity powered with water stream ... vanished. Today left only the ruins of this really interesting period of the next technological revolution. This ruin is consequently eaten by Nature, which grows with little wild flowers and herbs on the human revolutions artefacts as if nothing actually happened. So, yes, I can seem fatalistic while watching the people fighting like crazy to dominate Nature, from which they have been born. Whatever, I finish my bottle of good wine, I lay in my hammock and I talk with the stars, when the dormouses begin their night clubbing in the trees. Oh! They can be really loud and irritating. And try to smoke a joint in their presence! Ma Donna! Seems like the guys, totally savages and sleeping over half of the year in the hollows, are knowing what's good. They come really close when they smell ganja fragrance, and the next evening they are like shouting" Gimme a joint! Gimme a joint! " until I smoke one. I had such a fun with those charming little rockers that I have done the best quality funeral ceremonies for two of them, who got killed by our Katze Killerin. Mecklenburg is juicy with romantic tragic-dramatic-heavenly comedy, I love it. Our cat is a perfect predator, this is what the cats were made for, and sometimes she doesn't sleep for the nights long, so taken is she by hunting. Her belly is becoming huge, her eyes are getting injected with original predator endorphins, her trans is palpable. And we tried to explain to her that killing the dormouse is senseless, because even if it is a kind of challenge, this small animal is too big for her stomach. Katze showed understanding for our educational speech, and for our breakfast she left a dead body of a dormouse on the porch of our truck. Once, since I knew her, I made her understand that I am angry, because it was really only for fun what she did.  Probably it was a father of a family which we have seen evacuating to the higher parts of the tree from the instant when Katze had jumped out of the truck. This is what happens in Nature, nature is happening. So, with my friend we have done a highest consecration ceremony to honor a poor guy. We have burnt him. Previously we had prepared a beautiful wooden altar, big enough to generate strong holy fire. The dormouse has been wrapped into the herbs and clean piece of the cotton sheet. We have sung the Gypsies songs and we have lit up the fire under the woods. In less than one blink of the sun, the Dormouse returned into cosmic dust, and its reincarnation cycle on the earth has been stopped. Later, we collected the ashes of animals and put them in a half of the melon shell. There were also the wild flowers and a few words of instinctive prayers, after which we left the funeral boat drifting on the surface of the lake. And this Katze Killerin story with Dormouse happened one more time. It was lesson enough for me. There's no way to take over the natural killer attitude of one genuine predator. They are the regulators of Natural demography. So, I light up the fire, I open a bottle of good wine, I sing the Gypsies songs, and I forgive myself my human stupidity. Fishes are jumping out of the lake to eat the mosquitoes, those fishes are getting eaten by bigger fishes, and those bigger fishes are finishing on the hook. Ah! And previously the mosquitoes have successfully sucked the blood from  drunk sleeping tourists. 

Party all around! Beer, vodka, coca cola, speed, and preservatives. Tonnes of the touristic foldable seats, tables, ice creams,  fried potatoes and smoked fishes, loud music and initiations rituals. Talking about nothing over little dogs barking, developing skin cancer under solar filters, tanking the sun and fresh air for next ten months of working in the city. It has nothing to be compared with National Health Care camps. It is a tourism industry. 

Mecklenburg as a health recovery curorts was glamorously known from the beginning of the twentieth century. And quite fast it has become a fancy destination despite the denses clouds of young and terribly hungry mosquitoes. One cloud of young mosquitoes can appear as a very bad experience when suddenly met while walking on the forestall path, which is meandering across the secret muds and psychedelic meadows. There's no other way than to run fast. No matter...the Communists have grown a few generations of kids in Mecklenburg woods, on the Mecklenburg lakes and see beaches, in this very vivid paradise on earth. I think, actually from my own experience I must admit, that the Communists recreation and sport for folk programmes were very well based. What stories here! The thousands of Trabants and Wartburgs parked between the old oaks. The tonnes of the fishes smoked in the ovens and offered with huge pints of beer and fried potatoes. The workers from Rostock, Berlin, and other cities were drinking, dancing, swimming and doing love every summer in a communal way of happy people living in total peace in the holiday centers built out of cheap concrete in the deep of ancestral forest. That was DDR. Deutsche Demokratische Republik.  German Democratic Republic, we say. The kids were happier when they were children of doctors or directors of the fabrics. Social competition is one never stopping race. La Lutte Des Classes, we say in French. However, only in this period the kids of peasants had a chance for the first time in human history to see more of the world than only the hoof of the family farm, zero costs included. And it was a massive movement. Whatever, the precedent century was a period of the hugest revolution of humankind. But, Mecklenburgers remains as in one joke which explains the best the local folk character. It goes like this : Why would the Mecklenburgers survive a nuclear blast? Because the news about a mortal catastrophe would arrive there fifty years later. In fact, these people are soft, but very hard, and their conception of time isn't aligned with global rush.