The Time Has Finally Came!

Ladies and gentlemen,

4 Months ago I promised you a new site that is pretty much like this one, just not at all, and strangely better.

I worked my fingers to the bone and had a great time doing it.

So here it is.

I know you will enjoy it.


As you know it’s pretty damn hard to get a new blog of the ground and into the air, so if you don’t mind please leave a comment underneath any post.

To all my subscribers, You’ll have to re-subscribe at the top right corner.

Thanks so much for waiting,

You all have been great, and I’m so excited for this journey that awaits us.

Ruann Weidemann

Peace and love,

Ruann Weidemann

When change is the only constant

Dearest reader, friend and fellow searcher,

I’m passionate about two, no three things in life; Writing, traveling and honesty.  For me this is what this blog (I really don’t like that word) has always been about.  If I think back to around 356 days ago when I first started writing on here and lived rural in Africa I never would have thought that I’ll gain so many followers and make so many friendly friends,  receive so many compliments and words of encouragement and best of all enjoy myself oh so damn much.

It’s time for a change; and believe me, it’s pretty good one.

I’m planning on taking my writing and traveling a bit more serious and have this site as my platform.  Through the next few months you might find that a few things on this site will change as I’m starting to plan my life, travels, and dreams.  I’ll be answering in full to that mischievous yet beautiful creature in the back of my mind that I’ve been neglecting since birth, well almost.

Without spilling too much, here are a few things that will start to change for the good on An Electric Journal Of a Castaway:

1)      My life

2)      My name

3)      The title/url – Pardon me but even I struggle to make sense of this god-awful long title anelectricjournalofacastaway.

4)      The quality – of the site and my posts

5)      Outbound links – where you can get to know me more personally

6)      Content – My poetry and prose will always be part of this but it’ll start to entwine more with insightful travel stories, advice and raw adventure.

7)      More interaction – with you, that is

8)      More photography

I, however, will not change.

So this post is just to inform you, my readers (whom I appreciate ‘till the ends of the earth) of these changes so that you won’t feel threatened by a new young naked nomad in your mailbox, who will in fact still be me.

I am as excited as a newborn seeing life for the first time, an ugly little cave creature finding true love.

Thank you for the support,seeking meaning in my sometimes twisted scriptures and joining me on this adventurous life ahead.

Peace and love,

Ruann Weidemann

Pemba beach, Mozambique

Jeju, South Korea

crows fly straight, spirit birds curve the earth

This letter is to no one at all.

They say the crow flies straight. A direction no one knows, yet so many people claim to walk.  We all die young, compared to biblical figures and modern saints.  We all make mistakes, we all create beauty.  Ever heard the expression that whenever you sneeze a monkey chokes in his own spit? Me neither.  Well, whenever you claim to have lived a live off miracles and baptized babies the devil masturbates on your ignorance, because you, beloved, have sinned. Whenever you claim to be bad, corrupted, demonic in soul, you, beloved, are wrong, because way back in the arms of a lovable woman you were pure, loved, an innocent and pure  piece of newborn flesh.

The way lightning strikes, the way a sailor navigates to dry land is askew.  Heads turn until they unscrew and fall dead on the ground, become compost and sprout pure life.  Distorted is straight in the eyes of the universe, distorted is how Jesus led his disciples into believing he’s here to save, when he did exactly that nailed to a cross, bleeding from his veins for the sake of humanity, whether you believe it or not, you get my point.  Askew is how explorers end up exploring,  how water quench our thirst, how fauna grows wild, but still, we plant them in rows, you educate them with forced goals, lay out straight and narrow rules and expect improvement  bouncing from the walls of oh so boring brown carton boxes.

If only our tiny little minds could understand how nature works, how it bends, break, kill, and give birth.  Maybe then we’ll understand that we’re suffocating our minds in a dead-end path already lived, tried, and failed until death in meaningless dust.  Unless we break free, follow our god given minds to roads so rural that diamonds sprout from shit, sperm isn’t wasted on drunken live wired bodies but seeded in love, creating moon walkers and fighters of peace.

We are so brainwashed into following senseless leaders that we forgot what it feels like to lead ourselves.  What it felt like to go to sleep without worrying, piss ourselves without caring and share a lollipop with a friend as if they are growing from the ground.  F*cking candy land is all around us, we’re just so blinded by its beauty that we call it magic, something that happens after death, long forgotten milk and honey.  Ask yourself the question, since when is war, abortion, death penalty, lying, ignorance or simple rudeness okay? Sometimes it is alright in this filthy indoctrinated  minds we think we cultivated all on our bloody own.

We are beautiful, pure in soul and mind. We are so unique that nothing has ever been even close to what we are.  Why are we so goddamn boring in the eyes of the universe?

Maybe I wrote this to myself.

“I became insane with long intervals of horrible sanity.”

– Edgar Allan Poe

Peace and love

Ruann Weidemann

Her baby Giraffe legs glided like a Jesus lizard on a mirrored lake

She had eyes like bottle caps that drank my soul.  I was just a lame ‘n tamed circus animal in the bottom of a hole.  But she untied her volcanic hair and rivered it down the throat of madam earth.  The approaching light that blinded my sight resembled the mouth of birth.  I aped my way up her hair  towards the cut.  Her silhouette seemed like a feathery warlord but her breathing shy.

Once on top she picked me up and lay me down.  I felt like a fragile baby in his Baptism gown.  Her eyes seemed deep and wild, yet so soft.  She reached into her bag of forest supplies, wet her fingers and painted lines of blood underneath my eyes.

She was beauty itself to say the least.  Her breath smelled a bit like fresh cut grass and compost, but other than that she was pretty damn perfect.  A fine cut diamond, a virgin in human emotion.

Admittingly, her chants freaked me out a tiny bit.  But once she started singing, oh dear Lord, she gave me goose bumps on the walls of my soul. Her mouth watered hungry upon my face, but it was as clear as a mountain stream and purer than pure in taste.

She was muscled and fine, a delicate sea horse.  We traveled the forest floor and dodged forest trees.  Her baby Giraffe legs glided like a Jesus lizard on a mirrored lake.  On our journey we danced on fires, fed each other strawberries, fought with wooden swords and stung like bees.

“Where’s she taking me”, I thought.  “To place scattered with  green hilltops, oh so pretty nightfall’s and crystal clear waterfalls”, she replied. I did not think out loud, she was right there dancing in my dirty mind.

My fingers bled and I was too tired to stand.  .  It was an eloquent vision caused by magic mushrooms and dehydration.

I’m pretty much in love with lady hallucination, sculpted with my ‘oh so haunting imagination.



Peace and love,





Winged monkeys and white linen

As a shaddowed breath fill my lungs and I involuntarily exhale diamond dust I think of my respiratory system as a Robin Hood iFilter.  Inhaling the bad, leaving it there to marinate in my lung’s condensed holy soul water mixed  by the holiest than thou moonshiner.

Truth is I’ve never even seen sky drifting diamond dust. What I exhale is filthy carbon dioxide, just like any other air thief around.  Stealing from plants, ridding true and helpful charity samurai’s from their much needed oxygen and befoul in return .

Dearest blood and dust, oh how I would love to be a monk levitating an inch above the prettiest of untouched powdery mountains. Permanently cleaning my soul and causing no harm.  But then again, I wouldn’t mind being a bank robber with a Hijab scarf hiding my face from a world who secretly admires my ability to not give a damn and take what I do believe I deserve.

With that in mind, naked (as we came), armed with the only bleached white linen that I own I hit the narrow dirt road which I knew led to higher ground.  I wasn’t confused; I mean how could I be, in a world so perfectly organized.  A world where everyone know their place and is just a cornea’s width from reaching their ridiculously, overly thought over dreams.  A world where everything makes sense and depression is a bird that missed the earth like a meteor a million years ago.  A world where beauty became white manufactured digital devices, backtrack idiots and a world where wisdom is bought with pieces of paper covered in distasteful art.  What the hell happened to freedom, unconditional love, nature’s beauty and communicating to pretty early birds with sunflower seeds and mountain water.   What happened to ‘God among us all’?

My feet started bleeding as they’re far too fragile from years and years of wearing factory shoes, but it served as a sense of motivation to get to the top.  My already scarred body had bleeding thorn lines from too much moisturizing cream and tunnel vision but that only gave me the much needed masochistic adrenalin shot I needed at the time.  Along the road I met a snake who offered me some fruit to eat, I declined, as I prefer vitamin water, MSG covered Nik-knacks and a dash of Tobasco. He tried to bite and indoctrinate me with the old ultra-satanity, but I bit him in half instead.  Oh how pure that made me feel.

The path was pretty; I can’t remember when last I felt so human, so far away from civilized humanity.  My once white linen reflected a greyish light from the mixture of sweat and moonlight that shone upon it.  I saw an askew cliff afar, one I tried so hard to imagine in the back of my mind too many times before, God knows it was even prettier.  It didn’t take me long to make some rope from a wet Sisal plant’s sword-shaped leaves and connect my only piece of greyish-white linen to both feet and wrists and walked the last mile to the highest rock on the tallest mountain.  I felt like a semi-psychotic newborn winged monkey , made my way to the edge and prayed God knows what to god knows who.

You know they say that moments before your death you see your whole life flashing in front of your eyes.  It is complete and utter otter shit.  All I saw was a spiraling ground curtain blurring behind my characterized conscience rolling his eyes at my appearance.  All that I wanted to do was to fly free, and that I did, even if it was a mere microsecond more than a few tick-tock-ticks…

I rolled over in pain and stared at the giraffe-high empty mezzanine of my favourite theatre.  Even if we aren’t really free,  even if we are caged animals on this oh so pretty amazing earth, at least, at the very least we have rich imaginations and with imagination my dear fellow humans we can conquer the world with one dream, one story, one life and a dash of guts at a time.  I do believe in life, love.  I do believe in dreams.   With the power of imagination, positivity and good old actions, reality is only a cornea’s width away.




She’s a lover, she’s an arsonist

Warm, luminescent and cold in blood

Rolled in snow, blazed on coal

Show me tenderness, make me whole


Nuque; soft as fog

eyes a luminescent ghost

Her neck oh neck you are my hourglass

Time becomes a hoax


Dovetailed in waist high savannahs

Two live wires unplugged and unrestrained

Shaking elliptically in the act of mate

Entwined and chemically inflamed


Intense sparks awakened the blind

Animals flee and angels weep

Fires raging in the wind


Such love, oh love,

we should keep


–          Ruann Weidemann

Oil painting by Jon Imber

Oil painting by Jon Imber

Photograph by Darius Klimezak

Photograph by Darius Klimezak

Oil painting by Dennis Ziemienski

Oil painting by Dennis Ziemienski

Painting by Michael Peck

Painting by Michael Peck

Click on photo for source

Click on photo for source

Peace and love,


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The pretty ballerina armed with a cutting scythe

To write or not to write? Judging by this snow-covered landscape below, slowly but surely turning into marching soldier ants on ice I have in fact chose to do the technicolor yawn and discharge my interrupted soul into the gazing eyes of whoever the hell is reading this. As far I can remember everything I’ve ever written was with her stripping, sitting, knitting, shining and dying in the attics of my mind.  What is to follow, is not.

In the prime of my underdeveloped youth I remember wishing to have a certain army figurine; god knows it spoke to me in sounds of gunfire.  It shot ammunition with a proud soul and leopard crawled endlessly in the fertile gardens of my mind.  I wanted it so damn bad that my wet dreams ceased and instead of waking up on semi soaked linen I up woke with a soldiers’ beret on my head and dried out tomato sauce squirted  on my naked chest.  One day, as the sun broke the cold wintery night it was right there next to me, accompanied by familiar songs of celebration and family kisses. After a while my toy got old and forgotten and I had wet dreams again.  I packed my once beloved soldier away somewhere between old forgotten fluffy toys, dimensionless eye patches and broken swords.

I got a little older, reached puberty, overcome it to a certain extent and then I saw her, beauty itself, in the form of a then flat chested girl still mastering the art of ballet.  Insecure as I am, was, I never told her about the unfamiliar, purely transcendent feelings that she awakened inside of my then unaware and ignorant soul.  I shouldn’t have, chances are we would have fallen in love, tried it out, had some fun, screwed around and failed.  Now it’s around two thousand six hundred and ninety days, a couple of broken hearts (among some other pretty things) later and I don’t, I really don’t feel any different whatsoever.  It feels good to be able to hold on to something pure, drenched in hope, potential devastating happiness. Believe me I don’t want to put her away to cuddle with my once beloved soldier figurine.  One day, come what may, time might become ripe. I might be clearheaded, closer in distance and fresher than a newborn bird.

Dam swan


I saw you in a dance once

Drawing raw red circles with your feet,

Speaking the language of winged creatures with your hands,

Love is patient, love is neat


The way you moved, moved my soul

The way you spoke broke my throat

Bended body, arrow animus

Snow shoulders, snow coat


Oh, keep on dancing

Keep on being beautiful

Reach your dreams

But protect your soul


One day we will meet again

Each on our path

We will smell like physical chemistry

In the garden of telepathy


–          Ruann Weidemann

Click on photo for source

Click on photo for source

Photo by Aleksei Germanski

Photo by Aleksei Germanski

Peace and love,


The angelic zebra and his answer to life

“There are no answers in this life form for this confusing questions that you exhale, flesh-skinned human”, said my new friend.  He had pulchritude written all over him in the form of yin and yang stripes, rigid teeth like stoned erasers and a mohawk that scared crows.  Damn he looked good, like a creature straight from heaven. Okay, he was some form of a zebra, but he shined like an angel nonetheless.  He had purple wings made from the finest eagle feathers, painted purple with moss from earths’ deepest caves.   I admired his strong reeking beauty like I’ve never admired any damn thing ever before.  I spread my ears and listened to the voice of this newly created figment of my imagination.  Of course he’s real, if I am, so is he.

I climbed onto his back and we took off into the air from the stationary position that we were in.  I laughed at first because I’ve never seen a zebra pretending to be a dragonfly but when I felt the incredible  resisting force of his powerful speed against the air, I realized the seriousness of the situation.  It started off like a conversation between a father and his pubescent son.  I felt insecure, uncertain.  He cleared his throat.  I knew something was up, and when he started to speak his thundering voice overpowered the deafening sound of wind rushing through my ear canals.

“All your life you have been asking questions:

‘What is a human being?  Are we spiritual beings living human lives, or are we humans with spiritual souls? Why are we even here? Where do we come from? What is the meaning of life?’ the list goes on, and on, and on.”  The angelic zebra coughed. Fairy dust escaped from his well structured mouth and then he continued.

“I don’t know, and statistically, in this life form, neither would you.  If it was even a wee bit possible you would have been able to type it into that godforsaken magical electric typewriter of yours.  If all the worlds’ a stage, where is the audience?  Everybody is asking questions; it is obvious that no one will ever be able to answer them, yet”

“But Sir, what is the meaning of life then?” I asked without thinking.  He didn’t get angry.

“Happiness is the answer, Son.”

“Then how do I achieve happiness?”

“First you need to make peace with yourself, humanity and this world we live in.  Also with the fact that you are incomplete and will never be godly enough or know all the answers.  Then you need to find out what will make you happy all by yourself, then strive for it, create a goal.  The key to achieving it is to dream bigger than that goal.  Let’s say a strawberry will make you happy, strive for a strawberry tree, and then plant the seed.  It’s as easy as that. Plant a damn seed and make sure you water it accordingly.  If you fail, plant a new seed.  Sometimes it won’t even come up, but you will always be able to try again.”

There was no zebra.  I was talking to myself like a crazy mental kid.  For the first time in my life I truly have a goal and God knows I’m feeling happier already.

Do you have an answer to life?

Art by Dennis frick

Art by Dennis Frick

click for source

click for source

Photo by Ren Rox

Photo by Ren Rox


Peace and love,


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