You get access to Tusknet Concept (65000 words) and SpiritBook (210.000 words)

Tusknet: Introduction to Concept

A New Digital Culture of TrustEverything that arises here follows a shared creative process, to which I warmly invite you. I dream that in the end you will be someone else, someone who contributes to this process. What emerges here is a platform and a new form of being in the digital space. A space where we can encounter ourselves and one another. We stand at a turning point. Technological progress has led us through Web 1.0, the era of static websites, and Web 2.0, the era of social networks. Yet this path has also confronted us with challenges: lack of control over our own data, a shortage of genuine digital identity, and a culture based on algorithms rather than authentic encounters. Web 3.0 opens new possibilities. It is a shift toward a decentralized, user-centered digital world in which trust, transparency, and sovereignty over our own data can be restored. Tusk is a response to this transformation. It is a platform that connects the power of the human psyche with the new digital culture of trust. It gives us tools to exist digitally and to truly interact without losing control over ourselves. At the heart of Tusk lies the question:How can we use digital technologies to create real, profound connections? How can we fill the space between us with meaning? This platform is based on the conviction that human beings are more than data points and algorithms. Each person carries their own story, their own truth, a truth that wants to be heard.Tusk is an invitation to listen to these voices. It is an invitation to shape a new form of digital community that is based not on superficiality, but on genuine, processual encounter. I see us confronted with the real possibility that our current system stands at a limit. The global crisis whether ecological, social, or psychological forces us to rethink our understanding of community and communication. It is time for a platform that connects and empowers people. A platform that helps us to consume and to create anew together. Tusk follows the hero’s journey as concept and as living experience. The journey begins with the realization that we must change. It leads us through challenges, through resistance, and through moments of doubt. But it also leads us to a new understanding of ourselves and of the world as it is. Tusk is an experiment. A movement. An open space for all who want not only to be part of the digital transformation, but to actively shape it. And this journey begins here with you. Tusk is more than a platform it is an invitation to a journey. Every great transformation begins with a call. A moment when we feel: something wants to change. Perhaps you have sensed it for a long time. The world, as it has developed digitally, feels wrong. We are more connected, yet often more isolated. We have access to infinite knowledge, yet genuine conversations become rarer. We scroll, consume, and comment, but where is the real encounter? Tusk invites you to change that. It is a platform built on Deep Democracy and Process Work methods aimed at listening to all voices within and around us. Every perspective has value. Every conflict carries the possibility of transformation. Every encounter can be a door that leads us further. Why Tusk? In a world that is falling into ever deeper divisions, whether political, social, or digital, new paths are needed. Tusk is this new path. It is a space designed from the ground up for collaboration and genuine human development. The first platform that sees us as more than consumers. It is an environment that nurtures our deepest potential through open, honest, protected spaces for exchange and shared thinking. From Homo Oeconomicus to Homo Civilis. Today’s economic structures are based on an image of humanity that emphasizes above all individual interests. Yet within us also exists another side, one that strives for belonging, meaning, and co-creation. Tusk is the platform for Homo Civilis, the civic human being who recognizes their responsibility in the world and actively participates.This vision is rooted in experiences from process work, in which the deepest conflicts are understood as sources of growth. Tusk is inspired by these principles: all voices must be heard for genuine solutions to emerge. We take part and we shape together. TuskNet uses personal data storage that enables you alone to decide who has access to your information. Your identity belongs to you. Your data belongs to you. Your story belongs to you. How does Tusk work? The path. The methods of process work and Deep Democracy help us to understand conflicts, to work with different voices, and to consciously shape the digital space. Tusk is the vision of a new digital world, a space that arises through conscious encounter. Yet before we can shape this space, a deeper journey begins: the journey inward. Are you ready for the next step? Bridge and introduction to SpiritBook Every great transformation begins with a decision. Are you ready to co-create a new digital space? Are you ready to participate in a network that acknowledges your fear and leads you to real encounters that bring you to new trust in yourself and in the world? Then the journey begins here. Welcome to TuskNet. This is where SpiritBook begins. It is more than a book it is an auto-social-biographical Bildungsroman. Your life, your experiences, your questions are the key to shaping the digital future. Tusk gives us the platform, SpiritBook gives us the process to recognize our role within it.  TuskNet is the network that creates connection among all who show themselves in SpiritBook. Why are we here? Every journey begins with a restlessness, a feeling that something is missing. Perhaps you sense it within yourself a hunch that you are searching for another way of being together. Perhaps you have seen it in the world in a society that often judges faster than it listens.

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SpiritBook: The Well (30% of chapter)

It is 2024, and I am leaving the NSDAP. This sentence opens a door to the present within me, and so I write. Just yesterday, I made a decision - to be close to people. I made a conscious choice to allow intimacy. I cannot let go of one without relinquishing the other. It means leaving my childhood behind and all that we believed in when we wanted to belong. Suddenly, I see so many friends who are now financially and professionally successful, yet they still live in the same old fear. I have observed this fear for a long time. I first encountered it in 2004 through a woman from China, an economics professor in London. She is still a staunch communist, loyal to the Chinese party. Since childhood, she had been groomed to accomplish great things for the party. At a young age, she managed state-owned enterprises, overseeing and investing billions. My uncle, too, was destined for greatness. I draw a line from 1930 to 2070. The past contains the future. These years before my birth, and now the years ahead - should I live to see them. Why not? I feel as if I am floating on an ocean, maybe even the Atlantic. Small waves gently carry me. I see myself, submerged up to my chest, as if standing. My arms are outstretched, resting on the water, moving with the waves. I have no fear, for there is no land in sight from horizon to horizon. In this moment, I experience deep security in this image. I sense a reader and would like to write "you." It makes you real, and I see your eyes. You do not disappear when I address you directly. On the contrary, you exist, you are here, a presence. It has always been the dead. Adolf Hitler as the love of their lives. When I write this, my bitter grandmother appears. Should I describe bitterness to you? I know very little. If I write this now, I land in a well. A classic well, like in fairy tales, with a stone wall visible above ground that extends deep down below. I feel my language shifting. I see the well from the outside, unable to look in because the wall is too high. Then a question arises - one that therapist Ralf Müller asked me in Munich in 2003: "What do you need right now?" This question still unsettles me. I sit with this question inside the well. Sitting on my haunches, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. I wear short lederhosen and a Palomino T-shirt. I am about eight years old.

I shrink into myself, feeling far away, then suddenly I am back at the edge of the well. I bend over the rim and look down. I see something. At first, nothing - it is dark. I wonder who is standing at the edge.

There is someone who cannot see over the rim, and someone who can lean over and look down. And there is still the one sitting below. Maybe this is all that remains of my story. I think of Franz Kafka, whom I met in Prague.

It is he who now looks into the well. I encountered him in December 2008 in his hometown. In the Jewish quarter, his museum, and in the eyes of the people. A man who wrote because he had no other choice. And now Rainer Maria Rilke appears, too. They both stand beside me at the rim, peering into the well. I see neither from below nor do I see myself looking down. I know little about these two men. They both appear thin and fragile - perhaps because they have long been dead.

It is 2024, and I am leaving the Institute for Process-Oriented Psychology - a worldview I studied for the past thirteen years. Not entirely, it was the ideology I chose - or perhaps not even that. I never truly studied it. It always felt like survival. I think of the thousand hours spent in seminars and groups since joining the Deep Democracy Institute in 2011 - or rather, since getting stuck in it, until my money ran out.

It is 2024, and I am leaving the Catholic Church. I have not done so yet, but I have made up my mind. Not because I am against it - not at all. For my grandmother, it was the substitute drug after she had to leave the NSDAP overnight. But did she ever really leave it?

Has any German explicitly renounced the party? I wonder today. Should we, the descendants, formally resign on behalf of our grandparents? Should everyone with ancestors in the party officially withdraw?

I think of an author I heard at the annual Poetics Lecture in the summer semester of 2024. I have already forgotten his name. It was such an ordinary German name that I hesitate to call him Müller, Meier, or Lehmann, fearing I might offend someone with that name.

He was faceless and fond of drinking - you could see it in his face. Maybe he tried to add some color to his image as a writer. When he was here, he roamed Heidelberg’s bars, saying, "Feel free to talk to me if you see me." He suggested I read Hitler’s Mein Kampf.

I have been in this city for nearly five years, visiting a pub maybe twice, but attending around two hundred lectures, readings, and discussions. As a teenager, I wanted to escape my village and family through alcohol. Drinking on Fridays, sick until Sunday, back to work on Monday. In hindsight, I now see that author as foolish and shallow - someone who merely studied language and turned his books into therapy. Instead of working on himself, he spreads like a plague. I love this critique, weeks later.

I see myself back on the ocean, my torso emerging from the water - nothing but endless sea around me. How good it feels.

Perhaps alcohol created this state for me once, and now I find myself in The Lion and the Mouse. "Silent Books" - a workshop at the Second Comparative Literature Conference in 2024. I only focused on colors, lines flowing through the images, yet I discerned no story or connection. I flipped through it once, then again, slower, page by page, before setting the book aside.

When the professor said, "The lion is chasing the mouse," I was startled. A statement? A definition? I looked at the cover and saw both animals at eye level. Their pupils were the same size. The word "animal" had not even crossed my mind while flipping through it.

Perhaps that is the essence of a good silent book - that words are completely absent, not just from the pages but from one’s consciousness as well. Perhaps, for a moment, I was one or two years old again.

The professor, the man at the front, had called them "lion" and "mouse." There were two people speaking, a woman and a man, addressing us. Or perhaps, they were simply having a conversation, while some in the room remained silent. Yet even in their silence, there were visible movements - expressions that spoke volumes without a single word if one looked closely.

I had learned all of this in my last belief system. In Deep Democracy, we observe everything. Facts make up only a small fraction of reality. What matters far more is what we dream.

At that moment, someone - perhaps my eight-year-old self - sits in the well and briefly looks up. Does he stop sulking, stop being sad? It remains a mystery, for I am still standing at the well’s edge, seeing only the two frail old men peering in. Now, someone else joins them.

A man who has just died - Arny Mindell, the founder of Process Work. He gave many names to this work, writing twenty-three books on the subject. His wife, Amy - or should I now call her his widow - made a film about his life. What touched me most was his way of sitting with the uncertainty before a book is born.

That he asks the world what he should write. And that the realization, the essence that emerges after resolving the conflict, brings him both tears and laughter.

Conflict is the moment at the edge - a threshold that will appear repeatedly in my images later. This boundary leads to something new; it is a doorway to leave something old behind. Arnie used to say that we are always in the flow. That we are simultaneously 1, 8, 20, 50, and even 100 years old, but also none of these, when viewed in the vast expanse of world history. "What a fuss we make...

Mr. Hegel appears at the top of the well, along with Otto Brink, one of my teachers and therapists from the Odenwald.

Hearing that name moves something in me, and I find myself sitting in front of an 80-year-old man in his home in Grassellenbach. "You are not sick, you are simply searching," he told me. A year later, his words came back to me at the perfect time - when I stood in court in the Netherlands. My last employer, an international bank, wanted to get rid of me because I did not act as expected. But I refused to give them that satisfaction. I stayed, taking on the responsibility that had been given to me. Not in the way they had envisioned, but in the way that made sense to me after 16 years in that world.

With that last thought, I am back, alone, floating on the ocean. Beautifully carried by a consciousness that stretches across the planet. Franz and Rainer Maria lived so intensely through their words.

Thinking about their personal lives, I see them as brothers. The boy in the well looks up and smiles slightly. I think of Vincent van Gogh and his brother. When I lived in Amsterdam, I read their letters - only a few, because they moved me too deeply - but I painted a lot in those days.

I tried to capture time itself by creating a 625-week painting. On a huge canvas, I began painting one small rectangle each week. Each day, a new scene emerged, and in doing this, I attempted to hold on to life.

The looming presence of war was constant, especially the fear of the American soldiers, who were known for their overwhelming force. Their power haunted me, mirroring the relentless control of global banks. For 20 years, I had lived within the ideology of capitalism, wealth, and greed - until I left that world in 2014. My other foot was already in the Deep Democracy Institute, where I had been involved for three years. Work never bothered me; quite the opposite. The more experience I gained, the better I understood how little I needed to do. Change processes took years. It had been the same at ING in Amsterdam - four years to steer the ship onto a safer course.

Now I am in the ocean, watching ships pass in the distance. Suddenly, I am allowed to be vast. Being vast does not mean that there is an explosion and everything ends.

The bomb fell through the roof, through my grandparents' bedroom, through the kitchen, and into the basement.

The boy in the well flinches. The inside of the well is illuminated by flashes of light, and he hears them strike - again, they are coming. In the following days, the house will be turned upside down again, and everyone will lose their minds. They all think about the dead, and around him, the stones of the well - the well that is not a well. A tower built downward, and at the top, the men are looking down.

Perhaps they are the ones who built towers in the world through their work. Towers that many people recognize. Hegel, Heidegger, and Karl Mannheim stand there, pushing, wanting to see into the well. Carl Jaspers is there too, and now, for the first time, a woman joins them - Hannah Arendt.

There is barely space left for me, but I cannot see over the edge anyway. I just see their backs, and Hannah looks like a more beautiful version of my grandmother.

I wonder if I need an intention for what lies ahead - for this book.

Intention: "Intentions are mental states in which the person commits to a particular action. Having a plan to visit the zoo tomorrow is an example of an intention. The plan is the content of the intention, while commitment is the attitude toward that content."

The plan to write a book is an intention. Writing in the morning and evening is the content of the intention. The commitment, the attitude, or stance toward the content.

Stance: In psychology, an inner stance refers to the mindset with which an individual reacts to events, groups of people, objects, and situations, and how they evaluate them. This inner stance expresses itself through beliefs, emotions, and behaviors.

I am speaking with Karl Mannheim, desperately searching for his image of the free-floating intelligence.

Suddenly, I am surrounded by old friends who are still members of the NSDAP - not officially today, of course, but their mindset, the coding in their DNA, is an exact inheritance from their grandparents.

The boy in the well stirs, loosening up. There are even signs that he might stand up. No longer needing to be devoted to an ideology in order to belong.

Free-floating intelligence - Mannheim's concept of a way of being in the world. I discovered it in Hannah Arendt, who had the courage to live it. Yet I keep wondering - was she only able to do this because of Heinrich, her husband, and the essential role he played in her life?

Intelligence: The cognitive or intellectual capacity in humans, and to some extent, animals - especially in problem-solving. The term encompasses a wide range of cognitive abilities needed to solve logical, linguistic, mathematical, or meaning-related problems.

Free-floating intelligence, and I am stuck.

Critics appear. Why am I writing? What am I doing with my time? The scene at the well is no longer just a mental image; it has become something alive inside me.

I look at a painting I created during the university orchestra’s final concert.

Image: Johannes Brahms. They played a piece by Johannes Brahms. Symphony No. 3 in F major, Op. 90, moved me deeply, and I went back for the second performance. That second night, I wanted to give form to what I felt, so I painted. It became the 40th painting I created that summer semester of 2024, and I wonder if I should begin with it.

The scene at the well suddenly transforms into this image. As you can see, there are many people in the painting. I hesitate. Can you hear the piece? I am listening to Brahms now.

Right after the first minute, my "self" begins to change. Transforming myself, I relate to the scene at the well, which is now being disassembled into fragments by the music. My eyes search for stability in the painting, but my heart is swept away by the music.

Everything dissolves. The world disintegrates, and I feel fear. I stop the music. My head aches. I sink back into my seat. The well scene shifts from my heart to my mind and threatens me. Threatens me at the break of a new day. Too many people, and I want to listen to them all. The boy in the well sits tense in his spot, as if he were cold, holding his bare legs tightly.

I restart the music and instantly feel my heart again. Now, different inner images appear. I want to turn it off again, but I stay with the music and continue writing. A part of me is no longer here - my fingers move faster. Just as I painted, I now write to you. And it is my heart that longs for you. You are more than just the reader. Behind you, I discover an entire universe, and at last, I can leave behind everything that limits us.

All that holds us back from facing and resolving our problems.