12.13.12
Nothing is
going to happen. Nothing at all is going
to happen. Nothing. The day will be like any other day. Absolutely blanking nothing is going to
happen. And I say this over and over
while six am skies illumine and before I go up I murmur a hopeless prayer to
whoever’s in charge today show me
something, in these last days, eight, help me believe. Suraksha comes to my side in the upper garden
and without prompt says:
I think twenty one December we have
big change
Nine degrees
at seven, the French have checked out, various chores will keep Maya busy with
no Didi, should I go to Pokhara? There
is what to buy, candles, no booze now, another trip for that in five or six
days, what else? Is it boredom, the
hookah fails to accomplish anything worthwhile.
I watched the first half of The Tree of Life. I must see the the journey
through space and time part scene again.
Very trippy.
I walked
past room four and smelled the gangi before the tall Japanese kid closed the
door. Well, not a big surprise, but my
money from Oman is about done.
‘Insufficient funds’ was, is, my red light. If timing is really what I think and thought
it has been, then going broke is all part of the fucking plan again.
12.14.12
So, only 2%
of Yankees believe there is something to the Mayan calendar, this a week from
the day. It is no surprise of
course. Nowhere in any faith are the
Mayans mentioned and that should be enough, right? And if the world were to change would this
invalidate the faiths or would we then see John’s psychedelically precognitive vision
of heaven come to us in 3D panoramic HD Dolby surround sound?
Believe or
not, just for the sake of it, clean your table, gird your loins, check your
karma tank, forgiveness raises your spiritual disposition.
Oh losing everything
last night to the fire waters of Pokhara leaves me feeling yuck. Oh, Laxman brings a bag of grass clippings,
hmmm, they should be dried.
A week to
go. Four years of this. Of course I want something to happen. Of course I don’t want to see Nyima
again. He doesn’t remember. Dolker doesn’t understand, I think, that the
puja he performed wasn’t for healing purposes.
It was to communicate.
A tall
European woman complains of the price for room one. Please Maya don’t take less. She is bitching and it is a Friday and with
this slice of heaven you obviously don’t see, find something else and you’ll
see there is nothing better on this mountain and when you come back la de da,
we’re gonna ask for more. It is
quiet. She came with a guide. I’m sorry for feeling a bit mean towards this
person I don’t know but it’s the high season.
And I don’t have enough to fly out of here! La de da.
La de da.
While in
Pokhara I found four paints for the mandala.
Is it time to do it? It is very
nice out now, the sun is warm and I just showered, hoping a noon rinse would be
hot. Ah, not really.
Painting
will have to wait. Suman arrived
earlier, his great-grandmother has been here for the day. She slept on a mat in the sun in the upper
garden and it did look kind of nice.
Instead I cleaned the beds in three rooms and now after a plate of chow mien
I could not finish, I sit in the dining room, Laxman brings in Prakash’s hard
plastic diggerado and we make noise.
And running
down Maya’s Way to the elbow in the road for a sunset with the fish. In the upper garden Maya roasted corn and
soybean with Shanta, a 21 year old string-bean and daughter to one of Maya’s
sisters, and Prem Maya, of all people.
Beseeching me to au-nus au-nus brother I fled to photo.
I got seven days to go and the end of this
ridiculous and no longer coincidental eighth will be over. Sitting next to her sister may have been an
opportunity to get in a few good words but consider never seeing her green eyes
again, I will be more than happy for that end.
No comments:
Post a Comment