Lord Have Mercy

5.10.13

5am—It feels quite surreal to be finally leaving. Six Russians checked into rooms two through four late and they are already up and headed to the viewpoint.  No mountains but wispy clouds and a nice orange sun would be nice.  The sorting of personals is finished, today, pack.  Visits to the grandparents and others in the village. 

It’s not even six and I’m ready to go up.  Another ear-buzz bye night, I have no idea if I’m killing one everytime I go after it or it’s the same mother#@& tiny that is robbing my sleep.  My stomach growls.  I finished my peanut butter biscuits a long time ago.  Well, I’m certainly trimmed down enough perhaps this nine months was preparation for entry into the homeless world again. 

Everyone I know, everyone, owns a home and at fifty I don’t.  My first ever investment was right dag nab here and I have to leave.  Well the blank.  Marrying any of the girls Maya had introduced to me would have solved this problem long ago but you held out.  No one can be faulted, they tried.  And we appreciated it then and do now. 

They will not forget what you preached for four years.  A false prophet, no, shamanic occurrences that had another message I completely missed, I guess.

Ok, who did Abbie Hoffman call the first hippy?

I must, I need, I want, to send one or two emails today.  It is kind of important.  How can I make it without others?

If the CWM is where you want to be, make a decision then at the bus station.  Why do it now?  Impermanence holy cow I just accepted the offer at UOB and this is the goal, ok?  We’re going to the end of August.

I better write down addresses.

4:05pm—A snake fog glides into Pokhara from the north and then whoooshh up it comes right into the rooms blowing it comes.  Would you like to share what you would like to happen to you in your country?  I have no idea, a break I guess, a piece of luck, the presence of Jesus in the back seat of a pinto playing checkers.  Dude, I am never right.

Hey look! It’s Suman and Suson coming up Maya’s Way.  Tiksa, hey, let’s roast a chicken, dude. Huncha. Menacing black dangling clouds quickly rush from the north into Pokhara, pounding rain, high winds.  Didi cultivates in the field below room six, wearing a bluer than usual rain tarp in a lush green glow at dusk approaches.  If you had a good camera ladies and gentlemen, you’d do good to be here. 

Rainfall in a dry forest welcomes lapping it up, a water stain on a room three wall, water collects on the veranda.  After the last four days the dry season is pretty much over and this isn’t a monsoon storm from the east, that comes next month.  In Salalah it came in July.  Wouldn’t Los Angeles be  a wonderful place to live if it had an annual monsoon?

Ah yes, my final day on the mountain, let it rain real hard for a long time, wash out roads, landslides, the usual disarray.  The veranda is pretty much flooded and Didi is still in the field. 

5.11.13

An hour from leaving Sarangkot.  A peaceful sunrise approaches.  Lord Have Mercy on me, a sinner.