Dear Indulgence a.k.a The Gross Assassination of Ms. Art

Blogs. Just about half the people I interact with in my days know what blogs are. My guess is about a fourth of them(at best) would have any interest in blogs... being the proud owners of one, or just reading a selection of blogs somewhat regularly. As rare as it is, someone would pop a question, "..so do you have a blog ?" The answer I provide is as obvious as it could be. "but I don't write very often, and its not about me." is what I add, somewhat like a disclaimer. "So what's it about ?" "Its like stories..." - and a unmentionably boring conversation follows. I have a feeling the disclaimer is a bit too loud 'cuz (thankfully) there haven't been many occasions when a friend or kin would mention something they read on my blog. This helps me relax down a lot when I'm typing some garbage that I might post on this blog (or as usual, leave without an ending as a draft... secretly knowing that I'm just tricking myself into believing that I'd wanna complete it some other day.) So what am I writing about today ?? I dunno... lets see.

I feel really good tonight. Some other times, I wouldn't mention something this stupid... so this is sort of a bit more special. I don't feel funny tonight... not sad or low neither. :) Just quite good. Its like I'm looking at myself after a long time, and I don't mind it. Stop reading now if you think its just one of those times I'm having an egomaniacal trips... 'cuz its true. So this one will be published as it is - no cuts. Now you know why you can't point out the appalling disregard for quality in the author. Score!! (don't label me a jerk ... stop reading !!)

Let's forget that last bit happened... Some people have really cool blogs. Very few people I know have blogs which I consider really cool. Some blogs have these really cool thingies on their blogs .. ykno like these embedded hits counters (the best one I saw gives a statistic of which countries the hits originate from) I don't think many people make it to this blog after the disclaimer I mentioned earlier... in any case, I don't know who reads this shit... or how many. There's another one of these embellishments which can tell you what google searches brought people to your blog... that's really cool too don't ya think ? Hmmm as much as I stand to be surprised if I used the last script-let - I can't imagine any definite keywords which could bring people to this blog.

Coming back to our original topic ... he he ... so here's more about me. One reason that made me feel really good about myself is I'm amazed at how much rationality is left in me. If you ever meet a person who knows the "Creator of this trashcan" - he might tell you that a funnier statement was never made. That I'm a mindless looney whose sometimes-interesting words always turn out to be exactly as precious as pigeon droppings on a windshield... and that this last fact is very easy to notice within twenty seconds of interaction with me. But I'd like to tell you thats not really true. I know that not many people are even remotely interested in the newest topics I have to discuss... and that the kind of thoughts that build on in my head over days is hardly ever about things that grabs the junta's attention. In fact I will guarantee you today that nothing I say has anything to do with reality as you know it... that even the historical facts that I might enlighten you about might be a simple output of my overactive imagination... don't quote me - not even accidentally - or I stand to suffer being labeled a "phony" ;) The guarantee almost doesn't mean at all that I'm lying all the time. It's all true if you ask me, and I'm honest. (Confusing ?? It isn't... really... think of it as a method of achieving more freedom)

Right now, I feel like the universe makes perfect sense at all times. I feel a certain degree of pity that it just doesn't have any other option. What I mean is simply that more of those 'unexplained phenomena' would surely make it all a bit more fair. You know, people unwillingly spending more time talking about things that still don't make sense to them. Right now, I feel that the wish I just made is happening all the time too - people are always spending time talking about things that don't make sense to them... its a private joke I guess.

There are a plenty of jokes that way - private jokes - ideas which are very funny to me - but I'll never be able to express why. The most recent one is how 'private jokes' are just one of the many other thoughts or ideas I'll never be able to express. That wasn't even funny to me - just a segway... eternal optimism tells me someday I'm gonna discover what my art is - and I will express. Expression, (ah!) would be like a glass of water :) I know it will be nothing anybody's ever seen/heard/felt before - cos it'll be nothing thats considered artistic. The only reason it will survive as art will be because I wrote this today. So the problem is already being taken care of. You probably won't like it.

Sometimes, I feel I should only write about my dreams. Or from them. They are IMHO - much more than what reality will ever be. Not even logic interrupts the natural generation of beauty that dreams have. A lie I should tell you - is that all of reality is created from the dreams of its participants. A truth I will whisper to you is that I really believe that. Why? Coz I dreamt it.

Many times, I feel I should write about the magic that occurs in life - as I see it. Just the feeling that here's something magical that I could write about makes me so much more alert of the magic that I wanna notice. As I said, it all makes perfect sense. But magic means nothing to most people I know or at least that's what they wanna believe. Which is why I'll speak of it no further.

I know some really excellent people. Lots of them in fact. Its hard talking about such a thing while still calling them people. It would do the last statement a lot of justice if I mentioned some folks and what I think is so awesome about 'em - so some other folks who might just happen to know the same gems-of-humanity can nod their heads in agreement and also, marginally appreciate my eye for beauty - but that's not happening. Which is why I don't write about people either. Not directly anyway. But if I did, I'd be able to compliment a bunch of folks who you'd be lucky to know, even if by chance. If I used names, I could tell someone exactly how I feel that the course he's chosen for his life is just the most inspiring... or how beautifully this girl played the guitar - that I first felt the urge to play it too - like somebody else ... or how I think that someone should write coz I find art in his words ... maybe even tell that other girl why she's won my heart. It's not happening. ;) The greatest art that was ever made was not appreciated. A lot of these other lives I admire are the same.

Or I could actually sit down and write about the things I really think a lot about. Death ? I'm sure I'll find some people who might slightly appreciate the fact that I expressed such an obviously secret fascination so vividly. I do think about death a lot. And I'm really not gonna write much of that private thought here - but rest assured, I'm not suicidal. Too bad ;) I'll share one though - and this one's a secret - so you-know-what - and its fresh !! I wish today that whatever direction my life takes - when it all ends... when some old friend or lover hears of the fact that I'm only a ghost now... and if that makes 'em think of me for a short moment - I hope my friend hears a private joke whispered in the head - good enough to cause at least one burst of laughter. I think I've just broken the world-record for selfish self-obsession here ... so burrrp.... sorry. I did warn ya.

This first expression of a thought of death has sorta made me really tired and I don't wanna write no more. I don't feel so good anymore ... I hate myself for writing words so full of myself - and with such appalling disregard for quality or content. But did I mention my super-rationality ?? Thats what helps me say a "FUCK YOU" to myself for hating myself for writing something that I really (half-)believe in such a shameless manner... and carry on with the blabber. The super-rationality - as you might have noticed (- only if you're as cuckoo as the author in question) - is like a bunch of convoluted meaningless statements - which proves nothing - but is introduced to justify to myself , an otherwise rational thought. ( Time now for me to say a FUCK YOU to you if you were about to pass me off as a retard for that last piece of un-information. Why ?? Cos as I have reminded you many times - I already told you its all bullshit) And yes, I do know that all of what I just explained somewhat/completely defies rationality... even sanity... but thats how it is to be a super-rational-human-being (burrrp!!). Its in such extreme levels that it feels like there is none at all. Rationality ! A zen engine is always running in all systems. Yes it is. Yes it is. No it isn't.Yes it is. Pick what you like. Like what you pick. The simplest truths aren't.

This time, really, I'm gonna end this literary torture. I hate writing in first-person - coz its just so hard to hold on to... specially knowing that the second and the third persons (sic) are mostly present too - just not obvious. That's it. 'Nuff. I sincerely apologise if you stuck around to reading this last bit... inspite of all the many warnings. (Secretly, I think you're a retard he he)
Thanks a lot. :)





P.S I hope as much as you do, that this will be my one and (thankfully) only attempt at a first-person post. That's also saying that all the previous posts weren't... but you already knew that. Never again shall I be me... in words ha ha. Its just more fun hiding behind the fiction plants. So, worry not, dear reader - this won't happen again. We'll have more of those story-like things once I complete one... and you know, that's slightly more quality-controlled. And they'll always be more interesting than the author. Art ??? Nah !

Powered by ScribeFire.

Ball Bursting Stress

There's a ball. Lets call it something. Something small, and round, and yellow. Well I'd show it to you if you wanna see it. has a pair of small eyes and a wide smile painted on it - in black. I heard somebody call it a Smiley-ball. The more used-to-things kinda people call it a "stress"-ball. What they really mean is that it is a stress-buster-ball (!) - you're supposed to squeeze it as hard as you want. The idea is this - you've got stress, so give it away. So these nice smiley things are actually quite stressed. We'll talk about their feelings later... after we discuss mine.

I don't usually find myself feeling stressed. It might be a result of seeing too many other people quite stressed all the time. My friends have stressful jobs, I think. Some find it stressful 'coz there's so many things to do and they don't have the time to do it; some have not-so-many things to do, but have no clue how to get about doing them; some are really waiting for a car to break-down so they can fix it, metaphorically speaking of course.Some friends have tried to tell me exactly how they spend their workhours - and now I have suffiecient data to begin bunching it together into types of jobs. I'm not even gonna start telling you about it coz I do not wish to be the bearer of sorrowful news. Anyhow, so all these stressful tasks people do, sounds to me a lot like graciously accepted slavery, with a big bundle of money tied at the bottom of the anvil. (Burp!)

So here's the game. The physical attributes of the anvil depends on where you're employed... you know, what its made of; how much it weighs; what its size is- and so on. (A reminder : Stress = Load/Area). Now, you might think its a ridiculous idea to talk jobs in terms of imaginary anvils... but let me assure you that's just because we haven't handled too many anvils in our experience-deprived lives. (My mind draws a grey anvil when I think of weight - thats probably coz I watched too many cartoons till sometime back). Now your contractual agreement with the company basically means this - From time to time, We (the organisation) will prepare one of these wonderful anvils for you to work on. Now obviously, you don't just get to lift this heavy thing, and take the money. In order to take the money, you gotta follow the rules which we set for you. And don't worry - most of the time, you get to be on top of the anvil as opposed to the other way round. After you've sufficiently chiseled away at the block, one of our men will deposit the cash in your bank account. We will also, from time to time, show our appreciation for letting us enslave you instead of all those other folks like us, and give you some extra notes from time to time. When your motivation drops, please let your manager know , so we can marginally increase the size of the bundle or give you a different anvil to chisel.

Stress, as I understand, is a result of knowing that you signed that agreement, and now you have to keep using the tools they gave you, as and when and how they want you to. I must sound completely paranoid, talking in 'them's and 'they's... but believe me, thats just so you know its not you or him/her. When people want you as their personal slaves, the tasks can get much nastier - and the pay, well, I really don't know much about that. Coming back to my original subject, stress might just be the knowing that you're gonna have to do this by then, because thats your job. So, essentially, just the knowledge that you're working, can be a rather stressful experience. I wonder how many people would feel stressed out if they didn't necessarily want to keep their jobs... but then, who doesn't.

The wise Tibetan monks give a lot of importance to understanding and appreciating death - and thereby, life. But, if you really think that the last 'thereby' really means anything - I guess you can skip reading the 'Book of Living and Dying' or the 'Book of the Dead'. I somehow feel that all employers have a good understanding and appreciation for death - and therefore, they know that what you're giving them - at the very least - is a portion of your life. Life, being something nobody seems to manufacture or package - yet , is priceless. So before you sign on the dotted lines, it might be a wise idea to ask yourself - how much do you wanna sell that portion of your life for? It was also a slowly-and-painfully-reached-obvious-idea that whatever price your time goes for, decides how well you can spend on improving whatever remains of your life. You must also remember that somewhere, a Tibetan monk is busy working at a type-writer, so he can make a book that helps people realise the importance of their lives - and as a secondary benefit, improve his own.

A small, yellow Smiley-ball costs 25 Rupees. It loses its original yellow color to a layer of dirt from your palms, in about two weeks. The black-ink smile last much longer. One ball I own (sic) hasn't stopped smiling in the last six months or so. Might not seem so strange if you know that the smile is not genuine... just cosmetic. But, to me it is still an inspirational figure. I have stressed it quite a lot in these last six months, but it always manages to bounce right back. (Burrrp!) If it could speak or think or feel, I wonder if it would complain or even feel bogged down. Maybe if it was useful in some other way... lets say as a floatation device for rich cockroaches, it might find it a more satisfying job. That inspires me to make myself useful in some other way, so I can move on to something else before I feel stressed or deathfully bored. Probably the fact that I can write such a useless thing at work, says something about why I don't feel all that stressed. Or maybe its the sunny-smiley Stress-ball... which by the way, is prob'ly thinking - "Glad to be of service. Just doin' my job, you know."

Note : The nice little story about a smiley-stress-ball called , who didn't know how to say goodbyes, will be presented later ;)

Fictional Untruths

I used to know a man who'd tell stories... Marvelous tales of beauty and life, power and destruction, gods and monsters,friendship and love, and many others which I can't put a theme to. He wasn't a writer. In fact, as far as I know, he never put any of those stories to paper. He had a story for everything that I knew, many more for things I didn't have any knowledge of.

I met him first, when I was a kid. Me and my friends used to play in the park, and just when the light grew dim, he would stop his rounds of brisk-walking, and sit down on a tired bench. At first, I thought of him as any other old man who had nothing better to do than sit and laugh as he watched kids play. Our first conversation took place when one evening, I'd had a fight with my friends an they had all left to play cricket. I must've had a determined ego. As if to prove to myself that I didn't need them, I played alone. I think it must've been very tiring to play all those make-believe characters myself. After some time of 'solitary fun', I decided to sit down... Not do anything... Think about the friends who left me... Curse them with my limited vocabulary. That evening, the man came and sat down beside me, and asked "Where are all your friends?" I told him that my friends were stupid, and I asked them to leave. He started laughing, and I couldn't tell why. I just sat there looking at him laugh- amused. That's when he told me his first story. It was about the time when he was young, and his friends wanted to go catch a duck. I don't remember it well but I know it was very funny. What made it funnier was how he told it. His voice was deep and rough, and he would twist it and turn it to produce squeaks, squeals, and many such sounds which really amused me as a kid. And his story was just what I wanted to hear about... about stupid friends (who actually catch a duck!)

I was back with my friends the next day. (They were back with me, actually.) When my new friend sat down on the bench, I waved at him and he smiled back. After we were done playing, I went to the bench and sat down. He asked me about my friends and school, and teachers and stories. And then told me a story about his favourite teacher in his schooldays. She was a teacher of English, who was too old, and spoke in an unintelligible manner. This one, too made me laugh a lot. He told me about the funny stories she used to tell him, and how he would simply fail to understand most words correctly, which would make the stories even funnier. When I was leaving, he asked me my name, and told me his - Woody. I laughed thinking it was a joke. A few days later, I heard one of his friends call his name, and for some reason, it didn't seem very funny.

I grew up with Woody; he grew older with me. After I stopped playing in the park, our meetings were significantly cut down. I would catch him at the local store sometimes, and he would tell me stories while we filled our shopping carts. He never failed to make me laugh.

When I was in high school, me and my friends would go walking around the neighbourhood in the evenings, and at the end of every stroll sit down on the large swing Woody had placed in his frontyard. He had a bigger audience now, but his skills could seemingly accommodate a whole city of listeners. His stories would always start after a little conversation... It was as if he weaved them while he talked to us- about our day, our lives, girls, parents - everything. I had heard so many stories that I had started failing in appreciating his art. He enjoyed delivering fresh-out-the-oven standards when it came to his stories. He enjoyed seeing people laugh. But I was beginning to see his tales as 'lies' - distortions of the truth.

One evening, I had had a very rough day... Caught cheating in a classroom test, humiliated for my act, and made to give a retest which I flunked. Woody heard about my day, and smiled. After about five minutes of silence, he began- " You know, there was this time I had wanted to buy a new bicycle..." I couldn't stand it. I stopped him halfway thru the sentence- "No you didn't. Why do always have a false story about everything ? It was fun to start with, but now its become a drag. Why do you lie so much?" He was shocked. There were no words spoken between us for the next fifteen minutes.

"I don't lie... There is truth in everything I've told you. You are right that not all incidents happened, but what I tell you is not about the incidents. Its about the story that conveys something. You'd say that I might as well tell you what I have to in plain words, but then I'll only be talking my philosophy, my thoughts. Instead I tell you a story which is true to my thoughts, and hope that you'll see something within."

I had just heard an explanation from a liar. I was still quite angry. Another fifteen minutes of silence changed my thoughts. Some part of me was sorry for not having seen what he just told me. I felt guilty of accusing my one true teacher. But, that boy who 'asked his friends to leave' wasn't going to apologize now. "So did you steal one ?", I asked.

"Nearly..." He continued. And I heard him with the same joy and curiosity that was there nine years back... my favourite story.

The Smoke Room

Two girls are sitting in a small smoke-filled room. Its dark, and they are merrily chatting away the absurdity of life, and everything that comes with it. Did I mention the room is full of smoke ? ... And fumes, and there's practically no ventilation. The same could be said about their heads... Full of smoke and fumes and practically no ventilation.

As can be scientifically proven... In fact its just plain common sense... A head full of smoke is lighter than a head not full of smoke. Light heads tend to laugh a lot... kinda explained all the howling-like sounds coming from the room. The loud laughter would've probably seemed very uncanny to anyone who was aware of the incident that occurred today morning. A newly-wedded woman had hung herself from the ceiling of her room in the opposite building.

Suicide is one of those things I thought only celebrities did... Or wannabes. i don't really have much of opinion regarding the act of killing yourself, except that it is stupid. Death is scary... Because it is so certain, and yet so unpredictable. Life, we take for granted, practically all the time we have it... And when we don't, well, we don't have anytime to think about it. Or maybe we do, i don't know... i can only hope that the ones who have killed themselves got one chance to appreciate life. Leave a suicide note saying that- i'm killin' myself 'cause life is just so incredible !! - that would probably sound very stupid, but i'll respect it.

Anyway, this isn't about the girl who died... Its about the two who live, and are incredibly happy to be alive. Thoughts travel in mysterious ways in a head full of smoke... And sometimes you can see it all happen. You see everything you see from your eyes as an image traveling in your head... And fix your 'sight' on that image and you'll see it swirl around as if in a cyclone... Just then, you see how your brains see it -
"The room. The walls are spinning around",says the little one. "..And there's sooo much smoke in here... No air !!" Had i been hearing these things from outside the door, i'd be prompted to call the fire-fighting people... But the little one is laughing wildly when she says this. She laughs till she's out of breath, and then she laughs again thinking about the 'lack of air'. The other one, the girl who loves to talk, joins in the laughter, and they're knocking themselves out with laughter.

The room, meanwhile, is busy spinning around... Much like a head full of smoke. ;) When they're both breathless, a strange silence comes over. It isn't like silence at all! When you hear thoughts, who needs words. Thoughts talk! You'll believe me, if you get a chance to. The two girls had been conditioned to think that rooms or walls... Are not things which spin, unless you're in a a revolving restaurant in Paris, or New York or some place like that...you know, the kinds of things you see on Discovery's Travel & Living channel.

Thoughts of New York begin to ride the smoke streams... tall shiny sky-scrapers reaching for the sky, busy roads with high-speed traffic, people walking up the subway stairs, people walking down the subways, people walking into alleys, stopping by at the deli to pick up a sandwich and some coffee... the colors and the lights are all there. They're floating around in the room; sometimes they all fit in together and in those moments, the room is suddenly New York. The girls have travelled thousands of miles in a flash, and are enjoying the delicious hamburgers and triple sundaes. Sounds of the city are everywhere... there's no escaping them. If only there were those serene mountain-tops like in Europe, or The Himalayas. The laughter which would "normally" exist at such a unusual incident happening is completely drownedin spoonfuls of ice-cream and through a energy transformation presents itself as a smile. The girls look at each other and smile... still thinking about the mountains... even small grassy hill-tops would do- like...like they have in Spain.

Ah! to be lazing in the warmth of the sun falling on a Spanish hill-top... sipping port wine and munching on whatever tomato-filled savouries they make in Spain. The walls have disappeared... the ceiling has a sun and white masses of clouds on a blue background. Towards one of the now-disappeared walls, you can hear a small group of people gathered around a lady who's dancing the graceful flamenco, in her flowing red dress... her musician playing his tiny guitar. The people are cheering!! Its a delightful sight. And there's a matador... that's a bull-fighter. The marvellous green-yellow-golden dress he's wearing is something you'd only see on TV!! TV... yeah thats where the matador came from... the girls break into a fit of laughter again.

The sounds of laughter ring in the room, as they explore the possibilities of the smoke-filled room... a room with no walls, or ceiling, or a floor. The room is a playground, and it could be anywhere...wherever you want it to be. This is where everything takes place... the world exists in this room. A small green-blue world, spinning on some imaginary axis, around the hot flames of the sun... till we're all a perfect golden-brown color, ready to be served on a platter. Bon apetit!

Now we sit through Shakespeare in order to recognize the quotations.
- Orson Welles

Everything happens to everybody sooner or later if there is time enough.
- George Bernard Shaw

Life is a foreign language; all men mispronounce it.
- Christopher Morley

Perfect Strangerness

I'm in a 'hill station'. I offer to drive my mom & sis to the dinner place. The town is brightly lit with coloured lights. It must be festival season. As we're about to enter the diner, I get a call on my mobile. My mom and my sis are watching these three girls, I think sisters for they're all wearing pullovers of the same dark maroon shade, who are also about to enter the same diner. Two of them are playing a game of chase... They look twins and make an extremely pretty sight. The third girl is much older... nineteenish and is not involved in the game... She's walking away down the road. A woman, who seems to be their mom walks into the diner, telling the young ones to follow her. The lil girls are merrily running around, and as I walk across the road still attending to that phone call, one of them comes running towards me and grips my leg. Her sis follows and does the same. I smile at those lil angels and pat their heads, and they continue their game. Its such a pleasant feeling watching these kids play... I laugh at the fact that they practically treated me like a tree in a garden.

I'm about to sit down on the pavement when i feel somebody hug me from behind. I turn around and complete the hug. Its the girl who i think is the elder sis.. its like meeting a very old friend. I don't even know if I know her... the warmth feels familiar, but I didn't get a chance to see her face. INo words are spoken; I don't feel the need for any... I get a feeling that its a strange situation but it feels very natural. We break the hug after a seemingly long time, and I looked at her face for a brief moment; a fleeting glimpse before I'm locked in the most astounding kiss. I'm moving without thought... I'm just moving. Its a feeling like no other... indescribable in words of past experiences. The kiss doesn't last too long, and its like my brain suddenly comes back alive. I'm attacked by a series of questions- What just happened? Do I really know her? I wonder whether I'm dreaming? I look around... its a very beautiful place... how can I tell? It doesn't seem like a place I'd dream about... I don't know.

"uh-huh", she says. I'm reminded of the fact that this girl is still there with me ... have I been so lost in thoughts that I missed what she might've been saying? And reealising that I can't seem to stop the thoughts, I shout to myself, "Shut Up!"... and find myself actually uttering the words.

"Sshhhh!! My dad doesn't want to hear your voice. Be quiet!"

I can't recall her face.I don't try hard. We've started to walk away from the diner. I look at her again , not thinking anyhing... walking along, very comfortably. She's softly speaking a few words, but they'r not addressed to me. I can't see the phone... I assume there must be a hansfree thing in her other ear.

We mut've walked someething like a hundred steps. The road is turning sharply on th mountain slope. We're away from the bright lights... its quiet here, and I can see small dots of light in the valley below.

"Let's go up this road.", she says. I notice that she's not talking to someone else... she's looking at me with a smile on her face.

"What's your name?", I ask her. She tells me her name... its short and I softly repeat what i heard. She spells it out and it seems longer than how I though it would be spelt.
"It's French!", she adds. I feel like my mind is dazed... I don't seem to have registered the name at all... and I don't bother to. It sounded pretty... that's how I felt... that's all.

"My dad is away. He's wth the army. I'm here with my mom."

I tell her that I came here a couple of days back with my mom and my sis. "My dad's kinda busy these days... couldn't come along.", I add.

A group of five guys are walking up behind us, laughing among themselves. Their voices drop as they pass us by. One of them looks at the girl; she didn't look at him. Just then, he turns around and throws something at her. It hits her but is not something that hurt her. She picks it up from the ground... it looks like a small purse made of fur. She shouts back something abusive at the guy and asks him to stop. The guys run away quickly, up the road, still laughing... louder.

"He took this away while I was sleeping. I'll get him."

I'm not even sure what the thing was, and I don't respond. A short while later I ask her, "who were they ?"

"They study in a school here. I don't know them well. They've been trying to pull some prank on me ever since they saw me when I came here, a week back."

"Where did you come from?"

"Our family was in Zealand..."

I think she must've meant New Zealand... but I heard her say 'Zealand'. Maybe I misheard her. Anyway, she didn't look like a foreigner, and I think I heard her say something in Hindi or something like it. I'm not sure.

I start humming a song... somethin by The Beatles... and she hums along. It feels nice walking this way. I'm not surprised somehow.

We walk into a small wooden house. I'm just following her. The five guys are sitting in a room. She goes and says something to the guy who threw God-knows-what at her. She's angry and aggressive. I feel like I'm not even there.

"Don't even try!" she shouts at one of the guys and walks out... I follow her. She asks me if I have a cigarette, and I offer her one. She lights her's, and then mine. and the stroll continues. We pass a few bends. Its quite dark... the hillside along the road is full of green mossy fern-like things.... dripping water. She mentions how she loved playing with her sisters back home. "It was like we had picnics in our front lawn...", she says. the conversation has me involved, but I'm not contributing anything to it... not even the usual acknowledgements.

"How long are you here ? ", she asks.
"I don't know." I don't.

The walk continues till we're back on the road to the diner. We go past it. A long time has passed since we started to walk... in fact, the sky is lit with morning glow. There's a small rocky wall and a little stone brigde on top. "Climb down the wall", she says. I ask, "Why?".
"Everybody climbs down the wall. Its a lot more fun. Its easy to do it. Use the spaces between the rocks."

A familiar voice catches my attention. Its my mom... she's talking to a woman she must've met in the diner. She very casually points at me and says " thats my son". I give a little nod to say hi. They go past on the stone bridge. Its a road leading down the slope. I look back down the rocky wall, and there's no one there. I'm not sure if nybody ws supposed to be there. I climb down the wall and start walking on a narrow path that leads down the slope too.

I reach a place that seems like a marketplace, or a bus station. There are lots of beautiful faces all around. There are a couple of kids playing in front of what seems like a waiting area for tourists using the buses. There's a little stall with a lot of kids around it. A person dressed up like a circus clown (or Santa) waves at me. I walk towards the stall and I see that its the same girl i wa walking with (thru the night apparently)... she waves again and i signal a hi... She smiles and just then a bunch of kids ask her for something. She presents a cake in front of them... A small white cream cake. The kids are now talking to her and she seems busy with them.

I go and sit on one of the plastic chairs i the bus shelter. There's a person reading a book. He's sitting two chairs away. I think he's humming "Mr. Tambourine Man" behind th book. The song fills my head... I'm delighted to hear Dylan's gentle words floating around...

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you...

"Jingle-jangle morning", I think to myself and smile. The guy has now kept the book down... he's smoking a cigarette and sipping coffee. "D'you know a breakfast place 'round here ?" he asks.

"I love the baked beans on toast they serve there.", I say pointin to a small shop about 50 m away. " Very nice cookies too !" He lifts his cup in acknowledgement, says thanks, and gets up to walk to the place. He's walked about half the distance, and a bunch of teenage girls surround him. I hear someone shout " Its ****** *****" (some famous celebrity name I've heard... Johnny Depp maybe).

I look in the direction where that little stall was set up, and there are kids... but the girl isn't there. I get up and i see her buying something from the counter(?)... I walk a little towards her, and she has a couple of cookies in her hand. She hands me one... its choco-chip, and very tasty. She has a very warm expression on her face, and once again I think I know that smile... but I can't put a name or a face to it...except the one that I see....and I can't put a name to that. She smiles and it seems to me that she kows what I'm thinking. I just smile back, the cookie still in my mouth. I have started wondering once again.

Just then I hear someone call my name... I turn back and its this guy I know from a rock band. He gives me a hug. He's the bassist. "What are you doing here? Is ***** (the band) here?", I ask.

"Yeah, they're just moving the instruments from the bus. there's a gig happening tomorrow... right here. Prestroika is playing too. They came with us."
I look at the bus standing at a distance, and another member of his band waves at me. I wave back. "What are you doing here? When did you arrive?" he asks me. I don't know. I turn again at the girl... she still has a smile on her face. She looks me in eye.... now we're both laughing as if we know a common joke...we laugh for a long time. I look at the bus again and the mr.bassist ... he's with his band now... helping them move the stuff.

A song is playing in my head, I don't know the name... but I must be hummin' it, coz she's singing it too....

Even Flow... thoughts arrive like butterflies.
Oh he don't know so he chases them away.
Oh, some day yet, he'll begin his life again
Whispering hands, gently lead him away... lead him away...him away.

We're both now singing it out loudly... moving to the music. "Her voice is perfect..." I get a flash. The final yeah and we're both laughing again.

A thought floats around in my head till it finds word which would nearly describe it... to myself."Where am I ?"