This is an installment called India:
I came to during a suntan, the way only heat can do. You arise from a nap feeling as if you've been in the seventh day of labour for little money. A nap however, makes you feel better paid at least. Opening my eyes at the sky provokes two reactions: the one, a fierce squinting as if the sky is trying pull the shutters of your penthouse lids open and force it's beauty on you. The second, a sharp discovery. I could be laying anyplace; in this boat, on a hill at the park near my apartment, or on top of a Harlem brownstone. I'm not there, I'm somewhere different. I feel it in the pressure on my chest, and in the tension of my gut. The exploding cartoon excitement of bringing my eyes up slowly over the edge of the boat knowing that when I look over I will see it, India. Its right fucking there, looking at me. A beach, like any beach, but in its way showing me a reality I can never understand at home.
Once, I went on a weekend trip through and out of Lala into Baja and felt as if I had truly escaped humanity. Just me and some close ones dancing on a desert beach, but there we always knew there was a Coke or a corona only ten minutes drive from us.
Here I feel the sound of Keruoacs voice reminding me of the Baghavad Ghitas of Ignorance, and Ginsberg running around these same footpath beaches in front of me naked and telling everybody it was time to pray. This is isnt the child-foppishness of encountering celebrities, this is the struck dumb grandure of standing in footsteps so ancient they laugh at the passage of our empire and its simplicity. This is a land in which I can lay on my back on a new hotel mattress and know more people have lived, died, fallen in love, and spat on a new tax collection in that spot than have ever even seen my city. I sat there as a true outsider from the far view of our vessel like a damn pirate captain, and then with all the indignation of seeming to not know what I was feeling my mom said, Honey would you pass me a diet Coke? The heat in this place is killing me!
Sure.
Your father doesnt want to hear it, but this heat is making my bra destroy my skin. I wish I could where one of those sporty thingies like you can.
Celia!
Oh, dont worry about it.
The father approaches the women like a confederate spy, They dont like it when women talk like that here.
Oh please, he probably cant even understand us.
A voice from the bow, Well be there in ten minutes folks!
Um, Thank you, Captain!
Oh God.
You guys are killing me. Come on, lets get the stuff packed this is gonna be beautiful.
She says with a sports bra on.
Why dont we just rent some airtime, and you can announce it to all cabbies in India.
Oh, Im sure theyre much happier when you say something like that.
Guys? Can we stop talking about my bra please? Its doing weird things to me, thanks.
End of part one. Stay tuned for Primate Pirates of Paradise.
I came to during a suntan, the way only heat can do. You arise from a nap feeling as if you've been in the seventh day of labour for little money. A nap however, makes you feel better paid at least. Opening my eyes at the sky provokes two reactions: the one, a fierce squinting as if the sky is trying pull the shutters of your penthouse lids open and force it's beauty on you. The second, a sharp discovery. I could be laying anyplace; in this boat, on a hill at the park near my apartment, or on top of a Harlem brownstone. I'm not there, I'm somewhere different. I feel it in the pressure on my chest, and in the tension of my gut. The exploding cartoon excitement of bringing my eyes up slowly over the edge of the boat knowing that when I look over I will see it, India. Its right fucking there, looking at me. A beach, like any beach, but in its way showing me a reality I can never understand at home.
Once, I went on a weekend trip through and out of Lala into Baja and felt as if I had truly escaped humanity. Just me and some close ones dancing on a desert beach, but there we always knew there was a Coke or a corona only ten minutes drive from us.
Here I feel the sound of Keruoacs voice reminding me of the Baghavad Ghitas of Ignorance, and Ginsberg running around these same footpath beaches in front of me naked and telling everybody it was time to pray. This is isnt the child-foppishness of encountering celebrities, this is the struck dumb grandure of standing in footsteps so ancient they laugh at the passage of our empire and its simplicity. This is a land in which I can lay on my back on a new hotel mattress and know more people have lived, died, fallen in love, and spat on a new tax collection in that spot than have ever even seen my city. I sat there as a true outsider from the far view of our vessel like a damn pirate captain, and then with all the indignation of seeming to not know what I was feeling my mom said, Honey would you pass me a diet Coke? The heat in this place is killing me!
Sure.
Your father doesnt want to hear it, but this heat is making my bra destroy my skin. I wish I could where one of those sporty thingies like you can.
Celia!
Oh, dont worry about it.
The father approaches the women like a confederate spy, They dont like it when women talk like that here.
Oh please, he probably cant even understand us.
A voice from the bow, Well be there in ten minutes folks!
Um, Thank you, Captain!
Oh God.
You guys are killing me. Come on, lets get the stuff packed this is gonna be beautiful.
She says with a sports bra on.
Why dont we just rent some airtime, and you can announce it to all cabbies in India.
Oh, Im sure theyre much happier when you say something like that.
Guys? Can we stop talking about my bra please? Its doing weird things to me, thanks.
End of part one. Stay tuned for Primate Pirates of Paradise.
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and . . . SCENE!