There's only one Fly
There's only one Legend
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Theatre - Pakistani style!
Just outside the entrance to the ‘Madina Guest House’, 20 yards to the right on the main road, is a little gulley. If you walk pass this gulley in the evening's you’ll notice a motley queue of men. The gulley is not particularly big so the queues frequently spill onto the pavement and sometimes flood the road itself. So one day, I asked Mr Lal Mohammed, the redoubtable and affable proprietor of the Madina Guest House, what the queues were about. Is it for a cinema? Or a show? Coquettish dancing girl’s perhaps? Or even for the pleasures of prostitutes? This is not unlikely, for though Pakistan is a Muslim country, there are not many women about in the Northern Areas(contact with men being strictly forbidden), so prostitution is common. In fact it becomes a ‘social necessity’; a channel or ‘narlee’ draining away the stresses and problems of the masses and the mob – less they should explode in revolutionary fervour.
"Actually" Mr Lal Mohammed said (with something of a mischievous glint in his eye), "the queues are for a theatre play. A play in which all the actors are male and they are all dressed as women".So the next evening I paid the Rs100 entrance fee and paid a visit to this establishment to see what all the fuss was about.
Now, for those of you familiar with London’s theatre land, please leave your experiences and expectations at home. This is as far away from theatre land as it is possible to get - and I don’t just mean geographically. London theatre land is proudly middle class, polite, reserved, ‘yes please’ and ‘thank you very much’ the order of the day. Not so here. The ‘theatre’ here is (for want of a better description) like a medieval cattle market. After obtaining my ticket from the disinterested morose booth attendant I walked up to my allotted seat and much to my humour (because I expected nothing less) found someone already sitting in it. I made a fine show of affected surprise; looking repeatedly at my ticket stub and then at my seat all for the benefit of the man sitting in my seat hoping he would get the message. In response, the man rather impishly yanked out his ticket stub and showed me his seat number, pointing at it with his stubby finger – it was the same as mine. Thus satisfied he settled back smugly into his seat and promptly ignored me.
It’s very simple. In Pakistan for every seat they sell two tickets. It’s a ‘first come first served’ system. If you’re not ‘first’ you stand at the back or sit on the aisles. I refused to do either and sat on another empty seat. If I had known better I would have purchased the ‘VIP Tickets’ (for Rs200) for then you are guaranteed a seat – though you pay double for it. Theatre Seating is a very complex business here in Pakistan and one can quite easily write a thesis or book on the subject. Anyway, I am getting ahead of myself. So having secured ‘a’ seat – alas one with a different seat number to the one on my ticket, I made myself comfortable, but not too much. For I knew that someone (with the correct ticket) was bound to turn up any minute now and throw me off. Unluckily someone did show up, but luckily finding me in the seat, they left me alone. Obviously they’d assumed that I had the correct ticket and had simply got there first. Smart move on my part – Wasim Uno Point! – ‘when in Rome do as the Roman’s do’
Now, one of the first things’ you notice in Pakistan when you’re in an enclosed space with people in it (like a theatre hall for example) is the stink: a heady mixture of week-old sweat mingling with noxious cigarette fumes jostling with hair oil and cheapo after-shave. Fart and burp fumes are also prevalent in the miasma enveloping you but they prefer to lurk in the background and never come centre stage – unless you’re sitting next to someone with gastro-enteritis – which luckily I wasn’t. Anyway, looking around the hall it was clearly evident that this was not a ‘family show’. The men (and it was all men) we’re all pretty seedy looking creatures; haggard, un-shaved, half-baked complexions and wearing dirty salwar kameez’s (aren’t you supposed to make an effort for the theatre?!)
The show began in earnest to a chorus of much whistling and jeering…which never really ceased. The troop of male actors walked on-stage sporting tight women’s dress, outrageous wigs, and exceptionally large breasts. At these the man sitting to my right was getting seriously excited (more on this creature later). It is truly amazing what a wig, fake breasts and staccato female voice can do to the Neanderthal male brain. The troop of male actors then began flouncing about; exaggeratedly playing with their curls, tossing their hips and wriggling and even touching their fake breasts – all to a fury of wolf whistles from the audience. Yes, my early description of cattle market was apt. Now, I have absolutely no idea what the play was about, but it never really mattered and I don’t think anybody really cared. There was a scene when one of the actors smacked the other on the back-side and the entire theatre erupted. I began to wonder who these people were.
Then there was a scene of infatuated whispers where the protagonist actor professes his (or her) love for another actor (also female) – this had more then just a hint of lesbianism to it and it was the only time the theatre was relatively quiet. I don’t know what words we’re exchanged in that heartfelt lament of love; but it seemed to work and ended with the two actors cavorting on stage in a pseudo lezbian romp. It was at that moment that I began to pay more attention to the man seated to my right. I hadn’t really noticed him before because it was dark, but something had caught my attention. As my eyes adjusted to him I could see what he was doing and I had to do a double-take to confirm my suspicions. To put it bluntly it seems that the pseudo-lesbian love scene had got him rather agitated and he was erm (how can I put it politely? well you can’t actually!), he was wanking. Yes, the man sitting to my right, in a theatre hall full of dirty, sweaty, seedy, lecherous men, was unabashedly masturbating to a lesbian scene involving two men dressed as women.
Was I shocked? Of course! I mean, they weren’t even real women! If it had been a real lesbian scene involving real women I could (just about) have understood – but this was make-believe of the highest order and in all honesty they weren’t particularly pretty looking men dressed as women either! One of them even had stubble. Ugh Yuk!
Alarmed at the horror I had just witnessed I looked around to see if anyone else was also as outraged as I was. But no. Nobody seemed perturbed. All I could see we’re the whites of their eyes fixed firmly on the stage. No one even glanced at me.
You know if I didn’t know any better I’d say at least half the theatre audience was at that moment engaged in some sort of lewd act of personnel gratification. Like zombies. Then the realisation hit me: I was in a theatre full of serial wankers. This is what this was! I had stumbled upon a veritable wank show.
I suddenly found myself getting up and leaving. Taking particular care not to brush against the man to my right less I disturb his rhythm. I left him and the others fidgeting with themselves and walked into the fresh blackness of the night, refusing to look back. It was a relief to be outside in fresh air. My emotions were a brew of shock, puzzlement and humour. Yes it was funny in a way but also disturbing. As I walked further on and gathered my thoughts together, they congealed into anger. Anger that man has created a society where this is tolerated. But more crucially, that man has created a society that creates the conditions for this (call it what you will) this ‘serial wanking club’ to flourish!
But perhaps I’m being a tad culturally insensitive here? Where’s my cultural relativism gone? Perhaps I need to leave my Western cultural norms behind and take a look at the events with fresh, unbiased eyes? What do I see?
I see. Well I see a theatre full of dirty, sweaty, men wanking to male actors dressed as lesbians. That’s what I see! Man in microcosm. Man captured on Kodak film. Man caught doing what he is – a wanker!
"Actually" Mr Lal Mohammed said (with something of a mischievous glint in his eye), "the queues are for a theatre play. A play in which all the actors are male and they are all dressed as women".So the next evening I paid the Rs100 entrance fee and paid a visit to this establishment to see what all the fuss was about.
Now, for those of you familiar with London’s theatre land, please leave your experiences and expectations at home. This is as far away from theatre land as it is possible to get - and I don’t just mean geographically. London theatre land is proudly middle class, polite, reserved, ‘yes please’ and ‘thank you very much’ the order of the day. Not so here. The ‘theatre’ here is (for want of a better description) like a medieval cattle market. After obtaining my ticket from the disinterested morose booth attendant I walked up to my allotted seat and much to my humour (because I expected nothing less) found someone already sitting in it. I made a fine show of affected surprise; looking repeatedly at my ticket stub and then at my seat all for the benefit of the man sitting in my seat hoping he would get the message. In response, the man rather impishly yanked out his ticket stub and showed me his seat number, pointing at it with his stubby finger – it was the same as mine. Thus satisfied he settled back smugly into his seat and promptly ignored me.
It’s very simple. In Pakistan for every seat they sell two tickets. It’s a ‘first come first served’ system. If you’re not ‘first’ you stand at the back or sit on the aisles. I refused to do either and sat on another empty seat. If I had known better I would have purchased the ‘VIP Tickets’ (for Rs200) for then you are guaranteed a seat – though you pay double for it. Theatre Seating is a very complex business here in Pakistan and one can quite easily write a thesis or book on the subject. Anyway, I am getting ahead of myself. So having secured ‘a’ seat – alas one with a different seat number to the one on my ticket, I made myself comfortable, but not too much. For I knew that someone (with the correct ticket) was bound to turn up any minute now and throw me off. Unluckily someone did show up, but luckily finding me in the seat, they left me alone. Obviously they’d assumed that I had the correct ticket and had simply got there first. Smart move on my part – Wasim Uno Point! – ‘when in Rome do as the Roman’s do’
Now, one of the first things’ you notice in Pakistan when you’re in an enclosed space with people in it (like a theatre hall for example) is the stink: a heady mixture of week-old sweat mingling with noxious cigarette fumes jostling with hair oil and cheapo after-shave. Fart and burp fumes are also prevalent in the miasma enveloping you but they prefer to lurk in the background and never come centre stage – unless you’re sitting next to someone with gastro-enteritis – which luckily I wasn’t. Anyway, looking around the hall it was clearly evident that this was not a ‘family show’. The men (and it was all men) we’re all pretty seedy looking creatures; haggard, un-shaved, half-baked complexions and wearing dirty salwar kameez’s (aren’t you supposed to make an effort for the theatre?!)
The show began in earnest to a chorus of much whistling and jeering…which never really ceased. The troop of male actors walked on-stage sporting tight women’s dress, outrageous wigs, and exceptionally large breasts. At these the man sitting to my right was getting seriously excited (more on this creature later). It is truly amazing what a wig, fake breasts and staccato female voice can do to the Neanderthal male brain. The troop of male actors then began flouncing about; exaggeratedly playing with their curls, tossing their hips and wriggling and even touching their fake breasts – all to a fury of wolf whistles from the audience. Yes, my early description of cattle market was apt. Now, I have absolutely no idea what the play was about, but it never really mattered and I don’t think anybody really cared. There was a scene when one of the actors smacked the other on the back-side and the entire theatre erupted. I began to wonder who these people were.
Then there was a scene of infatuated whispers where the protagonist actor professes his (or her) love for another actor (also female) – this had more then just a hint of lesbianism to it and it was the only time the theatre was relatively quiet. I don’t know what words we’re exchanged in that heartfelt lament of love; but it seemed to work and ended with the two actors cavorting on stage in a pseudo lezbian romp. It was at that moment that I began to pay more attention to the man seated to my right. I hadn’t really noticed him before because it was dark, but something had caught my attention. As my eyes adjusted to him I could see what he was doing and I had to do a double-take to confirm my suspicions. To put it bluntly it seems that the pseudo-lesbian love scene had got him rather agitated and he was erm (how can I put it politely? well you can’t actually!), he was wanking. Yes, the man sitting to my right, in a theatre hall full of dirty, sweaty, seedy, lecherous men, was unabashedly masturbating to a lesbian scene involving two men dressed as women.
Was I shocked? Of course! I mean, they weren’t even real women! If it had been a real lesbian scene involving real women I could (just about) have understood – but this was make-believe of the highest order and in all honesty they weren’t particularly pretty looking men dressed as women either! One of them even had stubble. Ugh Yuk!
Alarmed at the horror I had just witnessed I looked around to see if anyone else was also as outraged as I was. But no. Nobody seemed perturbed. All I could see we’re the whites of their eyes fixed firmly on the stage. No one even glanced at me.
You know if I didn’t know any better I’d say at least half the theatre audience was at that moment engaged in some sort of lewd act of personnel gratification. Like zombies. Then the realisation hit me: I was in a theatre full of serial wankers. This is what this was! I had stumbled upon a veritable wank show.
I suddenly found myself getting up and leaving. Taking particular care not to brush against the man to my right less I disturb his rhythm. I left him and the others fidgeting with themselves and walked into the fresh blackness of the night, refusing to look back. It was a relief to be outside in fresh air. My emotions were a brew of shock, puzzlement and humour. Yes it was funny in a way but also disturbing. As I walked further on and gathered my thoughts together, they congealed into anger. Anger that man has created a society where this is tolerated. But more crucially, that man has created a society that creates the conditions for this (call it what you will) this ‘serial wanking club’ to flourish!
But perhaps I’m being a tad culturally insensitive here? Where’s my cultural relativism gone? Perhaps I need to leave my Western cultural norms behind and take a look at the events with fresh, unbiased eyes? What do I see?
I see. Well I see a theatre full of dirty, sweaty, men wanking to male actors dressed as lesbians. That’s what I see! Man in microcosm. Man captured on Kodak film. Man caught doing what he is – a wanker!
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
Planet Dulux®
What do you see through those starburst eyes?
can you see the pixels jump out alive?
a chromatic - w i d e s c r e e n - technicolor life
a ready made Dulux® World
for us to find
can you see the pixels jump out alive?
a chromatic - w i d e s c r e e n - technicolor life
a ready made Dulux® World
for us to find
Friday, August 22, 2008
Hunza Watercolour
The sing-song laughter of children reaches your ears high up in the valley; a happy-go-lucky impish chorus carried on the backs of a tender breeze. You smile because it reminds you of your nieces. As you sift through the delicate valley sounds with your fingertips you notice the constant hum of the Hunza River - a never ceasing torrent at the bottom of the valley floor. It’s Friday. The Mullah in the mosque is in full swing and you can hear his sermon through the loud speakers on the opposite side of the valley. His pleading harrying voice surges forever upwards; imploring God to forgive our sins. Below you a troop of women squat quietly in a knee-deep ocean of grass not talking but listening in deference to the Mullah. You watch them thrash and cut the sun-dried grass with metal sabres and then dump it in pyramidal mounds as animal fodder for the winter months.
Your attention caught by a cackling armada of birds as they perform a fly-by across your veranda; large confident black things with brilliant-white wings and purple tails that swoosh and swoon on thermals. The flies continue to hassle you. Why won’t they leave you alone? In the distance the mountains heave to the heavens; their tips wrapped in chunky wads of icing sugar. The Mullah has finally stopped his sermon and suddenly the women become more animated and chatter in the fields; laughing and giggling and bobbing their heads mischievously like corks. You notice there features: oriental looking, light skinned and blue-eyed. Headily beautiful - Yes. These are Hunza women. Perhaps the most beautiful women in the world. Your heart is light and your mind fresh and so is the air; not thick and miry like the unpleasant miasma of Lahore.
You spot apple trees and cherry trees and apricots and squashes and walnuts growing in abundance all around you like a Garden of Eden. The apricot trees scatter their produce all over the ground covering it in a sludgy - orangey mire. You tramp over it and watch it ooze into your soles – like apricot jam. You grab an apple hanging from a tree and take a tentative bite at it - it’s soft and sugary and delicious. The sunflowers are swarming with a bumblebee invasion, their deep yellow petals screaming out for attention from the arid forlorn rocky crags in the background.
The valley really comes alive in the early evenings when the sun hovers low; carving long deep shadows across it. It’s now that the tips of the mountains take on that warm golden cast that you love so much. The colours of the valley suddenly jump out at you as if mounted on spring coils that have been wound during the day. Green suddenly says ‘Hi!’ and jumps into the valley making everything appear greener. The dusty hills suddenly look more interesting with their ridges and contours a differing shades of brown – details that you never noticed before. The apricots in the apricot trees now positively glowing like lit bulbs and the sunflowers dressed in a drunken yellow rage with brown splodges.
The cackling birds with their flashy white wings glimmer as the sun bounces off them all under a sky streaked with green and purple crayons. The children ever louder. The women in the fields ever more animated and eager to go home and cook the evening family meal. You know dinner time has arrived when twirls of smoke start scrambling heavenwards from the chimneys. The smell of burning wood and a thousand meals fills the valley and attacks your nostrils. You wish you we’re in one of those homes sitting around a cosy wood fire watching the family at play. Just watching and drinking tea.
The sun finally disappears and the valley now a milkyway of a million light-bulbs. But the river continues humming, lulling you to sleep in the veranda. But not before you’ve had your evening meal. In your bedroom. Alone!
Your attention caught by a cackling armada of birds as they perform a fly-by across your veranda; large confident black things with brilliant-white wings and purple tails that swoosh and swoon on thermals. The flies continue to hassle you. Why won’t they leave you alone? In the distance the mountains heave to the heavens; their tips wrapped in chunky wads of icing sugar. The Mullah has finally stopped his sermon and suddenly the women become more animated and chatter in the fields; laughing and giggling and bobbing their heads mischievously like corks. You notice there features: oriental looking, light skinned and blue-eyed. Headily beautiful - Yes. These are Hunza women. Perhaps the most beautiful women in the world. Your heart is light and your mind fresh and so is the air; not thick and miry like the unpleasant miasma of Lahore.
You spot apple trees and cherry trees and apricots and squashes and walnuts growing in abundance all around you like a Garden of Eden. The apricot trees scatter their produce all over the ground covering it in a sludgy - orangey mire. You tramp over it and watch it ooze into your soles – like apricot jam. You grab an apple hanging from a tree and take a tentative bite at it - it’s soft and sugary and delicious. The sunflowers are swarming with a bumblebee invasion, their deep yellow petals screaming out for attention from the arid forlorn rocky crags in the background.
The valley really comes alive in the early evenings when the sun hovers low; carving long deep shadows across it. It’s now that the tips of the mountains take on that warm golden cast that you love so much. The colours of the valley suddenly jump out at you as if mounted on spring coils that have been wound during the day. Green suddenly says ‘Hi!’ and jumps into the valley making everything appear greener. The dusty hills suddenly look more interesting with their ridges and contours a differing shades of brown – details that you never noticed before. The apricots in the apricot trees now positively glowing like lit bulbs and the sunflowers dressed in a drunken yellow rage with brown splodges.
The cackling birds with their flashy white wings glimmer as the sun bounces off them all under a sky streaked with green and purple crayons. The children ever louder. The women in the fields ever more animated and eager to go home and cook the evening family meal. You know dinner time has arrived when twirls of smoke start scrambling heavenwards from the chimneys. The smell of burning wood and a thousand meals fills the valley and attacks your nostrils. You wish you we’re in one of those homes sitting around a cosy wood fire watching the family at play. Just watching and drinking tea.
The sun finally disappears and the valley now a milkyway of a million light-bulbs. But the river continues humming, lulling you to sleep in the veranda. But not before you’ve had your evening meal. In your bedroom. Alone!
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Saturday, August 16, 2008
The Deosai Plains (world's 2nd highest plateau)
Not very far from Skardu lies a stony tumble-weed jeep track. If you follow it, it’ll take you up and up. Up and up you'll go beyond the clouds. Passing lush green valleys; their hills sliced into geometric terraces bustling with dusty corn cobs. As you climb higher the valleys give way to alpine scrub. Then the temperature starts to drop. Alpine scrub gives way to tawny weeds; skinny little things that hug the rockscape like babies hugging their mothers. The landscape more unforgiving as you get higher - the wind harsher - the rocks darker and moulded into acute angles. Suddenly at the top, you find stretching endlessly before you, an immense plateau. Welcome to the Deosai Plains – at + 4,000 metres above sea level this constitutes the world’s 2nd highest plateau, 2nd only to Tibet. The plains support the endangered Snow leopard, Indian wolf, Himalayan Ibex and the Golden Marmot. It’s a harsh landscape but also sublime. The air is fresh, the sunlight is clean and clear like sparkling water and in the background you can see the lofty snowy peaks of the world’s highest mountains.
Never was bleakness so beautiful. Never was emptiness so bountiful. I felt my spirit spirited away on these plains; it being no longer tethered to my body. It wandered across the steppes with my thoughts in tow- dragging them along with it. My thoughts, so restless these days, resisted the invitation, but eventually seduced they gave in to the nagging spirit.
Such landscapes; barren and lonely as they are; with their harsh lines, strong colours and endless panorama’s – are like being given a lemony tonic. They make you realise that there is no stopping the human spirit. That it has no boundaries and it takes these landscapes to realise it. Perhaps the steppes serve as a kind of metaphor or visual representation of the boundless spirit incarnate? Here - Now - You realise how minor some things are. Like love for example. Love has no meaning here. No definition. Love may reign supreme on ‘normal’ terrain – but here, love is a small, mediocre emotion – too selfish and self-interested to deserve room in such majestic sweeping landscapes. Instead, here the hollow that love leaves is filled with grander emotions. By grander I mean more altruistic, selfless, and more universally encompassing emotions like ‘the nature of mankind’s quest’, ‘the meaning of life’, and the ‘cosmic imperative’.
Cosmic imperative?
Mankind’s quest?
What the devil am I talking about? What is happening to me? Such metaphysical language; wishy-washy and obtuse don’t suit me! Oh, by the way did I neglect to mention that I am writing this in a high-altitude low-oxygen environment? You see the O2 levels at 4,000 metres are low thus leading to euphoric, ecstatic emotional swings – or in layman terms a feeling of being high. Oh, I’m ‘high’ alright – both literally and metaphorically! Such places push the brain down weird little-frequented mind alleys:-
Here’s some for my eventual ignominious shame:
1) When I get back down to the city I’m going to walk up to the first single, pretty girl I see, look her in the eyes, tell her how beautiful she is, and then clear off before she calls the cops. Or her brothers.
2) When I get back to the city I’m going to grab the first beggar I see. Hug him tightly. Plant a huge kiss on his (filthy) forehead and give him 1,000 rupees and then walk off before he realises what just happened. Then I’m going to walk into the nearest hospital and get some boosters for Cholera just in case.
3) When I get back to the city I’m going to phone the girl I love, tell her how I feel about her, tell her how much I love her, and then hang-up. Oh, but I don’t have her number? Mmm…slight problem there. Aha! Well maybe she’s reading this in which case I’ll just tell her here:
'Yo babes. I love you, you know. Did you know that I take you with me wherever I go? Honest. I tell no lies. Death to me right now, right here if I do. Slice me In half/cut me to kebabs/make me into an omelette/for I tell no lies. You’re always in my breast pocket. Always. I’ve dragged you with me everywhere. To all the countries I’ve been. Through all the airports. I’m never lonely cos you’re always in my breast-pocket. If I don’t have a breast pocket I just sit you on my shoulders. Or if things get a little hairy I put you in my trouser pockets. Not the back pockets cos then I might squash you when I sit or when the road goes bumpkety-bump (as it so often does).
I do wish though, that now and again, you’d climb out of my breast-pocket, or get off my shoulders, or sneak out my front pockets and give this poor, hopeless, fool, a little kiss. Just a small one. You have no idea how happy it would make him. Especially up here in the Deosai Plains where breathing can be so hard. And every breath so precious. But I’ll keep some breaths for you – just in case you need them. Don’t worry. You won’t run out of breaths here:'
I’ve still got plenty left in me.
Here in the Deosai Plains.
Playing on the grassy steppe.
Where the mind hovers.
And wanders
Kinda pointlessly.
And no worldly trouble
Dare touch me
Cos I am free
Here in the Deosai Plains
I am free
Finally.
Never was bleakness so beautiful. Never was emptiness so bountiful. I felt my spirit spirited away on these plains; it being no longer tethered to my body. It wandered across the steppes with my thoughts in tow- dragging them along with it. My thoughts, so restless these days, resisted the invitation, but eventually seduced they gave in to the nagging spirit.
Such landscapes; barren and lonely as they are; with their harsh lines, strong colours and endless panorama’s – are like being given a lemony tonic. They make you realise that there is no stopping the human spirit. That it has no boundaries and it takes these landscapes to realise it. Perhaps the steppes serve as a kind of metaphor or visual representation of the boundless spirit incarnate? Here - Now - You realise how minor some things are. Like love for example. Love has no meaning here. No definition. Love may reign supreme on ‘normal’ terrain – but here, love is a small, mediocre emotion – too selfish and self-interested to deserve room in such majestic sweeping landscapes. Instead, here the hollow that love leaves is filled with grander emotions. By grander I mean more altruistic, selfless, and more universally encompassing emotions like ‘the nature of mankind’s quest’, ‘the meaning of life’, and the ‘cosmic imperative’.
Cosmic imperative?
Mankind’s quest?
What the devil am I talking about? What is happening to me? Such metaphysical language; wishy-washy and obtuse don’t suit me! Oh, by the way did I neglect to mention that I am writing this in a high-altitude low-oxygen environment? You see the O2 levels at 4,000 metres are low thus leading to euphoric, ecstatic emotional swings – or in layman terms a feeling of being high. Oh, I’m ‘high’ alright – both literally and metaphorically! Such places push the brain down weird little-frequented mind alleys:-
Here’s some for my eventual ignominious shame:
1) When I get back down to the city I’m going to walk up to the first single, pretty girl I see, look her in the eyes, tell her how beautiful she is, and then clear off before she calls the cops. Or her brothers.
2) When I get back to the city I’m going to grab the first beggar I see. Hug him tightly. Plant a huge kiss on his (filthy) forehead and give him 1,000 rupees and then walk off before he realises what just happened. Then I’m going to walk into the nearest hospital and get some boosters for Cholera just in case.
3) When I get back to the city I’m going to phone the girl I love, tell her how I feel about her, tell her how much I love her, and then hang-up. Oh, but I don’t have her number? Mmm…slight problem there. Aha! Well maybe she’s reading this in which case I’ll just tell her here:
'Yo babes. I love you, you know. Did you know that I take you with me wherever I go? Honest. I tell no lies. Death to me right now, right here if I do. Slice me In half/cut me to kebabs/make me into an omelette/for I tell no lies. You’re always in my breast pocket. Always. I’ve dragged you with me everywhere. To all the countries I’ve been. Through all the airports. I’m never lonely cos you’re always in my breast-pocket. If I don’t have a breast pocket I just sit you on my shoulders. Or if things get a little hairy I put you in my trouser pockets. Not the back pockets cos then I might squash you when I sit or when the road goes bumpkety-bump (as it so often does).
I do wish though, that now and again, you’d climb out of my breast-pocket, or get off my shoulders, or sneak out my front pockets and give this poor, hopeless, fool, a little kiss. Just a small one. You have no idea how happy it would make him. Especially up here in the Deosai Plains where breathing can be so hard. And every breath so precious. But I’ll keep some breaths for you – just in case you need them. Don’t worry. You won’t run out of breaths here:'
I’ve still got plenty left in me.
Here in the Deosai Plains.
Playing on the grassy steppe.
Where the mind hovers.
And wanders
Kinda pointlessly.
And no worldly trouble
Dare touch me
Cos I am free
Here in the Deosai Plains
I am free
Finally.
Friday, August 15, 2008
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