Bob goes in. Of course the dog follows obediently; when has a dog ever not obeyed him? I see the hound trotting happily in and disappear. But when I cross some threshold, the dog suddenly materializes, with a red glint in its eye. It doesn’t bark – all is silent. But I am warned from approaching any further. Its incisors flash, flicker snake-tongue like. I cannot draw near.

It’s a challenge of some sort, but I can’t figure out how to win. When I muster the will to move forward, the dog matches it in its determination to keep me at bay. I feel like I’m hunting a magnet with the same polarity. There’s some other ability or quality I need to have to satisfy the dog’s steely demand, but it hasn’t matured in me yet. How should I realize it?

I’m reminded of the crow which is circling overhead. It circles and descends, closes in on its target, the old man with the hat, the man who eats cat hearts and sculpts enigmas. It attacks, claws his face, tears out his eyes, in desperation even rips out his mockery-laced tongue. Still, the man cannot be defeated. “You’re not qualified,” he says, leering out of empty sockets, maddeningly, undeniably triumphant.

I’m not qualified.

……

In Boston there’s a place that turns people into children, in a good way. Let me explain.

I think the mirror has spoiled generations. This simple polished metal, later to gain more sophistication in tin-backed glass, 35mm, and the multi-megapixel, has redirected the gaze from the omnipresent inner mirror. Modern day diversions are nothing but mirrors – sumptuously saturated magazine shots, the cinematic escape, video games reflecting off thousands of retinas at once. Everywhere: capture, stimulation, a dry thirst that gets harder and harder to quell. That is, the thirst for more.

It’s gotten to the point that we have to see ourselves, the gross self, reflected, to even believe we exist. The mirror has become the am-I-dreaming pinch. The medium for self knowledge has been passed from the self to another keeper. Self-consciousness is the misnomer of the age.

The Haymarket is a good place to reverse the trend a little bit. I like seeing people in a state of absorption. Not so unstructured as reverie, yet not so forceful as concentration – just allowing themselves to be attracted by the natural charm of the moment. Apparently, bargain priced strawberries, tomatoes, grapes, cheeses, and romaine are enough to bring people to this state.

The chief joy of people watching does not lie in observing beautiful people. Rather, it is in watching people behave beautifully. And they behave beautifully when they are not thinking of how they are behaving, when they are absorbed in the subtle process of enjoyment. In a place like Haymarket, they won’t notice one pair of inquiring eyes casting around. As they walk among the stalls and appraise the bounty of fresh veggies and fruits, most appear, believe it or not, as children in a wonderland. The essential shopping was done at Star Market, or Trader Joe’s, or Whole Foods, or somewhere else. This is pure craft fair discovery.

I’m looking at the faces behind the boxes of produce. Nobody looks particularly worried about anything. Doing this is in their blood; they’re not going to sell badly.

I’m following one buyer winding through the bustle. She sees some plump pears sunning themselves, and has a look. Then she nibbles some asiago, decides to buy at $3 for a small block. She’s exchanging a joke with the ruddy fellow selling four oranges for $1. Then disappears hot on the scent of another find.

……

The burritos Katie and I make are sort of ridiculous. We wrap up grated cheddar cheese, egg fried rice, Simon and Garfunkel salmon, and chick pea salad with craisins in flour tortillas. It’s a good parting meal. Somehow, the bizarre constituent parts complement each other. Such patchworks can make for fine friendships.

Taking the bike out on its maiden voyage this year. The sun creeping behind the mountains, less hastily than usual as we’ve become friends, and it would be impolite to leave without saying goodbye. Just a short little ride, jot of jaunt. Not what course to chart, directions spin through my brain and scenes of spring revival curl through my glasses. My mind seizes upon a promising destination, my pedal strokes gain meaning. Turning up Aviation Road, I remember the wind. It throws a playful breeze against my normal rhythm.

I stop for a breather. Bird calls wash over me, engulf me from nowhere, someone pressed unmute, my ears begin to hear. They call for loneliness, they call for love. All the things they’ve dreamed of nestled deeply into their down through the bleaker season. Their calls are strong this year, maybe winter has been forgiving for a change. A drowsy mosquito is wheeling about, to my chagrin and amusement. Shaken out of bed too early, it can’t decide whether to chase me or turn in for the day. All this part of this world where we grew up. The crunchiness of autumn decay, buried under timeless drifts of snow, only to reveal itself again, transfigured like man resurrected.

This moment I am aware of standing still. I am gazing at wind borne caves pecked into sandstone cities under the vast flag of the Jomsom trek. We are clambering like soldiers on campaign onto the wooden benches of a quiet mess hall. Ordering dal baht, our stomachs ask no other questions. Moments of sudden stillness come and go.

60 in a 65

It seems like something Gurdjieff would say. Or even Osho. That we should move through life at a different speed than those around us. We become aware of the car when we shift gears, smoothness interrupted. Stopped in front of a red light at a deserted intersection, for once we hear the car engine idling louder than distraction.

If I drive to Albany at 60 mph as opposed to 70 mph, I spend an extra eight or nine minutes doing so. In the absolute terms of time, why wouldn’t I drive faster?

To taste the food.

A molecule of water is dancing in a stream. The stream narrows, flows fast and deep, clear. Is it possible that this molecule will not travel in the single-minded direction and force of the entire mass of water? Can you imagine the far-flung arms of a galaxy spinning in time to a symphony played over the course of billions of years, and a single star floating in its midst, carefree, unbound by the rules of the great system? In time-lapse photography of the cosmos, a pin of light weaves to and fro as if in a dream, with a mind of its own.

At a different speed, I am passed, passed again. Somehow, I see a little better, I feel a little more awake. Gangly, nameless trees whiz by, each with its secret of a thousand tender buds. I feel more at ease. I am driving of leisure, not of necessity. As I fall further behind the pack, I notice I am not the only one. There are always followers, ready and willing to move to another kind of music. I am lighting this path, old man who drives so slow.

Quick-froze Quiznos

When I think about the waste, I get angry. Tin cans of tuna, plastic jugs of pickled condiments, glass bottles emptied of artificially flavored contents, all thrown directly into the trash, to be collected, and collectively forgotten. Expired product, poof. Bread ends, poof. A magic trick this disappearing act, I know it to be sleight of hand. But it’s okay because, in the end and all things considered, we turn a profit.

Besides, who has the time to think, let alone the luxury to be angry about something ordained from above? My hands are already flying to the chicken, to the scale, to the marinade basket. My head is already craning to peer through the wormhole oven to prognosticate future sandwiches. Without my issuing the directive, still my body does.

“I believe in you.”
“I do it for you.”
“Without the shade it’s a lonely view.”

Kitsch served up by the 1984 machine plays in a brain-numbing broken-record loop. It is not enough for us to occupy your body. We must completely possess your mind-space. You are more productive this way, research proves. You cannot sing, you cannot whistle, you cannot rebel against our background music. It is agonizing and relentless. Myles and I take turns voicing the depths of our loathing as each song comes on … again. Of course, in endurance of will, we are bound to lose to the machine.

At home, I remember a term Lucie coined: gray people. In my mind’s eye, a sea of people are flattened onto the anime page. Slowly, vampirically, they are drained of color, until all that is left is a mere outline of their existence. There is no depth, texture, or detail. Their color has been swallowed by the force of habit. They are the shell without the ghost; repetition has made them automatons who lack even the power of judgment. Certainly they do not have the ability to reflect on the reality that they are subject to and actually become angry over it.

The gray paint is smeared on thick and suffocates, when you’re not looking. Wash it off, wash it off.

Other items not appearing in the table: I can pretty much say that categorically, the soups and breadbowls, while appealing visually, do not make the cut taste-wise. They are quite salty and don’t taste fresh – probably the most important thing for soup. Even cheesiness cannot make up for that packaged taste.

Lately, ever since the liver bug declared war, it seems as if I have been searching for a space like home. I seem to have conquered the depths of homesickness haunting me before; what I look for now is, yes the familiarity of home and being together with my loving family, but also an iota of permanence, settlement, around which I can find creative spaces, from which I can launch my tactical campaigns of discovery. As my money dwindles, the final drops hovering on the lip of the empty can, I plan to wrap up and head into China within the month, and be back in old Queensbury, NY within two.

This email truly warrants the increment in version to 5.0; so much has happened since last time, when our brave heroes were: flayed and flamb]ed in Paharganj, Delhi – me waiting a ridiculous amount of time to get my China visa (HUGE mistake to attempt in Delhi), my sister getting ready to scoot out to Nepal for some elegant education, abandoning me to the autorickshaw smog and teeming germ warfare of Hindustan. At that time we ran into Tom, our jovial and well-spoken Belgian comrade-in-abdication, and my fate tried to take a sharp corner, spun out, and reversed direction. Our dinnertime conversation about his experiences in Thailand (he planned to return following an excursion to Darjeeling and Calcutta) aroused my curiosity about Thailand. Still yellow in the eyes and faint in muscle and bone, was I already contemplating the continuation of my travels? I had my doubts, but was convinced enough that a stay up north would do my body good. Besides I planned basically to hit the beach in Thailand and rest like a good boy in case my recuperation in India was not complete.

The stagnant heat of Delhi lifted slowly on the overnight bus ride up to Manali. My fitful sleep was interrupted by my popping ears – ah, the familiar ascents in elevation – and then totally disrupted by the fearless speeds the driver hurled the bus to, in the dark, on rattlesnake roads somehow twisted through ravines and gorges, all a big blind corner. In the middle of the night, a stop for chai. Drowsy foreigners stumbled off the bus, unaware of the rusty trap laid. Yelping like dogs bitten in their sleep, they rushed back in for sweaters, pullovers, jackets that had been absolutely useless just hours before. The yelps materialized and floated casually in the blank of sound created … by leaving Delhi far behind.

Shanag, a village just a few kilometers up the road from central Manali (which was gearing up for the annual onslaught of both moneyed Indians and backpackers, looking to escape the brutal lowland heat), became my home for the next two and a half weeks. More restful days my soul has seldom known. My body greedily ate up the ten or more hours of sleep provided it every night, and my stomach the infinitely-snarfable boiled rice and dal and Raj dal and mixed vegetables and parathas and chutneys Leela, her younger sister Pushba, and Mama and Papa Thakur whipped up every day. In the waking hours I … napped … and … practiced djembe with impunity on the second floor roof, sun beating the spurious clouds backstage, snow painted peaks and a cascade of apple trees filling in the valley, greeting my eyes if open. Nobody to come tell me to Shut up, Stop playing already, verbally or by suggestion of attitude. Such inhibitions are rarely lifted. So I drummed away. The rest of the time was filled easily in talk, non-enjoyment of awful Bollywood movies the kitchen TV seemed magnetically tuned to (divine mandate?), and taking notes on everything from reflections about being sick to recipes observed from kitchen activity.

Leela’s mother, a hardy woman of 65 who still does an enormous amount of work despite her age, flashes a toothy grin (those teeth and the mush between them easily observed when she chews) and says I should eat “muli”, or radishes, as they will help me recover from jaundice. I head to the market in Manali and, surprised they are sold for a mere Rs 10 (US $0.25) a kilo, take home two kilos – that was one kilo too much as I discover why since first having the shock of radish tang in grade school, completely unexpected in such humble, even cute looking veggies, I henceforward always spurned them. The radishes here are not round and red, but carrot-shaped and white, nearly like the ones plucked from the earth in Super Mario Bros. 2, minus the smiling face (that would be SPOOKY!). My mouth quivers and puckers and my tongue sloshes around the raw slices; a faint burning sensation develops in my stomach. Bleegh!!! But it is easy to imagine that the unpleasant tang is precisely wherein lies the diminutive radish’s medicinal value, its healing powers, the potion in the poison. I become a radish zealot, always peeling the suckers, stuffing my face with them rabbitlike. And slowly, SLOWLY! something works! The toxic hues begin to lift from my eyes! My energy begins to gather and swirl in a small vortex, getting stronger and stronger, bigger and bigger. Was it the radishes? I ain’t sayin’ it waren’t!

In a calmly happy, even blissful state of mind, I left my good hosts the Thakur family in Shanag, to return to Delhi (quite unwillingly) and then by rip-roaring fun on Biman Airline’s turbulent flight to Bangkok, where I was received by none other than Tom! After a quick introduction to the flashy capital – you could hear the sound of twine snapping from my ears, tied as it had been tightly around the Indian experience for four months – culture shock was in effect – we headed to the famous resort islands of the Samui Archipelago, to the east of Thailand proper. (Phuket, another popular destination for more well-heeled vacationers, and ravaged by the tsunami last December, is on the west coast.) There on Koh Phangan we hung up hammocks and fed our days to the fishes. And one layer of skin to Helios. And one long night to the Black Moon Party. Make that two for me; after Tom left for Belgium (a sad day for all involved!) I proceeded to BREAK IT DOWN at the nearest Half Moon Party, hosted in the jungle unlike the Black Moon and Full Moon parties, which are held on the inviting sands of Haad Rin beach. The discovery in general: man, some people can PARTY! I’m not referring to the get-pissed-acquire-booty variety of party-goer, but the hardcore psy-trance fans who danced nonstop (con drogas?) from at the latest when I arrived at 4:00am, after startin’ up the groove machine at Haad Rin, to 11:00am, and then straight on through into the more chilled out After Party at a new location, until 4:30pm when I left, my lifebar utterly spent. What kind of batteries do these folks run on? I observed them taking nothing but beer and water. I was starving by midmorning and had to wolf down a couple of sweet baozi at the 7-Eleven, which is where I found out there would be an After Party at all. At the time I was reluctant – my feet hurt, my brain felt fried in fatigue, and I was HUNGRY. But spontaneity prevailed over classical Bino-sense, and before long I was sliding across the dance floor again, my energy accumulating and dissipating to the mood of a sine wave. Amazingly, my body stood up laudably well. Granted, I had already made certain to the extent possible by self-monitoring that physically, I was just about up to snuff again. In fact, up to and after the partying, up until even now as I write this, I have been feeling incredible, the phoenix reborn from the flames of Varanasi death and cremation! Though none of the lovely ladies have capitalized on this happy state of affairs … YET. The real indicator of health has been my mental/psychological state; recently I have been endlessly optimistic and enthusiastic, even ready to forge out through half-baked fluffy-caked ideas and embark back to China – via Laos.

And friend – THAT is the plan. Tomorrow will be my last day in Bangkok, and Thailand as well, for I will be heading by bus to Vientiane (pronounced “Wieng Chan”), the capital of Laos, to begin another two or three week long epic of discovery. I am excited , and I feel ready. Bangkok is pretty swish, but it also reminds me of many things about the home I will return to soon. Those reminders are full of impossible contradictions and illusions I have somewhat learned to chop down and see through this past year (yes, nearly that) of travel. I keep thinking, who knows when I’ll have another chance to come to Southeast Asia, or even Asia at all? Though my pennies be pinches and tightly at that, it is all justified in my belief that when I make it back through to the other side, the New World, no expense will have been spared, not in vain, only in the pursuit of living experience, of wisdom, and of the company of good people.

In the next few weeks email will be largely inaccessible for me, because the information infrastructure of Laos lags much behind China and Thailand which sandwich it north south. If you deserve a personal reply from me, rest assured you will get it in time – no way have you been forgotten! My fingers still grow a little warm, a little orgiastic at the thought of holding my own computer again, cradling my high tech baby. If not before that glorious day arrives, then you will certainly hear from me when we all stumble into those halcyon days to come!

Until then, be well, my friend! Take care of your health, take a little time for rest and inspiration, keep those TV’s off and newspapers rubber-band wrapped, make music with word and deed, and let your good energy radiate to all around you! I miss you muchly! And I leave you with an idea that has occurred to me in the past few days. That idea is: our social intercourse is so much like playing a came of “catch” with the other. Every day, at every time and place we share with other people, we have the opportunity to both throw and catch this deceptively important ball and either start up or continue games. There are several aspects of this metaphor which I would like to flesh out in the future, because I see it as useful for myself, as a reminder of the suppositions underlying my more shy, more antisocial moments. It is helpful to think of interacting as joining in a playful game, about which one should not be too serious. What are your thoughts?

Missing you, and
Power to your Dreams,
Bino / Haw-Bin

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It’s chump change, but the total earnings of 4 Baht help me towards my 10 Baht strawberry ice cream topping bread bits, sweet sticky rice, and two flavors of jelly grass. Yum, seems like my drum can put food on the table!

Thoughts on drumming from Manali.

Beating on my drum, the ideal of rhythmic purity meets the shock of physical, temperamental instability, reality. I examine my fingers to find them crooked, trained into specialized, yet crude shapes through years of fingering finger boards. Aghast: my one wrist bends at an improper angle; neither relaxes into the beats as I will them to. My shoulder feels disjointed. Tense. Crackles as I swing it in a painful pendulum. My hip, my ankle, all off-kilter, conspiring to throw my tapping into chaotic dischord, losing the signal to the noise. I must use my head to find the tricks, the proper underhanded techniques to condition these deficiencies to a minimum. I start slowly, subvocalizing the inner beats. Practice components. “Hands separately, then together.” Echo from the Mrs. Britt years.

And I suppose the first pinnacle of achievement to be the ability to simultaneously play an intricate beat and be completely conscious of my natural breath, with the beautiful unrelated rhythm of its own.

Is this mechanization or transcendence?