BLAH, BLAH, BLAH.... it was the new year and I had diarrhea. The Indians were turning on the music full blast. I was taking the loss of my Tibetan Family very hard. I was stuck with Rosie and Nanina, a French student of Bero's and a German dharma groupie. "It's getting worse and worse, Michael," lamented Rosie. "Ten years ago there was nothing here. Now the Indians are destroying this place," she sighed. But Rosie got me to a doctor. I was saved in the nick of time. Nanina was also sick and spent most of her time lying nude in her room. She asked me if I wanted to fuc k her. I said no. But it was Bero's appearance during his difficult time that inspired me. He was an ox of a man, beefy and huge. My head would swell and shoot sparks whenever he passed me. I followed him to the stupa and sat with him inside the giant monolith's guts; we faced a huge glowing Buddha figure. It seemed to sit in suspended anima tion.
All Buddhist statues pierced you with their weird trance. I began to feel light and free. I heard the Buddha speak: CHANGE YOUR LIFESTYLE. My rib-cage was smarting. I could feel Summer's subtle body. It was denser than mine. She had a lot of witchcraft behind her. "Don't get lost in a dream world with her," the Buddha warned. "Balance your energies CORRECTLY and CONSISTENTLY, RELEASE MORE!" I could hear the New Year crowds heaving and barging outside. It sounded like empty bottles rolling and clanking away. But in a strange muffled sort of way. I gazed ruefully at the floor. Memories of Bero's frescoes flooded my mind. I saw strange half-clad figures; they tied knots in their heads and had deep nasty stares; these were the wrathful Maha-siddahs, the crazy adepts Jim had so admired. I started to cry. I was disgusted with Jim and at the same time missed him terribly. Jim's weird legacy still haunted me. Summer was on my mind, too. Was she also a new sacrificial victim? Was she also a victim or just another perpetrator of the black arts? Did she abuse her powers and skid off into an illness spiral? My head began to tingle. Bero was getting up. A strange humming entered my ears. Bero was blessing me, I could feel it. Now was the time to plunge into the unknown.
I took a bus to Gaya, a miserable and ugly town, dark, intense, menacing. A medical student who had befriended me at the stupa showed me off to his roomies. These young Indians were obsessed with the dazzling mammon of the west. My Olympus camera and worn-out Walkman were minutely inspected, and I was hosted to a dinner prepared on the premises and served steaming hot. My hosts wanted visas for the promised land. I was noncommittal.
I was on my way to Calcutta. My train arrived on time in Gaya. I was in desperate straits. I was running out of money in a foreign land at the very start of a brand new year. My hosts were from Uttar Pradesh and were looking for a hustle. They guided me to my cabin and left me in a Bengali world. The screech of the train pulled me back from my self-imposed trance. I was frightened and now had to face KALI. The black Madonna of India, licking the world's sins with her lethal tongue, making my movements absolutely mad. No words, no words .... inside KALI'S mouth. I began hearing her haunting refrain .... CHAI, CHAI, CHAI, KOFFEE, KOFFEE .... CHAI, CHAI, CHAI, KOFFEE, KOFFEE. I looked outside my window and saw a wall of thick haze and tropical vegetation. I could see industrial infrastructure everywhere. If Delhi was like Beijing, than Calcutta was like Shanghai. The train crawled into Howrah station.
Howrah was a monster. All kinds of noise and squalor, videos and beggars, huge lines and crowds, touts too. I was in shock. I could not afford a taxi and didn't know which bus to take, so I walked across Howrah bridge. It was mesmerizing, zillions of people and moving objects swarmed over the bridge in both directions. The smog was astonishing, like a vision from hell. The Hooghly river was barely visible. Calcutta was madness.
I was inside KALI's belly and a monster was now shaking up and down, first sideways, quick walking, sitting, then crossing its legs, then uncrossing them, then getting up and rubbing its hands, now rubbing its fly, hitching its pants, then slitting its eyes to see everything, then grabbing me by the ribs, and screaming, screaming. This was KALI'S song. There was no money waiting for me at the bank. I had given my stepmother the wrong wiring instructions. I had to contact her and start from scratch. money was running out and I was in a hot spot. I found lodgings at a Theravadan temple, just in time. I plunged back into the maelstrom and sent two telegrams.
Then I went to visit KALI for she was the queen of Calcutta. Her face was everywhere. I found relief from the heat and noise in the unfinished subway system and zoomed down to Kaligut. Here KALI'S blood lust was satisfied. Priest touts showed me the sacrifice altar where goats were killed every morning. I poured water and flowers over a shiva lingam, a kind of stone penis , and said prayers for the family. I swished around some incense and got slammed for a donation. There was red paste on my forehead. The cry of ravens was everywhere. Beggars roamed in every corner smelling of strange purification. I thought about Brown Eyes. KALI knew how to work with the elements, with blood and water. Here I was exactly one year to the day since my final puja at the Burmese place. I could taste Summer's honey suck le breath. The world was in turmoil. The hard-liners were gaining ground all over the world. Exotic nickknacks and fast food absorbed my attention as I walked back at night. Men piss ed right on the street. Smoke was everywhere. I had survived my first day in Calcutta. KALI was laughing and taunting me, then making love to me, she was now my consort for this nightmare part of my journey. I was really protected
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It's little known to most Americans how in the 1990's with US connivance a few ex-communist thugs took over the entire industrial infrastructure of the former USSR with fake banking schemes.
By 1998 this clique took over the government itself and the Russian economy crashed bringing in a new KGB dictatorship.
2008 saw the equivalent take place in America as a group of banking thugs took over the US government under the pretext of a crisis.
The toxic assets scandal/disaster allowed the same people who basically destroyed the global economy to actually not only profit from the disaster they created, but to amass insane new kinds of political and financial power.
I have noticed that there is quite a few Canadians on this site.
What do I know about Canada?
Not a heck of a lot.
I visited Victoria and Vancouver a few times in the sixties and eighties because British Colombia is close to California.
Nice gardens in Victoria.
I stopped in Newfoundland for an hour on a flight between Moscow and NYC in 1978.
So not much to write about....
Canada is pretty much under the radar for most Americans. One gets images of the Royal Canadian Mounties, Glenn Gould and lots of natural resources.
Canada is the second biggest country after Russia, but has about 33 million people. Less than my state of California.
The Canadian Dollar was a joke for a long time, but less so now.
I met a Canadian banker in Washington DC who was a friend of Maurice Strong. A wealthy Canadian who started Earth Day in 1970.
Canada has the bad luck of being little brother first to England and then Uncle Sam. Also the country in the east is badly split along French/English lines.
Will Quebec leave Canada?
Who knows....
The British kicked the French out in the early 1700's and then after the American revolution many American loyalists fled north and their property was confiscated by the new revolutionary management.
Once the British took a hike....
The US tried to grab Canada in 1812, but made a hash of it.
Canada suffered pretty horrific losses in WW1 and WW2. Vimy and Dieppe are to Canadians what Gallipoli is to the Aussies....
....and of course Canada has participated in Korea and all kinds of other UN/US " police actions ".
I'm told taxes are quite high in Canada.
Marshal McLuhan is probably Canada's most famous son. Pierre Trudeau is Canada's most famous politician. I don't think he's related to the Doonesbury cartoonist....
That's it....
Is Canada boring?
Not really sure.
I can say for certain that Canada unlike Mexico is not partially occupied by drug gangs violently fighting for turf.....
I know that The Daily Minute is a f**king, shitty name, but would you prefer a title like Assholes of the universe, f**king these crappy hookers covered with shit stains originating from unknown toilets?
Oy!
Shit stain rhymes with McCain.
Hey I just made that up!
Warning....
Do not F**K and eat BBQ chips at the same time while watching episodes of The Daily Minute....
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