PUSHKAR
I fell in love with Pushkar, on my first trip to India. It was the locals shanty nature, the colors, processions, the monkeys, camels, cows, donkeys, evil looking goats, the daily morning salute to the sun, evening sunset rituals by the Holy lake with Bangalassy at the Teahouse and a chance to enjoy the company of other travelers for months at a time, while mesmerized by ever changing circus.
A few years ago, while at the desert oasis Hindi holy town in the state of Rajastan, that Yo the Citar player, notified me that "actually everybody knows" that I was dead. "Been like that for years." People eagerly spread sad news. It makes them feel wonderful. In my case, it was a bit premature evaluation of the inevitable.
Jane had the same information in Los Angeles, CA, when I affectedly ended the twelve years of deadness, by showing up at her place in Hollywood. The house number was unforgettable: 414 and a quarter Spauld Avenue. She gave me a summery of the time I lost in one sentence that lasted well over an hour, during which, without missing a beat she also summoned Karen by phone. Later that evening Ron decided, after listening to my reasoning for not contacting anyone and consulting a dictionary, that Vagabond is most suitable way to describe who I am. He was Karen's boyfriend and a movie director at that. I was flattered, expecting being called a bum. A week later the year number became 2000. I went back to Pushkar. On the roof top at the Mona Lisa hotel,I wrote VAGABOND. Playing guitar, singing whispery in my room, I joined the echo of drums and singing from passing processions on the street bellow.
