Last days in Goa

Almost prehistoric looking place, this is a peninsula with igneous rock and giant man swallowing fissures. The foliage is bizare and alien to the rest of the landscape, there are Leemurs in the trees and Giant Eagles by the truckload..
Pen? You have Pen? The local Hells Fairies gang came out to meet me and ask me if I had any pens for them..
Fisherman repair their nets. Amazing to watch the unity at with they work and the speed.
Goa recieved its independence from Portugal later then India did from the Commonwealth. There are still strong vestiges of their past around north goa. Architecture, churches, and Nuns!
Blessed wax body parts outside the church od St Francis of Xaviour.
St Francis of Xaviour. was not recognized as a saint by the rest of the Catholic church.
Consumerism is coming to India whether you like it or not, and its swallowing up the hearts and minds of everyone.
I wonder what Bryon Gysin would have thought of this.
Here he ism entombed, and his body hasnt decayed one iota since his death..
I dont know whose ones these are but they have writin’ on them!
Lets put this int perspective here, Islam, Hindu Sikh’s and al the rest no one knows how to do children scaring grotesque quite like catholics..
yes, its a wall of death..
Original hippy town..
Cool kids checking the white guys out at the barber..
Some Germans on the beach had a hot air balloon. Ive never seen one of these actually ever take off..
Fisherman in Galjibag Confluence.

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More from Goa

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Bhopal to Goa – Southern India Railways

Station Porters. For a fee they will transport your stuff from the car to the area of the platform your carriage will arrive. They can gauge with exactitude where the carriage you are supposed to be at will arrive. I watched in complete and utter astonishment as this young short guy sprang towards us wearing a red shirt with a brass plate on his sleeve and a red scarf. he negotiated a price and then rolled up his scarf and put it like a donut on his head, then grabbed my trunk and scooped it up with a deft one body move and placed it on his head, and his colleague picked up my backpack and placed that on top of the trunk -a whopping 235kg load- and the he swept through the masses and onto the platform like a waft, fast and definitive. I had difficulty following him. Just completely amazing to witness that..
Muslims pray on the station platform.
Muslims pray on the station platform, everyone in the station stared at them. India is funny in that way. Its a multicolored society and yet they will stare at muslims praying in public.
Bidis, or Beedees, an indin cigarillo made from a Banana tree leaf made into a pulp and dried for smoking and then the paper is actually another leaf, whipped with cotton string. 15 Rupee for 25.. Indians get a real kick out of a white man smoking Bido’s. I use them to break the ice for conversations with strangers, and to get photographs with also.
Kumbh Mela Pilgrims in a station I dont remember the name of in a place somwhere between Goa and Bhopal
Water. When the train stops the people on the Class III carriages all spill out and clamber for the water.
Everything is Organic. Snacks for Class III but I thought their food was nicer then the onboard Class IIAC food
Its like a Constable painting.

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20130202. DOG DREAMS

Im having dreams now, first time in a long time. I am creating new synaptic connections.


I saw some profound things yesterday.

I had a dream about dogs, probably because of this;


I had dinner on a beach at night under a sparse evergreen canopy where stars poke through and satellites can be seen passing overhead between dappled black forms of trees. The hum of insects and creatures that pulse with uncanny predictable perfection. Cows were there, two blue green reflectors at waste hight, occasional rolling flicker indicates a blink. Dogs too, waiting for scraps, theirs an blood orange reflectance, flitting between indiscernible black trunks.

I met the indian boys who were serving the food, but later on when the cafe was closing, and we made joints and communication was slightly more than simple exchanges between two languages. The cook, Dimish showed me what he was cooking, and Surya showed me the oysters and Snapper he had just caught in the mercury ocean painted with moonlight. He proceeded to show me the cleaning and preparation process. Fresh fish here means they scale the fish and butcher and gut it while it is still alive, the last thing is removing the head which still gapes for water hours after its been gracefully divorced from its own body.

A little later I found myself in the company of four aging escapists who had fled here multiple decades previously to escape the persecution of western life or for misdemeanors against one state or another for crimes now deemed legal. And in the background was the dimly lit shacks of a B&B where a small family pack of dogs were guarding. A large alpha male piball strong erect and definitely in charge, wandered around aimlessly while periodically attentive noises grabbed his attention. His second in command a wide muscular orange dog, a powerful young adult with a permarection stood by his side. Two white bitches with with tits to their knees panted and pranced around looking for action. There was another dog a white male which I hadn’t noticed anything in particular about at that point, but as I was looking at him, I watched the B&B owner dressed in pristine white walk through the pack like the messiah, and call the dogs to stay back, he had food and was trying to attract the attention of the white male. The orange one saw the food and came forward so it had to be fed to distract it from something that was about to happen. The owner then called the white male and it cautiously came forward like the tip of a spear head the pack watched as the alpha at the back was dissuaded from coming forward. Without realizing it the owner and the white male disappeared behind some foliage and there was silence. All of us at the table were looking and then there was a momentary almost imperceptible whistle and an abrupt end to it. Moments later the owner walked back up the driveway out of the shadows with a Parang in his hand by his side which I hadn’t seen him walk down with and how I know I have no idea, but I just knew that he had slaughtered the white male. It was fast, silent and uncruel. There was no blood and no noise, and he walked stealthy past us and back to his room. I said to the others that I suspected that he had just euthanized the dog, and the response I got was that sometimes you have to kill a dog to feed the others, or in this case to leave the integrity of the hierarchy (and thus predictability) of the pack intact. I was pretty stoned when this happened but I was completely aware of the sounds around me and the images I saw. My photography and my field recording are intrinsic to my existence nothing to do with hobbies. I inadvertently recorded the event as audio while the far away trains galloped by in the distance like rolling thunder.


Every Garment I have used in the past six days has a reminder of what I was doing in that garment the last time I wore it. Its either what i left in the pockets or the smell of the garment. despite washing my own clothes with DrBronners or even with body soap, underneath the smell of freshness I can smell the trace element of a previous event, and thats not a bad thing either because this is pat of subconscious journaling of information, like blogging is a conscious journaling of information.

Right now I am in Goa. Im working on seeing with microphones rather then cameras..

In cities you are forced to contend with encapsulation and the country you are forced to contend with expanse.