Friday, June 10, 2011

24) On the Hippie Trail to Kathmandu.

These stories, that have been available on Blogspot for 10 years for free, will now only be available on Amazon at the address above. They are contained in “Vagabon Freak”, the 1st volume of a trilogy titled “The 7 Lives of the Punk Poofy Cats”. I have been the archetypal starving artist in his garret, painting, drawing and writing, writing, writing as if I were some waif crying out in the wilderness. Now I need you, dear reader, to hear my cries and go to Amazon and buy a copy of my book and keep me alive. There you will find my complete tale, from beginning to end, in one place, for you to hold in your hot little hands. When you read it straight through, I assure you, it will blow your mind.

Below are introductory paragraphs and some pictures that I still retain to illustrate this story, hopefully to give you a come-on to get my book. Thanks for giving me a go, TZ.

The converse of Arthur’s profound sense of freedom as a nobody out on the wide-open highway was Indira Ghandi’s growing power mania at the Center of things. Her dictatorship of absolute control from Delhi, deposing state leaders who didn’t comply, and dispensing patronage to a chosen few so that corruption in public affairs exploded, was all a long way from Arthur’s frivolous ken.
The needs of the individual might be subordinate to the State for the disaffected Indian but not for this spoiled Westerner, he was “footloose and fancy free” and didn’t give a shit about politics as long as he could be on the move. Tedious bus journeys taking several days got him to the mystic town of Hampi deep in the interior of the state of Karnataka, an iconic landmark of his astral dream flights.
Hampi was an arcane site, hard to get to and known only to the Freak cognoscenti. In the future it would become a hotel hell but when Arthur arrived there were only about seven Freaks wandering the vast labyrinth of rocks and river, most of them hanging around the cave of a crazy Siva Baba who made the most sought after black clay chillums in the whole of Hippiedom.
The town had one dinky chai shop outside the temple; otherwise it was a ghost town, the ruined stone streets haunted by the thousands of Hindus slaughtered by the Muslims five centuries ago in the downfall of the Vijayanagar Kingdom. Decrying pagan sacrilege the Muslims tried to smash all the sculpted Hindu icons, but there were thousands of statues carved in every crack and crevice and many got overlooked or simply had their noses and arms lopped off, the place remaining a vast art gallery of fallen idolatry.
The countryside around Hampi was a surrealist’s dreamscape with countless boulders piled atop each other in magical balancing acts, hundreds of small caves, temples and pavilions sequestered in their interstices and sculptures of the gods littered everywhere. A placid river wound like a serpent throughout this maze of rocks and to the bedazzled hippies it seemed like a wondrous psychedelic theme park.

(If your curiosity is piqued please go to the WEB address above and buy the book to read further.)