Nobody understands India.

Hell, I certainly do not begin to be pretentious enough to think I might. But what I don't understand, is why the first response from everyone I told of my trip was always

"Why are you going to India".

Of all the questions that assail, that bite and pester and itch, this was never one.

India is. I head there, on a habit and a prayer, a fucked up prayer of confused childhood TV series with Banana Splits driving mini cars, of a grandad Dr Who looking at an eery grandfather clock, a prayer memory of promises made by me and to me as a child, and I head, Mazzy Star crying in my ears, into that wilderness.

Why India?

Why continue? Evolution has led to me after 6 billion years of experimentation, of fuck up after fuck up, who could think they could be anything but a fuck up. Evolution isn't working towards anything, no matter who tells you otherwise, it's dumber than the blind mole burrowing under Clapham Common, at least that mole has a purpose. Evolution is the kid with the magnifying glass on the ant, waiting to see what happens.

and there can be no greater goal for the individual who is part of that fucked up chemistry experiment of life, than to say

I go to see what happens.

In inin in India.



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