“I love talking about nothing. It is the only thing I know anything about.”

Oscar Wilde

“Writing eases my suffering... writing is my way of reaffirming my own existence.”

Gao Xingjian

“Writing is thinking on paper.”

William Zinsser

“If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad.”

Lord Byron

“One writes to make a home for oneself, on paper, in time and in others' minds.”

Alfred Kazin

“Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those, who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, the melancholia, the panic fear, which is inherent in a human condition.”

Graham Greene

“Writing is a dog's life, but the only life worth living.”

Gustave Flaubert

‘‘Success and failure are equally disastrous.”

Tennessee Williams

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Moments Away By J Lowet

The original online diary of J.Lowet a.k.a. John Lipton and various other names.

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Published by John S. Lipton/Follow Your Star

Tel: +44 7914629142

© John S. Lipton 2006 First print edition 2006 All rights reserved.

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I’d like to dedicate this book to my mother, Josine Florida Lowet and her memory.

And to my friend of once (and perhaps still) Junko Imanishi.

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Contents

1 – Forward ............................................................ 1 2 – Leaving Kathmandu .......................................... 3

3 – Evidence of my Neuroticism ............................ 5 4 – Evidence of my Vanity ..................................... 7 5 – Disaster ............................................................. 8 6 – The Angel .......................................................... 11 7 – The Golden Temple .......................................... 12 8 – Amritsar to Islamabad ...................................... 16 9 – An Encounter with Danger .............................. 20 10 – Back in Delhi ................................................. 25 11 – New Years Eve .............................................. 31 12 – The Start of the Millennium ........................... 34 13 – In Goa Again .................................................. 38 14 – Delhi Depression ............................................ 42 15 – Bangladesh, and Life Speeding Up ................ 45 16 – Calcutta ........................................................... 57 17 – Calcutta - Delhi ............................................... 60 18 – Delhi, a Big Circle All Around, then Back to Delhi ....................................................................... 67

Interlude 19 – Confessions ..................................................... 79 20 – Dream Diary .................................................... 101

Continued 21 – New Diary Log One ........................................ 158 22 – New Diary Log Two ....................................... 173 23 – New Diary Log Three ..................................... 222

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24 – New Diary Log Four ........................................... 253 25 – White Elephant’s Limbo ..................................... 275 26 – 5th November Untitled ....................................... 337 27 – Christmas Page ................................................... 353 28 – The Chapter that doesn’t have Any Particular Theme ......................................................................... 361 29 – The Lucky Green Elephant ................................. 390 30 – Disaster Continuation .......................................... 421 31 – A Retrospective ................................................... 431 32 – Don’t want to Say a Title ..................................... 434 33 – Afterward ............................................................. 465 34 – Appendix One - Some Writing from the Period - Fiction .......................................................................... 467 35 – Appendix Two - Non-fiction .............................. 477

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Forward

This book is my collected and unedited diary from 2001 to 2006. It's really been put into this form for my own archiving purposes, but should any individual ever end up reading a copy: some background is required.

I'm <<<<< less than most people, in most ways, and the diaries only exist as I've always suffered from writing disposition.

I was born to foreign parents in England, did badly at school and was always unhappy. Two obsessions surfaced early in life, travel and esoteric spirituality. The former, together with a hellish school experience, meant that I never came to identify with England.

The latter started with readying New Age literature, starting around aged ten, progressed with an obsessive study of occultism, Asian religion, human potential generally.

In my late teens, after a long bout of agoraphobia, I performed a big piece of 'magick', the goal of which was to leave England and make a permanent family life in Asia.

In must have worked in some way as I left England for Asia aged 21, met someone, lived my only ever happiness for just ten days in Perth, Australia, with a woman I've never quite (or come anywhere near) got (getting) over − and I never did quite manage to stay still.

I began my journals aged about fifteen and used to write them in notebooks. With the advent of the Internet, I started keeping them online. The earlier books have been copied as JPEGS and may be made available at a later date.

There wasn't a definite decision to keep online journals. I was always averse to walking round in Asia with books, and then having to risk sending them back by post. When I wrote my main web–site, the self–help The Happiness Hike I included a series of short anecdotes about my travelling. They were basically humorous travel stories very much designed for public reading. Then I started a general diary site about what I was doing, my experiments with self–therapy etc. This had a diary section, which forms the first part of the book. The diaries are undated and introduced only by titles.

Then, during one of my periodic breakdowns, I wrote Confessions, an essay where, without thinking, I stopped writing as the author of The Happiness Hike and explained all of my problems. It was actually an email to a friend, but I put it on the site after realising that no one actually reads that far and I could, from that point on, just keep the therapeutic, honest diaries I'd always gained so much solace from. Also I could date them rather than try and make them timeless.

The story picks up after travelling around half the world and ending up living in South Asia.

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Technical Notes

I religiously record and interpret my dreams, these are included and titled as such.

J. is the woman I fell for.

M is my mother.

G is my 'brother'.

Mian is a woman I knew platonically passing time in a cafe while travelling and staying in sporadic touch with me ever since.

A is the aunt I grew up with.

The diary was touch–typed 'on the fly', in the cybercafes of (mostly) Asia and is unedited, uncorrected and undoubtedly far, far too long.

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Leaving Kathmandu

I felt I'd spent far too long in Kathmandu. To start with, for the six months before I'd arrived I'd been in Goa and hadn't actually completed a piece of work. I compensated myself with the fact that I arrived there knowing very little about computing and had spent the time reading and learning.

I had arrived in Kathmandu with the plan to write a fourth novel and maybe a piece of non–fiction, which I would also make into a web page. I remember of the flight over I got pretty scared of crashing (as usual) and I promised myself (or something else) that I would at least do the novel.

After five months in Kathmandu I had done none of it. I arrived from Delhi with an HTML book and spent the whole time writing my web page. Previously in Goa I had written up an outline, basically of my life philosophy, kind of a path to happiness, meaning it to become a letter to my Mother. After five months it was a web page, I'd submitted it to all the search engines, and done no 'real' work at all.

As is often the case, I started to get depressed as a piece of work finished. My room was full of stuff I wanted to sell, I was still carrying my typewriter, which I didn't need and could barely lift. I was scared because my Indian entrance was refused and now I'd have to go to Pakistan, which had a coup the day I received my visa. There had been a holiday in Kathmandu for ten days and there was no time to get the business cards I needed for a submission of Ambrosia, my last novel. I had managed to send nothing home because the G.P.O. staff hardly ever bother to turn up. I'd spent the whole time without homeopathy because no one knew where the pharmacy was... and no one was visiting the web site even a month after I'd submitted it to all the directories.

One night it was all too much. I felt so awful that I fell asleep praying, feeling overwhelmed with problems. In the morning I woke up feeling much the same, but as I walked to the restaurant for breakfast I became reflective. I looked at all the people around me in the street and considered how they too are all looking for happiness. By pure chance (or not) then what I'd written on my site could be exactly what someone needs to read and they would be guided to it. This was why I had written it. It didn't matter

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if it failed because it was the intention that counts and if someone's meant to find it then they would do so.

I found myself praying again (I don't know to who or what), I'm not sure why; I never usually do. I just considered all my problems and let them go, resigned them in the faith that whatever happens is meant to be, even if it's in a way that I don't understand. I simply gave all my worry up.

I got to the computer centre and there was an e–mail from someone who said they had 'stopped crying long enough to read almost every word I had written, thank you so much'. I started at the screen and had to read it a few times to believe it. It wasn't just that a stranger had written that, but that I had received it at that specific time. I felt as though it was an answer from the universe.

Soon after I passed a stationers by chance. Everything was closed because of the holiday, but this one was open. I asked about if they could make the business cards in a day, and after much phoning around he said OK. He led me out to a computer centre where someone designed them on an Apple. When I saw him, with an ageing computer in a bare wooden room, I sighed, thinking I'd have to put up with whatever he did, but it turned out he was very competent – the cards looked lovely. While I stood there I glanced out the window and saw a small sign that said 'Homeopathic Medicines Available Here'. I couldn't believe it.

When the proofs were ready I crossed the street to the pharmacy. I went through a wooden doorway that looked like it was from the Middle Ages and far too small. I climbed up some rotten wooden stairs and the pharmacy was a tiny room behind bars. It was go small I had to be stooped the whole time I was there; it was actually like a cupboard. I summoned the old man (who may also have been there since the Middle Ages) and wrote down what I needed. He had shelves with hundred of dark bottles of various sizes, the labels were so old they could barely be read; yet he did indeed have all I needed.

He started making out the prescription and a little girl came in as the room filled with the smell of alcohol which mixed with the old wooden odour (much nicer than allopathic disinfectant). While the tiny bottles were completed the girl lined them up to make a wall. I paid about a dollar for ten bottles, including something for my fear of flying, and as I tiptoed down the creaking stairs, bent low to avoid the ceiling, I was thoughtful.

Then, at the computer centre where I was working, I mentioned the typewriter to the friendly owners; it turns out they help with a scholarship programme and could take it to a village for me.

Wow, I was on such a roll, I went and collected all the things I wanted rid of from my room and sold them in two hours.

From hell to heaven, in a day all my insurmountable problems were solved... should I pray more often?

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Evidence of my Neuroticism.

I was finally at the airport. I had two oil paintings with me that I'd completed during my stay there, oils are much different to watercolour and they weren't very good. One was the cupboard in my room for example. I was embarrassed to leave them back at the hotel in case I wanted to stay there again and then the owners would know I'm not much of an artist (I know, it's absurd isn't it?). For the past two weeks I'd been stuffing them in my bag and leaving them in the rubbish bins of various restaurants. At the end of all this I still had two left, but even rolled up they were far too big to publicly discard.

I managed to discreetly drop one in the airport toilet while I was washing my hands; I had about ten minutes until boarding. As the clock ticked I became desperate, I wandered round and saw outside there was a bin there made of metal, actually it was half an oil drum. I went out the other door so I could walk round and enter through the door where the bin was, so that way people would think I was just casually dropping something in passing rather than going out and then coming in again for a deliberate drop.

When I did pass, with beads of perspiration on my forehead, I was horrified to realise that my aim was out, and for one awful moment as my wretched curse of artist endeavor flew through the air, I thought it would land on the floor. It didn't, but it wasn't great that it didn't because the damned thing was much heavier than I would have thought and it made a huge clanging sound. I think it was the painting of my cupboard.

As I walked on towards the entrance I saw two things, one was the immigration officials looking strangely at me, the other was all the homeless people that were sleeping outside, or rather had been sleeping, now they were rousing themselves to see what I'd thrown it the bin. Disaster! It was too late, if I went back to retrieve it now, I'd look weird(?)

Upstairs in the airport restaurant I stuffed samosas in my mouth, by chance surrounded by Catholic nuns... and the terrible image of giggling custom officials coming to my table with a picture of a cupboard and shouting in broken English, 'Is this yours, sir?'

The flight wasn't so bad. I had some new homeopathy that's supposed to deal with intense fear of dying; you can take it every five minutes. We were up in the air and it was working well, but then something went wrong with the electric. The hostesses stopped serving everyone and ran up and down the aisle looking scared, pressing the call–buttons and trying to turn the lights on

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as the main lights of the plane kept turning themselves off. I would say that the homeopathy didn't work, but then again I managed to sit still and who knows what I would have done if I hadn't have taken it.

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Evidence of my Vanity

I arrived alive in Varinessi and had time to kill. I decided to go to the Garden Café near the ghats, there was supposed to be an Internet place somewhere, though it turned out to be a business that designed menus, it was full of old men in lunghis. I tried to check my e–mail but the door was to my left, the men on my right, every time one of them stopped chewing a betel nut, they'd spit it out the door. It's projectile went between my face and the screen. I went to eat.

The food was good. I'm not sure why, maybe he saw me walking funny, but the owner sent me over a booklet all about the healing systems of India, and were you can try them. I was travelling to Pakistan with my newfound faith that things were going to turn out alright and I took it as a good omen.

I finished the food, wrote a few aerogrammes, then the waiter brought over the guestbook. It was obviously something only foreigners ever got to see because it was full of Americans and Europeans raving about the dosas, naans and biriyani. They obviously expected me to write something in the same vein because the waiter stood over by the counter smiling at me. I was pretty bored by then and it was obvious that he didn't speak any English, so I wrote a huge lecture about my web page. I wrote what it was about it for more than four A4 pages, then glued in a business card with the address on, asking people to come and see it. When I looked up after an hour all the staff were beaming at me, obviously thinking I was writing all that about the food. I suddenly realised the trouble I might be in and hurriedly packed up and counted out the bill. The waiter was too fast. By the time I got to the exit the owner had the book by the counter and was translating it to Hindi for the benefit of the staff. By the farewell scowls I received, I could tell that they weren't interested in my web page. I glanced back when I was safely at the stairs to see him peeling off my business card with a look of pure disgust. I think I could have spat on the pages and he wouldn't have looked any more unhappy.

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Disaster

Finally my leaving day came. It started badly when I lost my handkerchief at the information counter, and it was downhill from there. Firstly, there was no where to sit. I ended up perched on a piece of cast–off iron at the bottom of a pillar, but these kids kept asking for money and cleaning my shoes with their clothes, which I think is a mark of respect, though this wasn't very respectful. Then they started grabbing me and pulling my clothes. It was the worst begging I'd ever seen, and I didn't really know what to do about it. I went over to the Pepsi stand and they were still clinging to me. Eventually they became so loud that an Indian stallholder came out and hit the girl ringleader so hard I was shocked, I don't mean a tap or a spank, he just punched her in the face as hard as he could. I don't condone violence so I wasn't sure what to think, but as horrified as I was, I must admit to feeling pleased they were gone.

I walked over to the other end of the station where things seemed quieter. There was still absolutely no where to sit but there was a wall I considered leaning against. There were pigeons everywhere but one little stretch was comparatively free of their mess and so I decided to risk it. It's very painful for me to get up and down from the floor and sometimes takes me a couple of attempts even when I've taken a load of painkillers, but I was too tired to stand any longer. I flopped down and moments later a bird got me. I didn't really care; I was worrying about how I'd get up again.

It became obvious that I was sitting outside the restaurant because every now and again people would walk into the door on my right. While I was there a toy–seller passed. He had a basket on his head and when he reached the door he set it down and, it was full of toys (obviously). The were Russian dolls, a bird table where you waggle it and a weight underneath moves the birds heads on the top and makes it look like they're eating, and these big handle things. I'm not sure how they worked but when he shook them a certain way they made noises like birds (with a stretch of the imagination). They were very poorly made, the way the paint was applied was either too thin so the wood showed through, or uneven so it looked like only a few minutes had been taken applying it. Also, it was all obviously hand–made, but not well made, like the Russian dolls for example, when their tops were replaced they would only go a little way and then have to be banged on the floor to get them to stay put.

He played by himself for about twenty–five seconds until children started filing out the restaurant door. Some were about seven, though most

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were between three and five. They all stood around him watching him play with what amounted to rubbish, not only that but he would shout if one of them tried to touch something. In spite of all this, each one was mesmerised; it was like watching the pied piper.

Not long after the children had appeared, the parents started following them out of the restaurant. Some of them were pulled straight back in and started screaming, but other parents started looking at the toys. The children that had adults (and thus money) with them were suddenly allowed to touch the toys. Every one of them dug in the basket, pulled out a toy and then crammed as much of it as possible into their mouths. I wasn't really shocked that they would do this, I was only shocked that no responsible adult in charge of them didn't pull it out. A few of the parents started asking prices, decided no, pulled the toys out their offspring's mouths and dragged them back in, where they started crying and were dumped to sit with the children who had been pulled in at the first cull and were still crying too.

That left only the potential customers. The toy–seller kept asking silly prices, they tried for a while to get something reasonable but he wouldn't budge. In the end I realised why I never get a good price on anything. When they couldn't get him to come down, they would just count out how much money they thought it should cost and threw it in the basket, then pulled away the children with the toys still in their mouth. The amounts were small, maybe 10 rupees for the dolls ($0.22) but the seller didn't seem to mind. He waited until the children had either paid up and been dragged away with the goods in their mouths, or had the goods yanked from their mouths and been dragged back inside. Then he put the now lighter basket back on his head and went on his way.

Eventually the train rolled in. It was the usual chaos but I found the carriage with my name printed out on the door. I located the seat number and there was somebody sitting there. I asked him if it was his seat and he seemed vague for some reason. I was carrying my big black Tramps, the secret to travelling light bag and it was already too heavy for me, so I hadn't bought any water. I put the bag under the seat and asked him to watch it for me because I had put my padlock and chain inside when I used the cloakroom.

There wasn't any water on the platform so I had to cross over to the opposite one. I got back with two litres but entered the wrong carriage, so I got off the train. There was only one carriage like mine so I got on that, but when I arrived at my seat number, there was someone, a different man, sitting there. I asked him if he'd just sat there and he said he'd been there since the train pulled in.

I got off the train again and looked once more, there were definitely only two carriages that were double–tier sleepers. I had this sinking feeling. I went back to the first carriage and there was yet another man sitting in my seat number. I asked how long he'd been there and he said he'd just moved from the beds in the next section, and no, he hadn't seen any man sitting there when he moved, neither had his female companions. And no again, he didn't know anything about my bag.

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I sat down and drank some water, then stood up. The man realised what had happened and they looked to check it hadn't been moved under the beds opposite. No. I went to look for the conductor but he wasn't aboard yet. I sat down again, then tried to think of all the things that were in it: the pills my family sent for my joints which I can't get here; the ephemeris my family sent which I also can't get here; the raincoat that would keep me warm when I travelled north; a notebook about computers I'd been updating for years; my walkman. There were lots of silly little things, like a pair of red chopsticks I've carried for five years from Malaysia, my ages old Japa beads from Nepal. It was strange. I had a bad feeling, but also a sense of inevitability, or even relief. Perhaps it was because I had been carrying it all day and was in pain, perhaps it was because I had been robbed so many times before it was a good excuse to not have to replace everything. Maybe it was the long trip ahead of me?

Maybe it was my memory of the last time I was robbed in India, but I wasn't exactly running around for help because I knew it wouldn't be forthcoming. The train pulled out the station and I accepted that it wouldn't be mine again. I was left with my small shoulder bag and nothing else.

The guard came along checking tickets. I told him what happened and he said, later, later. I followed him up and down the train for ages while he checked tickets. Eventually he finished and sat down. I asked if he was going to help and he looked straight at me, laughed, and said no. I was shocked, that's bad even for India. I persevered and eventually worked out that he thought I had got on the train without a ticket and was asking if there was a spare bed.

I got him to understand what had actually happened but he still didn't seem too concerned. He sent another man to check under each seat. For the length of two carriages he stopped at each compartment and told everyone in Hindi what had happened, then looked under each seat while the occupants stared at me with blasé glances. It was nowhere.

We went back to the conductor and he shrugged. I asked if there was a book to report it in or someone to contact, he said no – and left.

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The Angel

When we arrived in Delhi the next day a few people asked me if I had found it. I walked out up to main bazaar towards a hotel. Touts ran up and tried to get me into commission hotels; I must have been limping because they kept saying they could find a ground floor room if there was something wrong with my leg.

I ended up in a room and emptied the contents of my small shoulder bag on the bed. Luckily I had packed the lost one with the idea of leaving it in the cloakroom until I returned from Pakistan, so it had everything in I didn't immediately need. While I sat there staring at what was left, an idea sprouted: to really own nothing. I looked at my address book, I still had it because it has all my Internet addresses in and I thought I'd need it in Pakistan. Not only that, It has about 200 addresses of UK agents and publishers, phone and fax numbers, and a record of how they responded to my submissions. I was so relieved I still had it as it took me around four years to make it as complete as it is. Then I had the idea, why don't I write that address book as a web page? Other writers could use it as a reference, they could e–mail me with their own experience of how receptive each publisher was to new writing and it could become the most up–to–date source on the Internet. Not only that but I could dump the physical book and I'd have nothing to lose.

Then I got really into it. Why don't I write up the computer notebook that I have for the same reasons, then a homeopathy diary I keep? All of it might be useful to other people, and I would have nothing to get lost. I had a feeling that the whole thing was preordained. I left Kathmandu with faith, not knowing where to go or what to do, and now a course of action lay before me. I was excited to realise how little I would eventually be carrying. I started throwing away all the things I could do without. I even took my plastic laundry brush and when I realised it was twice the size I need, cut it in half!

I wasn't in Delhi long, just a couple of days. I wanted to get up to Amritsar quickly for sentimental reasons. On 5th November 1994, I was about to move in with someone, a lover, for reasons I don't want to make you feel sick with, it's a significant date to me. The year before (1998) on that day I had woke up crying and yearning for the past and was determined to do something special for the date in 1999 to occupy my mind.

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The Golden Temple

Thus I left New Delhi on the 4th November. The train was very late, so late that other trains started pulling in on that platform. I went over to the police booth to check I was on the right platform and they told me it was only late. I could wait there by the booth and when it arrived they would tell me. In keeping with Indian stations, there was nowhere to sit and my legs were hurting from the wait, so I propped myself against the counter. To let me know they would rather I didn't do that, they took a stick and poked me in the back so hard that I fell forward. I was too tired to complain, they're used to people not complaining (which might be much the problem of India). I stood away from the booth because I couldn't face the stairs again, when the train came they told me as though nothing had happened.

My carriage was nice, thankfully. We arrived at midnight, four hours late, and I walked out into the street. It was very quiet and reminded me of the border with Nepal. I had memorised where the hotels where from a map I saw in a Delhi bookshop. When I looked they weren't there and no one had heard of them. I eventually found one called Bharat, I recalled it was recommended in the guidebook. I found out a few days later that it was the wrong place. I had accidentally checked into 'New Bharat', which is presumably a rip–off of the old one. I didn't really mind. I walked in the entrance and there was a short Sikh there with a shrill voice. Before we even said anything, he shook my hand, a lot of people in the Punjab do that (they even shake your hand leaving a restaurant). I went up to the room and it was very nice. A carpet, room service, a TV with full satellite channels. I opened up a drink and relaxed. It was a long time since I'd actually watched TV in a room, perhaps six years. The program was a film about alien invasion. All the plucky humans were banding together to see off the alien threat. I sat there and realised that humans always need a common enemy, they love it because it makes them feel closer to the group they have joined. It's all a bonding thing and it probably causes wars. The closer a group becomes the more they despise outsiders. Yet people never consider themselves the enemy.

I turned it off and lie under a thick quilt, worrying about Pakistan and trying not to think about 1994.

I didn't wake up crying this year; I distracted myself with the BBC, then went out to look for breakfast. I found a likely looking five star hotel and walked up to the third floor. I was in a place that looked like a modern fast–food restaurant but the windows had a special tint that made the entire room

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dark, the light that did come in had a strange radiating blueness to it. Everything had this tint, the furniture, tablecloths, waiters and even peoples' faces. It was sunny outside and I wondered how anyone could work in a place like that. I was ignored for ages, then someone they came over and shook my hand. I ate and left for the Golden Temple.

The Golden Temple was impressive. Approaching it in a rickshaw, there's a red carpet that goes out into the street for maybe 200 meters, so everyone who enters gets to walk on it. Inside there was a courtyard with silver flags strung up all close together so it was like a loosely knitted ceiling. There was a sign saying Please Leave Your Shoes Here, and I almost decided against going in for two reasons: one, my shinny boots might get stolen, two, I can't take them off anymore unless I have a chair to sit on. Both problems were solved in the next ten meters. There was a reasonable looking cloakroom and benches before it. I got my token and moved on to the entrance.

People were doing various things before it, like washing their feet in a special way and getting coloured scarves out a bin and wrapping their heads with them. I stood there unsure as to what to do, then saw to the right there was an information centre. That sounded like the best bet.

Inside, a Sikh man shook my hand and we sat down. He told me about the temple rules, you mustn't take in any kind of intoxicants, and you must have your head covered. I'd have to wash my feet before I entered, but it would be enough to just walk through the pool of running water on the outside; I didn't have to use a nail–file or something. Then he got some booklets out; one was about the temple, one about the Sikh religion. There was a third which was about the spiritual power in human hair, he gave me the first two, studied my shaved pate and replaced the third one. I'm not sure if he was offended or being tactful.

And so I entered. As I walked up the stairs it came into view, a large golden temple surrounded by a square pool of water with the occasional person washing it in. I stood and admired the view. Around the edge of the pool was a carpet. It went all the way around the lake for perhaps 150 meters. Everyone was walking round it and it was a good way to see the temples from all sides, so I started my stroll.

On the walls and floor there were various plaques and inscriptions, mostly of the people who had donated money to the temples building but a few were memorial stones or battalions lost in battle. Many mentioned people were from abroad, especially England.

Eventually I walked too far and the pain started. Around the walls there were people sitting on the floor, sleeping on the floor. Everything seemed relaxed there so I found a ledge to sit on, as it's very hard for me to get up from the floor now.

I was very aware it was 5th November. I sat there thinking sentimentally, but not too negatively. I always feel better when I'm either on the road or somewhere new. I'd sat there a few minutes when an old Sikh woman came up and started shouting at me. I'm not sure what was wrong; perhaps you weren't supposed to sit on the ledge. I was peeved really, I'd gone

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to the trouble of getting the rules from the information centre and followed then, now I couldn't sit down I'd have to limit my time there as I couldn't be on my feet much longer, thus I got up and started to leave. I was on the far side from the entrance so I started walking back round.

I thought about her (the shouting lady) as I left. It might not have been positive thinking, but I was in real pain by then. She must have been around eighty and I reasoned that she was probably in the same pain. You do tend to get irritable when you suffer from chronic pain, and she had the temple as a 'hotspot'. Something that happens in life that always winds us up whenever we see it and allows us to get angry and show our anger, even if we're really angry about something else. Some people get wound up about religion, some about porn, others about litter. I was pleased that at least I didn't have any hotspots myself.

But of course I do, a whole load of them. For example, if I see certain things that remind me of 5th November 1994 I flinch, remove myself, and avoid it. They're hotspots because I try and not think about them, thinking about them is painful. If I could think about them so long that they didn't hurt me any more, I'd be free. Whenever something hurts us in life we try and pull ourselves together and do things to take our minds off it. Perhaps it's the wrong thing to do? Maybe if we thought about it all the time, like a type of meditation, the pain couldn't last forever. When we just put things out our mind we are free of it, but have to live with all the hotspots that remind us of our forgotten memories and wind us up whenever we see them.

The temple itself represents faith and not being able to look frankly at the hotspots in our mind is a lack of faith. If we admitted the painful things/memories in our mind frankly, and admitted or accepted their pain, we could also admit that we don't have an answer. I should just resign myself to facing these inner–demons with the faith that my answers shall turn up – then I could be free (to a certain degree) right now, in waiting for the answers to arrive into my sphere.

I had this thought when I was leaving and wrote it up looking over the holy water before I left. I must have looked very strange but I was happy(ish). I expected a horrible day, yet some good came of it and I took some nice pictures.

I took one last look at the temple from the entrance and imagined everyone's problems and pain being sucked into the building's centre and whirling round as a dark cloud; then the white light of people's faith cleansing it.

I needed to withdraw some money before I left so I went to the bank. All the Indian banks are state owned and everything is centrally planned. So in the whole of each town there's one bank that does travellers' cheques, one does deposit boxes, one does checking accounts. It's strange to go into a bank and find they only have one service. I must have covered most of Amritsar looking for the right one, but the rickshaw driver was very friendly. We passed a cinema and the billboard showed very overweight women in bikinis.

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He pointed it out to me. It was called Lust for Love; A rating – he recommended it.

At the bank I gave my card and passport. The bank teller seemed to think he was immigration official. He looked at every stamp in my passport, then ran off worriedly showing it to everyone. It turns out he'd found my old Indian visa from another visit and thought I had over–stayed by a year. I explained his mistake but he still seemed suspicious. He photocopied my photo page, all my visas, copied the form I'd written my address on, asked for more ID and copied my cyberclub membership card – and lastly copied the front and back of the visa card itself. I half expected him to grab my ears and push my face into the Xerox machine.

I got the money and outside the rickshaw driver started taking me home. He tried to sell me Pakistani currency, then asked if I have a girlfriend. I told him I lust for love.

16

Amritsar to Islamabad

I was in Amritsar a few days waiting for the train to leave; watching TV all those days was such a luxury. When it was time to leave I walked to the station. Everyone I talked to tried to get me to go on the bus. I wasn't suspicious until even the railway staff said I should go on the bus. I told then I can't pull myself up on the bus anymore and they seemed upset. I went to wait on platform two.

The train was four hours late. An old Sikh man kept coming up to me. He said he had a Pakistani friend and whenever he wrote to him there was no reply, causing suspicion that the letters weren't arriving. He wanted me to take some post over the border. I was paranoid it was full of contraband and said no, then was paranoid he was genuine and I'd been too harsh. Maybe he was frightened they'd be censured or something.

The train itself was an engine with just one economy carriage; it cost about a dollar and was mostly empty. Getting there was no problem. When we arrived there were hundreds of people around. I found where I was supposed to get my passport stamped and all the officials kept telling me to get the bus for the rest of the journey. They spent on for so long, trying to explain that the bus was better (while I kept explaining that I couldn't get on a bus) that the bus drove off while we were talking.

I went through customs and onto the small crowded platform. Again, there was absolutely nowhere to sit, I tried to perch against a pillar, then a fence, and there was just wasn't anywhere. I asked someone and they said the train was usually late. I had no option but to sit on the floor.

I looked around and realised that I was the only foreigner crossing that day. While I sat there two Muslim men approached the bin next to me looking horrified. They had some kind of publication and they stood there sharing out the pages between themselves and carefully ripping each one up. They dropped them all in the bin, but the bin had no bottom, after years of neglect it was only a tube. All around rolled what was left of a pornographic magazine. People around stopped what they were doing and they too adopted a look of horror, then looked at the two next to me. Their expressions grew even more distraught as it was implicated it was their magazine. They scrambled round picking up the pieces and then walked up and down the

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station looking for another bin. Everywhere they went people were whispering about them, and everywhere they went, the bins were bottomless tubes.

Sometimes righteousness has its price.

I managed to get fair warning of when the train was coming and managed to pull myself up. It stopped with a door right before me and so I could get on and found a seat. Moments later everyone else scrambled aboard, and it was complete chaos. They had huge boxes stitched up in sacking, bags the size of small adults. People were shouting and crying. Next to me two women started punching each other. The bags took up all the aisle room and people had to walk over them to move.

An Islamic woman sat opposite me and I think was embarrassed. She apologised there was no facilities for tourists and seemed worried that I wouldn't come again if I didn't enjoy it. We made conversation and she spoke fine, but couldn't understand what I was saying. It soon became apparent that she was just saying yes to everything I said.

We pulled away and went for about five minutes, then stopped at a line of barbed wire that stretched as far as was visible. We were there a short time while an armed soldier on horseback went up and down the length of the train looking at every single face. I could hear from the sound of hooves that something similar was happening on the other side. I'm not sure what the wisdom of that palaver was, like a wanted terrorist might hang his head out the window went he hears a soldier coming. I think it was some kind of subliminal statement about 'this is India'. I didn't really think about it. I was thinking about the old woman that had fell on me – and the train was now too packed for her to move.

We set off again. About twenty minutes later we arrived at the Pakistani side. The lady told me we had to get off for a stamp and then get back on, again fighting for a seat. I couldn't believe it. The fighting and screaming people had gone through just to sit down for half an hour.

I thought I would sit there until everyone was off but realised they'd be there forever getting their stuff off, so I rolled the old woman aside, walked over everybody's bags and alighted.

Out of the whole train, I was travelling the lightest – I'm sure of it. I walked up quickly but soon the whole platform looked like the aisles had done; we were all walking over boxes and bags. Pakistani soldiers pushed people about rudely as I made it to the entrance of the building.

I walked past nearly all the people who were pulling their bags along and made it straight to customs. I got my stamp there, it was green and so light it was barely visible, it looked like a light smudge, you certainly couldn't have read anything on it. In fact, it hadn't have been pointed out to you, you couldn't even had been sure it was there. The official saw this and drew the stamp in from memory. Of course he drew over what little ink was there and now it looked like the whole thing was written in biro. He said he had no green ink and waved me on.

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Customs waved me on too. I ended up first at some locked gates. After an hour there was a hundred people behind me. A Pakistani official came to the gates and looked very harried. He opened them and everyone started moving forward but he shouted. Then he let just a couple of people through. Every twenty minutes he would come through and let just certain people through but they looked the same as everyone else and went to sit on our train, so I'm not sure what his rationale was. Every time he did this everyone tried to get past and he was shouting and grabbing people. I asked him 'Excuse me, who are the people who are allowed through first?' and he just screamed 'NO!'.

Somebody next to me asked me where I was from and when I started speaking everything went quiet. I felt like two hundred people were looking at me and I was very conscious of being the only foreigner there; I'm rarely self–conscious of that nowadays. My legs hurt and I went to sit down.

Eventually the door swung open but everyone had luggage, I strolled through but there was no problem, only a third of people had cleared customs so there was lots of space. After a few hours it got crowded and the same anarchic scenes as before with even the police coming in at one point and shouting at someone. We were there about four hours.

When we pulled away the train went a small distance, then stopped for half the passengers to get off and pray, then we were off again and things relatively calmed down. I realised there was absolutely no electric on the train at all – and it was so surreal, to head towards Lahore with the sounds and smells of the train, people talking around me, in total darkness. Occasionally someone would strike a match and a face would illuminate momentarily in the darkness. Most of the time I couldn't see enough of people to make out their features. I would try but my mind played tricks and it seemed that distorted monsters surrounded me.

We got in at midnight. I had no map or guidebook but I could see hotels from where I was. I asked but they were all full. I went back to the station and decided to let a rickshaw driver find me a place. I'd have to pay more for his commission but I was tired. If he couldn't find a place for less than 400, he'd bring me back.

We drove to around eight places, then he said it was all full and he was taking me back. We argued and eventually he found somewhere else that wanted 1500, far too much. We haggled and it came down to 900 but it was still too much. The owner looked hung over, like his eyes were red and he seemed tired and irritated. We went back to the rickshaw but he ran down and said I could have it for 750. I went up and it was very nice, carpets and thick curtains, also I'd checked in at 2am. So I could stay 46 hours for one night. I went to bed exhausted but happy to have arrived.

I woke up on the floor. While I had been sleeping, the wood holding the mattress up had broken and fell through the frame, though the frame itself was intact. The effect of this was that I woke on the floor with the mattress wrapped around me, something like a sandwich.

I spent my first morning in Pakistan trying to super–glue the frame together – it was hopeless. After a few hours of messing about I had managed

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to balance the whole thing together long enough to make the bed, but as soon as it was next touched it would collapse again. I had been planning to stay one more night in the expensive room, but now decided to go straight to Islamabad.

Outside, I found a rickshaw. They're far more awkwardly designed than in India and when I climbed in the entire door had somehow attached itself to me. The driver climbed out and started slowly trying to reattach it while I worried the hotel owners would run out shouting about their bed.

The train was full, but there was somebody helpful at the information booth and I managed to get some kind of 'special' ticket in 'royale class', which they said was one class below the best – it was also one class above the worst – but I wanted to be out.

And it wasn't really bad at all. There was no standing and I'd say it equated with a western train. I read nearly all of the book I'd brought with me The Diary of Anne Frank, which is perhaps a strange choice for Pakistan but it whiled away the hours.

We arrived late, about eleven. It turns out that Islamabad it called the Twin City because it's in two parts, an old part and a new part, like many cities I suppose. I was in the old part and wanted to be in the new part. I decided to let a taxi find me a room, even though it would cost me more. I tried to negotiate with a driver who didn't speak any English and somebody in a military uniform came and mediated. An agreement was reached and I got some kind of indication how much money they make off hotel commissions when we went to his taxi and he threw out two women and a man who were already in there. I told him not to but he was insistent. I also tried to apologise to them but the women were in full Islamic veils so I don't know of their reaction. This is what happens when you allow yourself to be over–charged, it always backfires on the local population. It's not the first time locals have been thrown out of transport because of the amount of money a driver knows he can over–charge me.

We ended up in a place that in the dark appeared to be a quiet suburb. The man was very friendly but wanted 1000. I got it down to about 800 and thought I could stretch to it for a night. I ordered food and looked around the ornate room. First, I checked the bed–frame, then looked in the cupboard. I thought there was a blanket there, but it was so small I was trying to visualise the kind of person it would fit. When I saw the picture of the mosque on it I realised it was a prayer mat. I looked round further to find a telephone in the bathroom as well as in the bedroom, but no outside line. It was as if you would be shaving and suddenly so in need of food that you couldn't walk one and a half meters to the phone by the bed.

The food arrived on a little black table that was so cute that I had to take a picture of it. But the meal itself was amongst the worst I'd ever eaten.

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An Encounter with Danger

I woke up the next day and left. The area I was in was shockingly clean and beautiful. It reminded me of the most expensive suburbs of the English town where I was born, but it was even nicer than there, all so unpolluted and modern; I couldn't believe it. I walked as far as a little collection of shops and found a taxi driver who said he'd take me to change travelers cheques.

It turned out he was very amiable and spoke perfect English. He gave me the names of the areas of where the shops were, the and said that the cheaper hotels were in Murrey Road. I scribbled all his information down in my notebook, then he started talking about politics. I expected otherwise, but he liked the new coup leader, saying that Sharif had brought Pakistan nothing but high inflation. I spoke up for democracy but I'm not sure why. He retorted that democracy is just a word, if the new man isn't popular then someone else will succeed him, there are checks and balances because a coup can't take place until a leader is unpopular with everyone. The only good times he could remember was under dictators, and politicians always made things worse.

I withdrew money, then walked out into Blue Area, which is a kind of main business area. Once more I was surprised, it's so far removed from India that it's hard to describe. Again, it was much nicer and cleaner than my own 'home' town. The roads were so wide, all the cars new, rickshaws are barred there. At the edge of the road were grassy verges and every kilometer someone relaxing under a tree. Past the verges on each side were modern, quiet shops. I'd seen a computer centre I had been looking for on the way to the bank and started to walk towards it.

I think I went about a kilometer and a half, then I was thirsty and the pain started coming on. Eventually I passed an Iranian restaurant. I went in, down some stairs.

Inside it was nearly empty and a little dark. There were carpets on the wall and small skins, like goatskins perhaps, with pictures painted on them. The lights were bare bulbs but each one had a large disc below it so the diffused light only shone off the ceiling. It was quite effective. I'm not sure why direct light is so off–putting in such places, but no one can imagine a dim fast–food restaurant. I wonder why light inspires certain moods, and why do we have to keep changing it? We want subdued light at home and bright light

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at work, perhaps it's because light exists in the cycles of night and day, and the seasons in nature, over our evolution we've needed the quality of light to change. But that would mean that our moods are always changing. Why do we want that?

The menu had no vegetarian food at all except skewered tomatoes and plain rice. I explained I'm a vegetarian but the waiter didn't get it. He said most vegetarians that came in would have just a little meat. Eventually he agreed to bring a few dishes without the meat but would have to charge the same.

While I sat and waited there was Middle Eastern music playing. It reminded me of a place I used to go in Australia, but that was 1994 and I was on the road partly to try and forget that.

When the food came it was almost nothing. Obviously, meat makes up a major proportion of Iranian dishes because I had two saucers of gravy each perhaps 3 millimeters thick, two tomatoes and some rice.

When I left there I heard them talking about vegetarianism in Urdu with shocked tones. I walked out over the quiet roads to the computer centre and was suddenly happy. I wanted to check my mail and do a little typing and there I was walking along with no where to stay and no plan of where to look except the name of a road except from the taxi driver's recommendation, and it bothered me so little I was off to check my mail. I wouldn't have felt that way had my bag not have been stolen.

I left the computer around 10pm. I had to walk a little way but a taxi arrived. He said Murrey Road was kilometers long and I'd have to know where I wanted to go. I asked vaguely for hotels and we set off.

We drove onto an area about twenty minutes away. I think it was the cheaper parts, rickshaws started appearing and horns honking in older model cars, though it still wasn't exactly dirty. We stopped and he told me that was it. I walked on a bit further and there was a side–road with horse drawn carriages all around it. I saw a place called Skyways.

They showed me a room for 600, still more than I wanted to pay but it had the huge benefit of being warm. I paid and they showed me into a different room, it seemed OK so I didn't complain, but after a while I realised the window was bricked up, the only one in the hotel that was, but it was still worth it for the warmth.

I sat down and relaxed. There was a knock at the door and I opened it to an eager looking white man. Obviously English, he told me the reception had told him a 'Brit' had checked in and he wondered if I wanted to go for tea. I said I was going to bed, thanks anyway.

Next day I went to the Indian embassy. I asked at reception how much a taxi would cost, when I went downstairs and asked the drivers, that was the price they gave me. There are few places in Asia that that would happen. It was a long drive and I realised that nearly all of Islamabad is modern and clean. We passed a nursery with clean, friendly looking play

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equipment and uniformed children, it was much nicer than where I went to school.

The embassy was chaotic, but there was a separate, uncrowded entrance for non–Pakistanis. I went up to the door and asked a policeman what the procedure for applying was. I'm not sure why but he burst out laughing. Then two Japanese men turned up. They each had a bag with tripods on top, and undoubtedly cameras inside. The police said they'd have to leave them on the grass by the road! Then started laughing as they complained. In the end we all had to go to a police box and put them there. We returned, bagless, and were body–searched. I was sent back with my torch because it had a battery in, then I was sent back because I had a bottle of water, eventually they let me in.

Inside I was body searched and sent out again because I had a lighter. I put that it the police box, then went through the body searches again and was finally through.

I queued for an hour after filling a form, then they told me I must fill in the same form twice, so I had to go back to the person who had body searched me and get another one. At the counter He wanted to know why I had been to Nepal so many times, I haven't, but have a few one–month extensions and he didn't understand. Eventually he said he'd send a telex to England to check I was English, and if it arrived in 7 days I could have the visa.

The taxi driver had waited, even though I told him not to. We drove back to blue area and I went to a restaurant that was recommended somewhere on the Internet. I ordered egg fried rice but when it came it had flecks of chicken in it, like shredded, but shredded so fine I got tired of picking it out and ordered mixed vegetables... which also came with meat. So I ended up with only water. I went back to the computer centre and had a vegetable sandwich that really did only have vegetable in, and ate while I waited for a computer to become free.

On the wall I noticed all these signs that said things like, by the grace of God I have the best computer centre in Islamabad, by the grace of God my computer centre is making the most money. One said, There are no private booths in this centre to defend children's purity from the horror of pornography. I started to become very cynical about Islam. For example, they won't drink alcohol because a book tells them not to, but they think nothing of slaughtering animals and eating the corpse. They can bar pornography, but maybe they fear what they would do if they were surrounded by it; is that strength or weakness? It's opposite to the Zen masters, who must obtain enlightenment – they live in the world among the beggars without losing their inner–peace for ten years before they become a roshi, a person fit to teach others. A moral atheist is good because they want to be good themselves; a religious moralist trys to follow good laws because a book dictates it and they fear the consequences if they are not.

Then again, perhaps I was just hungry?

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I'd been there at Skyways hotel for a few days when they asked me to pay an advance in a very rude way. Then they wouldn't accept that I didn't have that much money on me, they wanted me to find it at 10pm. I walked to my room and the English man again asked me to join him for tea, so I said I'd drop by.

Next day I went out first thing in the morning and they requested the money again, I got angry and they asked when I'd bring it.

I worked at the computer in Blue Area for a few hours, then went to stretch my legs. I ended up by a skyscraper a few hundred meters away. I had a sandwich on a bench but the police came and moved me along. When I asked why, they didn't speak enough English to explain but I thought they said something about the 'Scottish embassy'(?)

They each had machine guns so I walked back. As I was going along I heard a scraping sound coming from behind me, getting louder and louder as though something was approaching. I turned to see a recovery truck dragging a burnt–out car past. It was so burnt out that the rubber of the wheels was absent and the rims themselves were all bent, hence the scraping sound. I wondered if the police had moved me on because of some danger.

The next day I went to the main shopping area, it reminded me of an English housing estate, though it wasn't unpleasant. I found a perfect book about web–design that I'd been looking for back in Delhi. I was there in Pakistan with nothing to do but use the computers and now the perfect book had turned up. Perhaps it was fate I was there.

I saw a newspaper headline passing a bookshop, that there had been some kind of bombing in Blue Area the previous day. Back at the computer centre I had an e–mail from someone mentioning it, so I surfed news sites and found a missile had been fired, then the car wrecked ten minutes before I had been there, apparently the main police arrived ten minutes after I'd left!

While I was reading this I noticed the man at the computer next to me was some kind of doctor, possibly doing a medical course on–line. Every time I glanced at his monitor there was some image of an awful accident or deformity and he was answering multiple choice questions. One picture was a close up (very close) of what appeared to be both male and female genitalia. In his multiple choice he picked hermaphrodite. I carried on working, but every now and again I couldn't help glancing over, usually because I wasn't aware I had until I had. Voyeurism is ugly I guess.

I noticed the owner of the computer centre had some kind of gas problem, every single minute he was burping, he couldn't say a single word without burping. It would take him twice as long to say things as other people as he burped as long as he talked. When I used the bathroom I accidentally locked it in from the inside. He got mad but it took ages for him to express his anger between all the wind.

So for my time in Pakistan I really did nothing but work on the computers. Eventually the time was up and I returned to the embassy. I left the room with nothing, and when I arrived at the embassy entrance the guards

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laughed again, I'm not sure if they're filling them with drugs or what. They searched me and couldn't find anything remotely offensive. Eventually all they could pull out was a little bottle of homeopathy, which they said would have to be left at the police box. I didn't want to leave it because I didn't really want them opening it and touching the pills, but it's never worth arguing with petty people, especially armed. I walked over to the police box and said hello, asked them if they were busy, put the homeopathy back in my pocket and went in through the entrance, where they didn't check me again.

I sat down and waited my turn. After a time someone to my right turned to me and said in an awful nasal voice, 'Oh hello, you're staying in Skyways', I looked and couldn't place the flowery but worn silk shirt. He burst out laughing in an even worse nasal manner (what was it with people in that place?) and said 'I take it you're not into social events like tea then!' and laughed even harder. It was the Englishman from the hotel.

He tried to make conversation, and I was so glad that I had never gone with him it's hard to explain. I tried stonewall him to convey the message. He could speak Urdu and said the staff of Skyways were suspicious about me because they rarely see me (they didn't think to ask).

I gave monosyllable answers and he went quiet for a minute. Then said, 'What genre do you write in John?' A chill went down my spine; he'd even read my registration card. It was his turn at the counter then and I didn't have to wait long because he had forgotten to bring any photographs.

When it was my turn everything was fine, I could collect the visa that evening. I went back to the computer and realised that I was by then addicted to voyeurism and surfed for ages looking for medical images. I left the place so depressed, all the horrible things that can happen to our bodies. When do we go in for things like voyeurism that hurt us, or is that just me? At 5pm. I got my visa and decided to celebrate in a Chinese restaurant as I'd hardly eaten properly in Pakistan due to all the meat.

It was a nice place, Chinese Lanterns and thick, red velvet curtains. I ordered Ma's special bean curd and drank jasmine tea, congratulating myself on having survived Pakistan. When the bean curd came it was full of meat. The waiter told me it wouldn't be, but it turns out he mean that the plain rice wouldn't have any meat in, as plain rice usually has pork in (he said). I went back to the computer centre, bought two sandwiches and went home.

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Back in Delhi

The computers where I was working were full of porn. It didn't really bother me except that it was all left as desktop wallpaper and the home page. Once, someone (a local) came and sat next to me and found 'With Love from Holland' as the home page, and started clicking all the links. Occasionally he would switch windows and find out about studying in New Zealand, but mostly he would look at porn. You don't really see that kind of thing in India. Afterwards I'd see him all the time, always looking at the same site.

One day I was almost out of money but got up too late for the bank. When I walked to work there was some kind of a Sikh festival on. There were decorated floats and special stalls set up. All of them were giving away free food like crisps and fruit, dahl and rice. The whole floor was slippery with discarded food. As I walked along I thought it was so ugly. From my new understanding of Sikhs I guessed it was a show of hospitality but as far as I could tell it was simply a way to turn the whole of Pahar ganj into beggars. People were fighting over the food like animals. Then there was some kind of fight between the Sikhs, and men punching each other had to be pulled apart. I was walking slowly and looking down so as not to fall and a Sikh man ran up to me and started shouting and laughing, asking why I walked so slow, didn't I like festivals?

In Delhi I was about to go to the railway station but at the very last minute, literally walking out the door, I decided to go to the Buddhist Holy spot of Bodhgaya, where the Buddah attained enlightenment; a decision mainly inspired by some ominous dreams. I brought a ticket, then went over to the tourist board to ask if they knew any way that I could book a hotel. They gave me some leaflets and the address of the Bihar tourist board.

I went there to find it was a very small office with about the worst, musty smell one could possibly imagine, like all the furniture was going rotten. The person in charge of it seemed shocked that anyone had come. He was the eternal optimist, telling me there was a government owned hotel there and I could have a room, no problem. He sorted out all the paper–work and said he'd take the money now and it was a definite reservation because each office in Delhi has a set quota for the rooms.

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I recalled all the government places that I've ever stayed at. Indians have this obsessive respect fort authority, even when (especially when?) incompetent. The government owned hotels are called ITDC. I've stayed in about four and whenever I have, I've checked in, then one day, maybe a month later like in Orissa, or a day later like Colva, head office rings up and asks if there's a room. That means that whoever is in the room is asked to leave. I'll never forget the time in Colva where I had come from Sri Lanka to meet my parents and still had two unstolen bags then. I checked in almost crippled, and the next morning they took a booking from head office and I had minutes to leave. By the time I walked 20 meters with my stuff I collapsed onto a bench and was literally carried to another place.

This was now a booking for New year's Eve and I had the image of them checking in a pilgrim for the New Year, allowing them to think they had a reservation for over the holiday, then asking them to leave at midday on the 31st. I asked the man to phone and check. He was absolutely insistent that there wouldn't be a problem because there was a definite quota and if there was anyone in the room, they would be asked to leave because this head office took president. It took me a long time to explain that that was exactly what I didn't want. If the room were booked then I would find somewhere else. After much pleading he phoned Bodhgaya.

I sat and listened to him shouting on the phone about a quota. I sat there for so long that but the time he came out I almost had got used to the musty smell. He said there was a group of MP's who had booked the room, but didn't know that government officials get precedence over other bookings. I asked the peeved looking man if he had given me the booking as he had wanted, would I have turned up on New Year's Eve with no where to stay. He pretended to not understand.

Still the optimist, no problem, there's a private hotel that will definitely have a room. He phoned them and they didn't, so I got an address of another place with a Delhi office and would have to go and sort it myself.

A few days later I bought some medicine and it came in a bag that was made with old papers. It happens all the time in Asia; people get large amount of scrap paper for free, then recycle it with glue to make paper bags. This bag was made of a transcript from the Indian parliament, it was a debate in which the tourist minister was being asked why the ITDC hotels were losing money this year. He answered that all hotels, including private, had lost money that year because there were less foreign arrivals. Then an MP asked him why sometimes an MP would try and check in to these hotels at subsidised rates the managers would say it was full. The tourism minister promised that in future, MP's could check–in immediately at the subsidised rates in any state of India, even if the hotel was full, and also promised that the hotels would show a bigger profit this year. With this, all the MP's seemed happy.

I went to the private travel agent and they would be full for the 31st but could take money now for the 1st, 700r, and then phone Bodhgaya to get me another room for the preceding evening. I gave them the cash, phoned

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them the next day, and they said the whole of Bodhgaya would be full for the 31st.

Eventually it was time to leave Delhi. I managed to wake up early in the morning and went to the post office with a parcel. I got taken to the wrong one, but when I got to the right destination the packing boy said I'd have to fill a form in. That had never happened before and I was trying to work out what the hell it was about. It turned out he was asking me to help two men from the Punjab who'd just had all their travelers' cheques stolen and didn't speak English.

The bookshops were closed for some reason. I found one open but everything was shrink–wrapped, and I promised myself never to buy a shrink–wrapped book again after buying an awful such tome of philosophy.

Worried of the Y2K bug I tried to copy my web–site but the connection didn't work so I'd have to risk it.

At the train station, I went to the same information booth where the police poked me to the ground. The same 'officer' was there. After ignoring me for ages, he said platform nine, everyone else I asked said eight.

It was eight. I walked up and down looking for my carriage but I was sure there wasn't a two–tier sleeper. The train started moving and I got on first class. I was reminded how many people in India don't speak English but eventually someone told me to go through the train to my carriage. The train stopped so I got off again. A guard told me to go the opposite way the man had said. I started walking that way, but when the train moved, I had to get on three–tiered sleeper. I asked someone else and he said my carriage was opposite to where the guard had thought. The train stopped again. He said, make a choice; my carriage wasn't connected yet, I could get off now and walk closer to where it would be, or I could stay there and have further to walk at the next station. I confirmed I was on the right train at all, then decided to stay.

As it pulled away, we got talking. It turned out he meant that my carriage was connected to the train, just that there was no way to get there from this carriage because the inter–connecting doors were padlocked. He asked the guard when we would reach the next station and I could make my way to find my carriage: in 6 hours at 4am. He said it would be OK, he hadn't even got a ticket at all and so we could kill time together while he waited for a possible unclaimed seat for himself.

His name was Rajeev Kumar Singh. He was from Utter Pradesh, working in spare parts distribution for the Korean company, Daewoo, and on his way to spend New Year with his girlfriend to whom he had recently become engaged. We talked about many things. The Catholic school where he was educated, his Korean bosses who don't run the company wisely, only care that you slog and wear dirty clothes.

The Travelling Ticket Examiner (TTE) came and said that there was a bed for my new companion, so he said we may as well go and sit there. We did for a couple of hours, but then everyone wanted to make their beds up, so

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we had to go back to the end of the carriage. We stood for a while and he insistent that he didn't want to sleep, he would stay up with me until 4am when I could find my carriage. I didn't think it was a good idea. The TTE was there so I called him in to confirm that it was 4am when I could move, yes he said, but because I hadn't got on the carriage the TTE there might well have given my bed to someone else, if that was the case then to return here to three–tier as there was one bed left. I asked if I could make it up and down the train in that time and he shrugged. That clinched it. I would switch my ticket to three bed in three–tier. He was certain a refund would be sent to England for the difference. There was no chance of that but I didn't care; I could at least sleep.

Next day we both woke up pretty late and eventually ended up back down the carriage end, talking of many things. The main topic was about the 'spurious parts'. These are fake Daewoo parts that people pass off as genuine and his company gets ripped–off. As far as I could understand, it was because the market was so price–sensitive, there are a segment who always buy the cheapest thing. Apparently, Daewoo spend a whole load of money on special packaging so it's harder to forge the parts, plus advertising, so people will only buy the genuine ones. I asked him why he didn't just sell spurious parts as well as their own, but he seemed horrified by the idea.

The other thing was that he seemed to hate Muslims, and gave me all the reasons why they are essentially bad and Hindus are essentially good. He asked me about 'women I have known' and I replied 'no comment' – then I asked him. I expected either the same reply, or the usual macho routine, but he just said, at 28, he's still a virgin, but looks forward to ending that status with his fiancée when they become man and wife. They've only met three times but he's certain she's the one because he told his parents that he wanted a really nice girl and he trusts them to deliver the goods. Obviously, I was a little shocked and asked various things. He thinks that most of the love matches he has seen haven't worked out, plus he knows she's a 'good girl' because it's easy to find out anything you want to about a woman when you're thinking of marrying her because the entire community will tell you everything they know and if there are skeletons in her closet then they will surface immediately.

We ended up seated again and I fell asleep. He woke me saying that my station had passed. He asked someone and they said the train was delayed for five hours because of the fog. It turns out it'd delayed by three hours, and my station just passed. He enquired further, no problem. I would get off at the next station, wouldn't have to wait more than an hour and the trip back would also take an hour. He found someone who said they would help me. We arrived and I got off, with us both promising to e–mail each other.

It was 7:30. The next train was at 10:30.m I bought a ticket and waited. After a couple of freezing hours a man turned to me and said the train was delayed, it would 12:30.

I sat shivering. The station was bitterly cold, possibly the coldest I've ever been since I've not replaced anything that was stolen. It was so foggy that

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it was like being in a dream. Everyone around me was dressed in thick grey blankets, wrapped around their shoulders and heads; just their eyes peered out at me as I was probably the only foreigner that had ever been so stupid so as to end up at that station. I couldn't even see the end of the platform through the mist, only a few hazy, distant lights.

It occurred to me that I was in purgatory. It was just before the millennium and I was on my way to mark it at the holiest Buddhist site, and fate had put me there in that awful situation to reflect on a life that I have failed at. All this time of trying, striving, big ideas, and I'm still nowhere. At school I wouldn't enter normality, I wouldn't go for a usual job, positive that life manifested from within, our circumstances and our happiness. No matter what everyone would tell me, I was convinced it was wrong to strive in that material way and I instead followed a dream.

But the station was a nightmare. Twelve years passed since I made that decision and I'm not even published. I had even bigger dreams when I left for Asia and seven years into the trip I'm still trying to change our world. It occurred to me that maybe I wasn't in a kind of earthly purgatory, maybe I was already dead. I had been killed on the train earlier up the line and this was the afterlife. I would be there thinking my regrets for a thousand years but wouldn't know; each time I looked at my watch the time would be the same but I wouldn't realise. When my train came it would be the year 3000 and I had served my punishment for failure, going on top the Mahabodi temple as a new person in a new life with new memories, never knowing that I had once been somebody else.

Yet in situations of utter and painful boredom, the mind keeps on spinning. Maybe I wasn't there as a punishment but as a test of commitment. When I was 15 all I wanted to do was die, yet I was still here. I wouldn't have believed that was possible had someone suggested it to me as a teenager. Maybe I found myself on the station only to renew my resolve. I had just met a man who was the same age as I (28) and was the kind of person that I used to fear so much I would become. He works everyday in an office, is full of opinions that mirror exactly the attitudes of the newspapers he reads, is about to marry someone he barely knows. Even if I had trod that path I would have still gone crippled at 26 and would have lost it all. As it was I went crippled in India and didn't really lose so much lifestyle–wise. I knew deep down that if I had his life it would kill me. Looking at other lives in various medias, you have to remember that the characters don't really exist, everyone lives a mundane life of getting up and working, I was right to leave the country and do what I'm doing, as what else would I now do?

As if to prove the racist musings of Rajhiv incorrect, the only man on the platform that offered me his blanket was a Muslim. It was the man who had earlier spoken to me. He was from Agra, in Bihar on business of selling bangles. His English was only fair and he had a strange habit of laughing at every sentence he uttered. He talked about the plane hijacking that was still going on at the time. He said that the man that had been murdered was on his honeymoon, then laughed. Then said that half the passengers were Indians returning from their honeymoons, then laughed at that. He started talking

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about women, saying he 'like breasts too much', which he laughed at. Then peppered me with questions to see if I had any inner–perversions.

Time went so slowly with this man, I couldn't leave him because the announcements were in Hindi and I was desperate for information. When the train finally rolled in (past midnight) he pulled me in the sleeper compartment, and the extra two degrees warmth were literally like leaving hell. He asked if I wanted to sit down, I said I would and then regretted it when he woke someone up to make them move. He had a sleeper ticket but mine was general class. He said it would be no problem and I wasn't sure as a man with a gun came on the train and started hitting people. He threw someone off but then never returned to the carriage.

The Muslim asked if I wanted to read a magazine, but it was in Hindi, then he tried to give me a pornographic magazine. I said that I didn't want it so he contented himself by going through it, picking out the most depraved pictures, holding them up and calling my name across the compartment. Of course he thought it was terribly funny.

At the station he showed me a room, which was cold, yet warmer than purgatory, and I was at last under blankets.

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New Years Eve

Next day I went to the station. There was a tourist board there but they were useless, they had no map and hardly spoke any English. I understood a pedal–rickshaw to a school would be five rupees, then another five rupees for one seat of six in a share–autorickshaw. Outside I got the right price and was off.

The boy peddling talked in Hindi the whole way. When we arrived at the school it was awful, noisy and dirty. The rickshaws looked like instruments of torture. I didn't have change for the boy who'd just pedaled me and asked an auto–driver. He didn't have change but when he realised the foreigner wanted to pay for all six seats so he could go alone, he suddenly remembered a pocketful of ten rupee notes.

The road was terrible. I could almost say it was the worst trip I've ever done but it didn't really last long enough. In some stretches it was so uneven that the chassis was dragging over the floor.

In Bodhgaya I saw a sign pointing to the Mahabodi temple and followed it, then I saw another sign to the government restaurant. I thought it would be a good idea to eat there and work out what I was going to do, as the hotel I had already booked had said the whole of Bodhgaya would be full until the 1st. Those ITDC hotels and restaurants are strange things. They're so obviously centrally planned, they exist everywhere that tourists would ever go, the beaches, the religious sites, all over India are ITDC buildings, yet they are all identical. Somebody came up with a plan that requires a certain amount of floor space. When the government wanted to build each one, it would simply clear the required space and repeat the same building in each place. It's not just the building itself; everything is the same. Exactly the same blankets, the same glasses, the same water jug, the same pictures on the wall, same food in the restaurant. I ate a meal identical to meals I'd eaten in other places, on the same plate with the same cutlery, it was probably the same dirt on the fork – then took a tip off the waiter for a decent place to stay.

The recommended place was exactly adjacent to the place I had booked for the next night, and wasn't full at all. I haggled and got a lovely room for 1000. They even put a heater in for me. I sat with a remote control and watched the Indian hostages being released off the plane on BBC World.

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If it hadn't have been New Years Eve I would have curled up in the warmth of the fire.

I still wasn't sure what I would do to mark midnight and I had around three hours to decide. In reception an old American lady came up. She had lived in England for years, recognised my accent and knew my hometown. She said it was an auspicious night in Bodhgaya as there was a puja, an all night prayer for peace at the Mahabodi temple, so with that solved I made my way over there.

It was around 9:30 and I went to a tea stall. I gave up tea and coffee exactly a year ago and so I treated myself and watched the comings and going of the temple. A stray dog was next to me shivering. I noticed that all the fur, except on its head, had fell out. Suddenly it went into violent convulsions by my feet. An American woman started shouting, 'Oh my God, look at that dog', which everyone duly did. But then they looked at me as though it was my fault. I left for the temple but the gates were closed. There were lots of foreigners outside looking terribly disappointed. A white man seemed to be attached to the temple and said there was an agreement that the doors would stay open all night, we would just use the other gate. When we walked round they were also closed, and there were even more foreigners looking terribly disappointed.

I walked away and saw the white man talking to a terribly disappointed white man. No problem, there was an administrative office and he would see if there was anyone there. There was, and I watched the argument that ensued. It turned out that they changed their minds about it staying open because it had filled up with drunken locals. , Eventually he was convinced to open the gate but when we got there the monks on the inside wouldn't agree. In the end they swung open and for each foreigner that walked in, an irritated foreigner would emerge and start running to where ever they had planned to spend New Years Eve.

I walked round the temple clockwise, as is the tradition. It was beautiful, very mysterious. In the centre was a large stupta going about thirty meters into the air. Around there were little paths surrounded by small walls. In between all the paths were various Buddhist icons, shrines and statues. On every available space of wall of shrine were burning candles with meant that everything had a beautiful light, shining off the Tibetan prayer flags. There were people sitting meditating everywhere. Foreigners, but mostly Tibetan monks clad in dark maroon robes.

I went out the opposite gate and bought some candles. I walked round the supta three times on different levels and lit a candle for everyone I know, myself and world peace. As the midnight hour approached I found a quiet spot on a ridge, amongst the shrines, under a tree. I sat there and could see the peepal tree under which the Buddah attained enlightenment. On the floor were wooden boards and people were lying prostrate facing the supta. Suddenly from a nearby shrine a firework shot upwards like a sudden fountain of lights. It didn't shoot in the air; it just fired thousands of tiny white stars up

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in the air and illuminated the maroon robes in sudden, harsh light. My watch beeped twice. It was the year 2000.

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The Start of the Millennium

I hung around the temple for perhaps twenty minutes. It was surreal; about five minutes after midnight a mist descended around us, so thick we'd call it a ‘pea–souper’ in London, it was as though it had been holding off until the New Year.

I went to the exit and left. I noticed it was only other foreigners who were leaving, the Tibetans were staying all night to pray. I walked home, it was quiet but around me there were people wishing each other a happy New Year; I just couldn't see them through the mist.

I made it home and was upset to hear that it was already New Year in Japan, I wanted to celebrate at the same time as my friend would be, though it was probably best this way. I phoned for food but it was too late. I slept.

I went out to eat the next day. It was the Government place, I thought ‘what the hell, it's New Year, I'll have baked beans on toast’, but it turned out to be runner–beans, and so I can thank the government for my millennium breakfast being a cock–up.

Only two other tables were occupied, both by western monks in maroon garb. A group of men on my left were arguing about which types of blessings are best. A western nun occupied the other table. When her food came she prayed over it, saying grace presumably, but when she tasted it there was something wrong and she sent it back to the kitchen.

I had all my stuff with me, which – since I was robbed – consists of only a small shoulder–bag. I went to the new hotel I had booked from Delhi; it wasn't ready until 3pm. When I saw it I realised I'd been ripped off. Unless you're staying at the Hilton it's never a good idea to book in advance.

I went out to photograph the temples. The Bhutanese one was beautiful, exquisite paintings on the wall, The Tibetan one was very nice, the Japanese one had a bell of peace. There were Indian day–trippers though, and they're always a problem. I think they come from backwaters where there are no foreigners, so they act a bit weird around you, calling and trying to provoke any reaction.

In one temple, I think it was a second Tibetan one, there was another puja going on. There was a young monk of about six years old at the front

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before the Buddha, on a throne. He was swaying and his eyes kept closing and it looked like he would fall asleep any minute.

Seated on the floor in front of him were about forty monks chanting from books before them, it was very otherworldly. Some of them were concentrating; some of them were bored and looking around. There were young monks going from row to row handing hot tea to the chanting men and some of them drank it and nibbled instead of praying.

At the back of the temple away from the main ones were western monks who were seated beyond the railing so had been invited, but they weren't part of the main group. They weren't chanting, just talking or meditating.

I went back to the temple to take some pictures, then left back along the awful road to awful Gaya to catch my train. At the station a Tibetan man told me there was a two–hour delay so I went and ate.

Eventually it came and my carriage was absolutely packed, there just wasn't anywhere to sit. An Indian man shook my hand and said my seat was very comfortable. I went to stand at the end of the carriage. It was so rowdy. A Tibetan man came and told me that the Indians would be leaving in a couple of hours but there was room for me now, so I sent back to my seat. I had to squeeze in a very small space. An old Tibetan woman said something to me and laughed with an awful squawk. I sat reading for a couple of hours, but it was awful. In the end I went to the back of the carriage again. I stood there for about three hours; occasionally I was able to sit on the metal sink. I returned when I couldn't stand it any longer (leg pain).

True enough, the Indians were gone, it was just the Tibetans, who were presumably a family, a man and woman of 35–40, an old woman 70–75, and two young boys of about 5–7. Actually I thought they were an awful family, they kept climbing all over me, moving my bag and water, leaning against me, the whole family acted as though they'd known me for years.

Eventually we all went to sleep. Next day I rose and went straight to the end of the carriage. I lower the guard's table and sat there, as he was absent. In fact, I stayed there a full day until we arrived mid–afternoon in New Delhi. The Tibetan man came to get me, I returned to the seat and they had rearranged all my things for me. I took my possessions and left the train. I walked towards the town centre by a quiet back street I know. As I strolled, I realised I missed that family in a weird way I couldn't quite understand.

The millennium was celebrated in weird ways in Delhi. Firstly there was a ‘shopping bonanza’ All the shops had a sale, but it was absurd as nothing is priced either before or after the sale.

Then there was this man who was dressed up as, I think he was supposed to be a teddy bear. Yet, his costume was an awful homemade thing, and it didn't help that he was so thin. The head had tiny ears and there was no stiffener to make the muzzle so the cloth just was draped flat over his face, no mouth what so ever. And the whole thing was jet black. To be honest it looked exactly like a ski mask. It was only because the material was furry that

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you realised he was trying to look like a bear rather than the IRA. When he tried to approach children, they would scream and be snatched by terrified parents.

These two events were Delhi's millenium celebration.

I stayed in Delhi for about a month and then went south to Goa. I shared my carriage with a nice family from Amritsar and their well–behaved little girl. In Margao the hotel was full so I went straight to the beach at Colva. I was there about two years ago just after I first got sick, my parents visited me but we had an awful time. I was pretty shocked this visit when the man from the samosa shop remembered me as I was only there two weeks.

As my bag was stolen back in Varinessi it had been too cold to wash my trousers, they would take too long to dry and I had no spare pair to wear. In other words I hadn't been able to clean them for about ten weeks and all that travel! Goa was hot so the very first night I scrubbed them with a laundry bar. The water turned black, and when I rinsed them a grey–goo oozed out. I kept rinsing, washing and scrubbing until only clean water emerged. It was a lovely feeling. Next day they were as good as new. I went out for breakfast to celebrate, and dropped a tomato on them.

I only stayed in Colva for a couple of days. The day I left I sat with a soda and an Indian joined me. He ordered a beer and I then noticed that usually friendly owner plunked the bottle down rather rudely. ‘John’ and I got talking, in the first sentence he told me he's an alcoholic, that he's seen a doctor but vomited the medicine, then he left.

I decided to stay one night in Panaji, the state capital. I checked in and recalled a man from about three years ago, always having to shout at the staff. He told me that once Oscar Wilde stayed there, if that's true then it was before the trial and it's definitely gone to seed now.

I went on to Calangute the next day. I felt awful being there – I'm not sure why, perhaps because I've had such bad times there in the past. I walked around looking for a place and found somewhere. I checked in and it was exactly the same as the place I stayed last time, I mean: it was a different place but the furniture, mirror, seats, door, padlock, etc. were the exactly the same. Gilbert from the shop near Bernard's in Baga told me that the owner is the brother of Hacienda, the place I stayed last year. His wife, Shelia, checked me in, but the receipt was just a plain piece of paper. She said there were no printed receipts.

Lots of people remembered me and initially everything was going very well. I started buying books about meditation and mindfulness and suddenly everything started making sense to me. I would meditate daily and would walk round all day in a state of constant bliss. I really could keep my mind clear by non–arising. For the first time in my life everything was totally OK.

Someone called Jeremy e–mailed me in the middle of all this as he's seen the web–site and he asked a relevant question concerning the things I was just now understanding. So that was a coincidence.

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I started writing articles and had a very positive response from a new magazine ‘The American Novelist Monthly’.

Then I got sick. It started as a slight pain in my left shoulder one morning, by nighttime the pain was so bad I couldn't move it a single inch. When I went to bed and lie down I woke up in the most awful pain I've ever been in my entire life, pain like I wouldn't have thought was possible. I guzzled painkillers for half an hour in panic, not knowing if I would be able to take it. After an hour it was bearable, but when I tried to sleep again, exactly the same thing happened.

By experimentation I worked out that when my arm was close to the body, the pain would go and not return as long as it wasn't moved. I made a sling, but for a week couldn't move it and had to sleep in the chair.

Eventually the pain mostly went but there was stiffness and weakness. I could only lift it a few centimeters away from my body. It was exactly the same as my hip joint and I realised I wouldn't be able to get myself into a train berth anymore. My life was really over. I couldn't travel; I wasn't going to be free. I wept in despair, I found myself praying. I prayed in all desperation because this was too much, I couldn't live like this. If these prayers weren't answered I would have top take my own life.

And I don't know why it happen or how, but I think that something answered my prayers. After a couple of days the pain went, though it was still unmoving. Over the next ten days the movement returned, just a couple of centimeters at first, but eventually I completely recovered. I couldn't believe it.

It was a miracle.

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In Goa Again

For a while before and a while after the miracle with my arm, I was having an idyllic time. I would work in the week, and then, every Friday, go to a restaurant on the banks of the Mandovi River. I kind of connected to the flowing water and would make vows there to meditate or finish various projects.

One day I was pretty shocked to receive an e–mail from my mother to arrange a phone call. I was only just over that shock when I got one from my Aunt, who said she had a new lap–top; she's 79 and I couldn't picture it somehow, though I don't know why as it's pure ageism. Eventually we arranged a voice–call via e–mail. When I finally spoke to them it turned out my aunt's ‘lap–top’ was a simple keyboard device that sends e–mail via the TV. We chatted about half–an–hour. That was some time back in March perhaps. As I write this it's June and we have used only e–mail since then, so I haven't ‘voiced’ them for about four months. My aunt used to e–mail me every day, asking what I was eating and how's my health, but then she got used to it and adopted the habit of writing every Sunday. It's nice to be in contact like that. A couple of months later she got sciatica, and I haven't heard from her since, though she sends brief e–mails through my niece. Conversations are becoming very rare. For example, in April and May I had absolutely none (not with anyone at all); I’m not sure if I missed their phone calls or not. I did think of writing down all the words I say in an average day, I reckon it might be even less than twenty (when I'm not travelling).

There are so many stray dogs in Goa. When you're in cities they never bother you as they're so out–numbered they become careful. But in quiet places there are often a large amount and just you alone – then they become arrogant. I notice that they often seem to bark at me but no one else. I don't know why, maybe because I limp nowadays and they are essentially cowards. But come to think of it, humans on a microcosm, or countries on a macrocosm, rarely pick fights that they are likely to lose. It that way we're all cowards.

Occasionally I see someone and notice them more than other people. Like there's one man, I first saw him in Nepal. I noticed him because he looks very much like a music teacher from my old school ten years ago. He was

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always alone, eating in restaurants but not reading, just looking around. He was alone in the street; alone in video restaurants.

About six months later I would see him living exactly the same life in Goa. Then he'd be back up Nepal.

There was someone else. He looked about sixty, but dressed poorly. He never goes to restaurants but I would see him everywhere, for years. He would just be either walking round the streets, sitting in the road, or eating in the sitting on the floor.

Who are these men? If they wrote down their conversation in a day, would they speak more or less than I (when they're not travelling)? Do they want to live like that? Are they lonely? Are they outsiders? Are their mothers still alive and does someone in the world love them? Am I going to become like that… or, if I can ask myself this, am I like that already?

Work was going very well for a time. I was reading a lot of Buddhist books and they were inspiring me. I had a mass of notes and I couldn't make order of them, but then I made them into a mind–map, it went so well; I started to think of turning the web–site (The Happiness Hike) into a non–fiction proposal. I also wrote as humorous piece for a new magazine ‘The American Novelist Monthly’, and the editor said she ‘loved it’.

I had been working myself up to give up smoking. I realised I couldn't, and in one of my ‘vow sessions’ at the Mandovi River I asked mentally for help. The next week I returned and suddenly decided, on the spot, to quit right then and there. I left my cigarettes and lighter in the toilet of the expensive hotel opposite and was done. It was March 3rd (2000).

I was very tired for about five days and managed top get through it, eventually I stopped craving. But I became dizzy, all the time I was dizzy. I felt like I couldn't keep my balance (but I was sober). One Day I was photographing the Church of Immaculate Conception in Panaji, somebody spoke to me and I turned to look at them and suddenly fell to my knees. Also, I stopped work and became very depressed, that blackness came on about three days after stopping (smaoking). I just felt completely miserable all the time. Nothing I did would bring me any happiness. I even stopped eating out. Wherever I was, whatever I was doing, I always had the same unhappy pain, so why bother going out or doing anything?

Eventually I had to pull myself together because it was time to go. I wanted to spend one night back in Colva before leaving to Delhi. I had been saving my entire web page to the hard drive on the computers. The man kept assuring me it would be instant to burn the CD. I went the night before leaving to do it, so I could pack it up and send it to UK and not have to mess about packing it in Delhi. He couldn't do it that night due to technical reasons. Next day, I made the box anyway and tried again. I was annoyed to find that his machine was broken. He even said dust had broken my CDR and would he could neither return nor refund it. I remember this awful man. There was a protruding growth on his forehead and he seemed perennially trapped in the negative, whenever there was a negative conversation, like someone was being told the computers were busy or the server was down or no smoking

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allowed inside or the air–con is broken, he would always join in; but when something nice was happening he was blind to it. We see what we want in this illusory world due to our focus, deleting the things in the world that we are blind to in our own mind, then distorting the truth to perceive what we ourselves perceive within ourselves. While we are like this the world is subjective. But what is my world… and what is the truth.

So the CDR wasn’t possible. I did manage to send a couple of parcels. I went over to Colva. The man who remembered me was still there. I had a letter from my friend in Japan. I'd had it about a month but put off reading it. When I first left her six years ago she wrote often and I couldn't wait, I'd stand and read them in the post office. But as the years slipped away I supposed I realised that would never happen to me again. Now, I think I can say that there's little that causes me more pain than those letters. What the hell is wrong with me? I put it of for so long, but if I didn't read it there I might never. Worse still, she had sent a photo of herself taken in Paris. It would be the first time I have seen her in all this time.

I procrastinated for hours. On the morning before I left I decided I would smoke my first cigarette as a rewards for getting through it. I took the envelope, went alone down to the beach. Opening the envelope, my hands were shaking. I took out the photograph out facing away from me, ripped it up and thrust it into the sand without looking at it. Then a woman came up and tried to sell me some bangles, I screamed at her to go and she scurried off. I took out the letter; it was about seven pages. I read it. As I finished each page I ripped it up and thrust it to be gone, away, in the hot darkness with the destroyed photograph.

She had left her job, traveled round Europe staying at friends houses that she met via her work. Was now looking for a temp. Job. She was impressed I'd learned HTNML, said it was just like me, was pleased with the site. Said we should do e–mail but she likes letters. In her last letter she had said, ‘keep writing’, I asked her if she meant keep writing as a writer, or keep writing letters to her, and she had meant to former, then signed it ‘Love Junko’.

I smoked the cigarette.

Then I went to the shop and smoked some more cigarettes.

I went home. I sat on the bed. My bag was packed. I cried. Drank whiskey, cried some more. I was overwhelmed with pain. The mad thing is it would hurt too if she stopped writing. I only have one friend and it's her. What is wrong with me? My heart hurt so much. I went over to the window and looked at the sky, weeping and begging for help as I was in such cutting torment, but I had been cheerless since I stopped smoking. I just kept crying and asking why I had to be sad every day.

I sat down and finished the bottle, then heard a sound I couldn’t place and went out to investigate – wearing only shorts.

It was raining; the monsoon was finally here. I stepped into the falling droplets and allowed them to soak me, to hell with joint–pain. She

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once told me that in Japanese, ‘Junko’ means moisture. My face had become dry finally, but then I allowed the droplets to run down my face once more.

I went to bed.

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Delhi Depression

Not so much happened in Delhi. I don't know if it was caused by smoking or what, but my depression deepened. For about ten days I lie in my windowless room all day, with the light off, just staring into the blackness. I even ate dry dhal so I wouldn't have to go out shopping.

I'm only left with one image of my time in the capital. I was walking to Connought place one morning and on the way I saw a human fetus on the path; I don't know if it was a miscarriage or an abortion. It was about fifteen centimeters long, complete, with around six centimeters of umbilical cord, yet no placenta. The sun had had dried it slightly. I mean, this kind of thing is probably common–place. I've been in South Asia so long that I barely notice anymore. If that happened in Europe I'd go to the police, they'd appeal for the poor mother in case she needed medical attention. In India, if I pointed it out to someone in the street they'd pass by, even the most compassionate person would only shrug, and the police wouldn't bother to write a report about it, believe me.

I procrastinated about where to go next, Nepal, Pakistan or Bangladesh. Eventually I decided on Bangladesh. I posted messages on the Internet, explaining my health problem and asking what the trains etc. are like, how easy it is to get into the berths. I generally got silly replies but decided: ‘to hell with it’ and made preparations to leave.

I made it to the embassy of Bangladesh. I had to fill in three identical forms and then waited for a long time. Eventually I was seen by someone who went through the form and then sent me to someone else. This man looked at every page of my passport and asked me a lot of questions about what I was doing in Asia, he seemed suspicious that I was dark (skinned) and kept asking what colour my parents are. In the middle of all this the first man I had seen brought someone else in. This poor unfortunate was a gentle looking Muslim of about 30, bearded in Islamic clothes (the very long shirts). This man was from somewhere in the middle east. The official spent ages looking at his passport, then said that because in the passport picture he was clean shaven, but now was bearded, he would have to go back to his own country to get a new passport with a more recent picture. The would–be traveler didn't argue and just left like a lamb. With this the official seemed satisfied with myself and said I could have the visa. Come back in a couple of days.

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I had my 29th birthday around this time, on May 6th. I had some leaflets from the tourist board and decided to go to a Lotus temple, a Buddhist Park, the art museum, Nizammudin's Tomb and the cinema. Early in the morning I went up for breakfast, but it was awful and I couldn't eat it. I went onto Connaught place and relaxed there for a while. I treated myself to some very strong pain–killers so I could think more about the things I was doing.

I went to the tourist board. They were helpful, gave me a map and pointed out all the things I wanted to see. I went out to the auto–taxis and got the right price straight up. I was on my way to the first stop, the tomb of Nizzamuddin. I don't recall exactly, but I think he was India's last monghul ruler. His barber weas buried there also, plus a woman whom no–one knows who she is. It was a nice, quiet place. I took some photos and sat thinking. There were a lot of Japanese people there and I started thinking about Junko. Something I realised then (I was reflective as it was my birthday) was that, really, I was in love with her before I ever knew here. Looking back on my life honestly, I realised I hated my early years so much, feeling such an outsider, I had become obsessed as a teenager, thinking that marrying an Asian woman would somehow validate my ethnicity and sort my life and thus happiness out. This obsession was founded copmpletely on pure illusion, on something that didn't ever or doesn't ever... and certainly won't ever – exist. My healing would be an inner–realisation of this.

I came out and started walking to the bookshop to look for a guide–book of Bangladesh. I walked, got lost, rode there. It was an expensive shopping area. I had to trapse ages to find a plain soda. Then I tried to get an auto–rickshaw to the next temple. They asked a silly price forcing me to walk away. By the time I got someone reasonable, it was borderline if I would miss the film, so I went straight to the cinema instead. I got there five minutes before it started.

The place was very modern. I decided to see ‘The Story of Us’. The seat was very cramped. I watched about twenty minutes if the film (which was boring) and then the pain started. There was a woman on my left, but thankfully the other seat was free so I could stretch a little. I had no drink to take more pain–killers and realised, sadly, that if that seat next to me had been occupied it would have been to much, forcing me to leave. Depressing, as I always loved the cinema, at one point it was the best thing I did each week. Yes, that's very sad.

I left, sat and had a soda. Time was getting on, I took the pills but it still hurt. I didn't want to go to the other places, plus the art museum was closed I realised. I went to another place, a gallery, and I'd made a mistake it was just a little shop. I bought a potato–burger that couldn't be eaten. Then went onto some more bookshops. From there I went to Gold Regency and had a couple of drinks.

I went onto Connaught Place to eat in an expensive restaurant. I was too late, I walked round searching but they were all to busy and noisy. I bought dry dhal. I didn't feel so bad. I've had birthdays were I did less. It's just a date isn't it? I remember my 21st birthday. It was a perfectly ordinary day

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other than I had one beer alone in a bar. No party, no friends, it's just the way I am. At least I didn't spend this one in England.

I did eventually get to the art gallery, it was the day In picked up my visa. I got there about two in the afternoon, but it was 5 rupees for South Asians, and like 600 for ‘foreigners’. I wouldn't p[ay it on the basis I'm South Asian (ethnic heritage), I know I'm South Asian because so many English people have snarled it at me, so I'm here in South Asia, and I ain't gonna pay no Caucasian fees. There was a sculpture garden round the back for free so I saw that instead. You could see why it was for free.

I went to the embassy. I was perhaps an hour early but paid the (fair) driver to wait. There were maybe six Indians outside the gate, and one foreigner. He was dressed in new–age clothes with his blond hair sticking up. He looked older than me (I think…no idea really as I don’t use morrors). Everyone stood in line, but he was sitting on the floor, the Indians stared and commented on him.

The doors opened and we all went it. It took ages but they called me in the back before the others. The foreigner thought they were calling to him, so we both ended up in the back room. I had paid 2400 but he paid just 1800, and he said to me that the price recently went up for certain nationalities. I got no receipt of my money so I don't know if they pass in onto Bangladesh? The foreigner (he was Dutch) asked if I wanted to share an auto but I already had one so I declined. Delhi to Calcutta, the first leg of the trip to Dhaka, was uneventful. Calcutta itself was also uneventful. However, the intensity of life soon exploded as soon as I began the trip to Bangladesh...

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Bangladesh, and Life Speeding Up

I was in Calcutta a few days but nothing really happened. I started smoking one cigarette a day. Eventually it was time to leave, on May 19th. I had breakfast and then walked away from the tourist area as the taxis are cheaper. The first few drivers didn't speak English, but eventually I was on my way to Sealdah, the stations for Northern bound trains.

The station itself was busy and chaotic. I bought the ticket and the three–hour journey would cost just fifteen rupees as there was only a second–class option, which was pretty worrying. I went over to the information board but it was in Bengali. Sweat dripped off me and everything was moist, dusty. I found a police assistance booth and they said platform 4A in an hour. A train came and I got on. I tried to confirm it but no one spoke English. Eventually a man seemed able to read my ticket, shook his head, so I got off. I went back to the police; there would be a train to the border at 4, not 4A, in another hour. The same thing happened. I asked a passenger, who said platform 9; I went there and found a ticket collector who said platform 5. I went back to the police and they sent me to an office, the office said platform 4, I went to 4 and there was another office who said 2. By now most people were saying 2 so I went there and sat down frustrated.

Eventually a train came in and I trudged towards it. As it came to a halt I noticed a scrawny blonde figure and recognised him from the Bangladeshi Embassy back in Delhi a couple of weeks ago. He was walking from window to window trying to communicate with people and seemed to be in the same position as myself. Usually I avoid all contact, but I needed to know that I was at least heading in the right direction.

I went over and introduced myself; he remembered me straight away and we boarded the train together. There weren't so many people about so we got to sit on a hard wooden bench. His name was Robin Bilderbeek, apparently 26 looking much older. He was dressed in new age clothes and again had all his hair sticking up. He was travelling light except for a guitar wrapped in a sleeping bag, which he said was an acoustic bass as he was a musician, living very near the Dutch border with Belgium. We talked about various things. He had been in India a year or two and planned to stay indefinitely. He attended ‘rainbow gatherings’, which are like new age groups that meet to camp and hold various growth workshops. They teach each other

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guitar and art etc. Wherever they assemble the locals come to gawk at the scantily clad foreigners.

He had met someone in Delhi who had just come back from a Buddhist monastery in Bangladesh. The monk had given her a maroon lungi and she had passed it onto Robin, now he wanted to go back and return it and she if it shocked the monk to get the lungi back – and if he could stay there and meditate a while.

The Indians around us seemed interested in his guitar, but he snapped whenever one of them touched it. Also, he seemed annoyed by their conversation as they would ask where he was from; at other times he seemed to attract attention deliberately, like once he started loudly singing, another time he gave a lesson on how to roll a cigarette. I think he was generally annoyed when someone would ask the same questions that people were asking him all the time, like his nationality and his job.

By the time we got to the border the train was very crowded but I found it bearable. The station was a quiet little place and we had to walk across the tracks to go. There was an old fashioned water–pump that he joined the Indians with to wash himself. Then he haggled for a banana and we walked out onto the road.

There were various rickshaws around to take us to the border; he wanted a peddle–cycle to do it cheaply. There was a crowd of around fifteen drivers joking, laughing around us, asking questions. We were reaching a price, which I dreaded as it would be so uncomfortable, but then a Bangladeshi approached us. He was about 20 and spoke perfect English; also he was dressed casually like a foreigner. He had been living in Ireland for years and just 30 hours ago had left Heathrow airport in London. He wanted us to share an Auto and we agreed.

On the trip there, Robin kept shouting, saying he wanted a Pepsi and where would we change money, it was a bit embarrassing at this point. We arrived and the man from Ireland paid the largest share of the fare. After he left, Robin and I went over to a restaurant, Got Pepsi and sat on the curb outside. It was very quiet. A crowd of around ten people gathered and just stared at us. They asked where he was from and he got annoyed. Lining the streets were nothing other than mostly deserted money–change stalls.

I went over to one alone, bought a pack of cigarettes and started smoking again, though I had on and off since the ‘stabbing my heart·letter’ on Colva beach. A man struck up conversation with me, local, and seemed nice enough. He was a moneychanger. Everyone had the same rate to change Indian rupees, 115, but Robin seemed obsessed with saving money and so I haggled a little and he came down.

We walked over and returned to Robin, and I watched the smile disappear off the moneychanger's face when he was immediately insulted by my new and irritated companion. We sat for a while longer. That moneychanger gave me quite a lot of useful information, but Robin sat in silence. Eventually we went over to his shop. Robin argued the rate endlessly. Eventually we got 119, but the man was annoyed by then and spoke through

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gritted teeth. Still, he invited us in so we sat in his chair while he sorted out the money, saying he would only make 20 rupees from the whole transaction. He was probably telling the truth. Indians rarely get upset or genuinely distressed, but I think he was. Robin made it worse by continually accusing him of being aggressive. Before we left the man asked to look at his palm. He studied it silently, let the wrist drop, shook his head, and then we walked away.

At the Indian side of the border we had to fill forms in. He wrote down ‘construction worker’ for occupation. He asked me if I was tired. I remember a lot of people had asked me that in the past m0nth. He explained that the skin was black under my eyes. As he said it I recalled all the people who have asked me that, whispered to their friends and turned to stare at me (I never look in mirrors). We were stamped out, then we noticed that we both had our Indian visas issued on the same day six months ago, our Bangladeshi visa issued on the same day, and now ewe were leaving on the same day.

There was no problem on the Bangladeshi side. They stamped us in OK but while we were waiting the official had some kind of argument with a local, which culminated in beating him with a stick.

There was a general strike that day. The busses to Jessore were off. A taxi wanted 500. We walked about looking but there were maybe twenty silent people following us. They all seemed to think it was all very funny. Eventually someone said 250. We got in and we went about 5 meters, me in the back, Robin in front. But then we stopped and the driver said 500. They shouted at each other (he spoke no English except for shouting ·00· for five minutes but then we were off without having reached agreement. For the while trip the man shouted at him in Bangla and Robin just stared out the window silently.

When we arrived the man wanted 500. We argued. In just moments there were 30 people around us. They were all on his side saying we would have to pay. In the end we just threw him 250 and walked away. We crossed the street to the bus stand. There were 2 wooden seats in the middle of nowhere. We sat down and a crowd gathered, honestly, there was 50 people, all talking and laughing in Bangla. No one spoke any English and we just sat there while they shouted and laughed at us. Eventually someone came and spoke English. He asked Robin where he was from but he was angry/irritated and replied the moon. They saw his guitar so I told them he was a movie star. They noticed my buttons on my shirt don't match and all thought it was funny. They kept pointing to my head and shouting ‘magnet, magnet’. I'm not sure what the joke was but as far as I could understand it, when someone starts to lose hair, the cure there is to shave what? left and put a magnet on top (the crown) – and it grows back. So that was all a great source of joy for them. In the midst of all this chaos I did find out that there was a general strike on that day, but a bus to Dhaka would run tonight, and possibly the train tomorrow. I didn't know what to do, he would want the cheapest but I wanted the most comfortable.

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We picked a restaurant from the guidebook and went there, all the way the crowd followed us and shouted ‘magnet, magnet’. We got lost but got our bearings from the moon, plus there was a rickshaw that followed us as part of the crowd giving us directions (but not a lift).

We ended up in Chung King restaurant. It was a dump: dark; tiny; deserted. The walls were decorated with random blobs of spray paint and it smelt like the faded and patchy maroon carpet was rotten. He liked it. Finally I had a cold drink and we ordered food, I found out then that we were both vegetarians. We talked deeply while we were there. His parents are divorced dance instructors. He had a girlfriend when he was young, but he used to ‘follow’ here, which I understood to mean that he was obsessed. So when it ended he went ‘crazy’ for a few years, plus traveled round places like Israel. He now had a girlfriend still at school that would visit him in Delhi in a couple of months. He didn't ‘follow’ this one but she followed him. He considered it a good match as he was an impractical dreamer whereas she was down–to–earth.

In Calcutta he had ‘connected’ to an Indian beggar woman that roamed round the tourist area. They had eaten together and he jested he wanted to go back and be with her.

I didn't so much talk about myself, but I talked about some of my ideas (ala the Happiness Hike) in relation to his mind and situation (same thing).

Our food arrived. It was pretty awful, but I was so hungry that I wolfed it down. He had vegetable rice, but there was very little vegetable in it. So little in fact that he stood with the plate under the awfully weak bulb in the centre of the room and made the trembling waiter pick put all the vegetable to make the point of how little there actually was. He did these kinds of things all the time.

We talked back up to where we had been dropped. There was a bus company going to Dhaka. We asked and it was five hours, three dollars. It looked too cramped plus he got the first seat, the only one with legroom. The people told me there would be trains running the next day so I told him I wouldn't do the bus. In the end I changed my mind, I don't know why. He swapped seats for me and we had to wait a while.

We sat and everyone stared at us. People also waiting asked him where was from and he shouted ‘The MOON' in annoyance. I made conversation with people; he started chanting an Islamic prayer that he had learnt at one of the rainbow gatherings.

We got on the bus. It wasn't so bad but there were two problems. One, the tire blew and took an hour to fix, the other was, ................ the driver was blind. There were three or four teenagers sitting next to him, they shouted when to go right, when left, over–take, pull–in quickly. I'm certain he couldn't see a damn thing. He would go long stretches without even looking forward.

We arrived in a bus park around 5:30am and found a stall to drink tea. Everybody stared at him, he started shouting, ‘What, I'm not so different

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to any of you!’ in a tired and frustrated manner. We decided to stay in the same area, though I wanted a nicer room than he would endure, so we left in a rickshaw.

We arrived in hotel Ramna, NorthSouth Road. They had one nice room and one dark, so he decided to stay and I would go up the street. We sat for a while and he kept asking the manager questions, he was about ten meters away, but Robin kind of shouted his queries in an unnecessarily loud/aggressive way. It's so hard to explain, but any local that he conversed with has, psychic/body language pointers that they picked up on and they knew intuitively that he hated them. He got such a look if distaste from the polite manager but never seemed to notice these things.

I went onto find a room, it was OK, I slept.

I returned to his room in the late afternoon and he checked my guidebook for somewhere to eat, a Thai restaurant. We went down to get a rickshaw. He argued the price for ages, though we had no idea how much it would be. Again there were around twenty people crowded round him; they didn't do it to me as I looked like them (ethnically). I went to the other–side of the rickshaw and the driver laughed when he realised he was symbolically trapped between us.

We got lost on the way there but a friendly policeman gave us directions. Arriving, it was obvious we had (he had) haggled too far and so tipped the driver, which renders the earlier shouting as totally meaningless. We entered the restaurant.

It was a shock, especially for him. Simply put, it was a top–class restaurant, five star, and couldn't have been more ornate. Chandeliers, music, oil paintings, all in perfect white and there he stood in rags, though I'm not much smarter myself.

I could sense he didn't like it but we sat down. The menu came and the prices were about 400 for each dish, as opposed to the average of 50 for a meal usually. He started asking the friendly waiter questions, how much do you get of this, is this enough for a meal, but as usual he shouted the words as though something was the waiter's fault and he was angry at him, I watched the smile slide off the victim? face. Before he went totally cold he told us that with most dishes, we could have a half and it would be enough for two.

Over (excellent) coffee we talked, extensively, about so many things. He spoke about a Mayan calendar he follows, with predictions that he learnt about at the rainbow meetings. He explained passionately about music and the band he plays with in Holland, and then was even more spirited when he told me about the CD he wanted to make, and the difference between analogue and digital recording. I opened up about my web page and writing and he seemed impressed with my ideas, which were sparked when I gave him a business card. He was saying how he feels when he connects with someone at a concert via the music, which I related to the e–mails I sometimes get via The Happiness Hike. A Thai lady working there looked at him (in distaste) and a few of the staff were standing staring at him by then, but he took that to mean

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she was interested in him (can you believe that?). He then revealed he wanted to practice sexual tantra with his girlfriend when she arrives.

He unexpectedly ordered dessert to shock the people staring at him condescendingly, that let me know that he does register people's reactions to him, he just doesn't care. I asked him what my worst fault was, he said that the first thing that came to his mind was that I am too trusting, when people are screwing me I just trust them, But then the thought about it and said I have a blockage in my throat charka, I don't open up and talk about myself ever. We called the bill, he offered to pay half but I had eaten most so I paid most. He planned to leave for the monastery down south the next day, he asked me to go with him and I said I'd think about it. As he went to the bathroom I wrote, Should I go with him? in my notebook. We left, he didn't tip so I dropped some in.

That night I fell asleep unsure about weather to go with him to the South. Next day I woke up very late and there wasn't really time to pack (or maybe that was my excuse). I walked over to his hotel. The man told me the wrong floor but eventually I made it. I went in and he asked me what my plans were, and I didn't answer. He showered and then he showed me his guitar, and played it: good. He joked about going back to the Calcutta to find the woman he met there. He had a map of India and showed me all the places he would take here on the motorbike. He would point to the name of a tiny village in the middle and say, if I took her there, they might never have seen a foreigner.

He said that something came to his mind. He'd been ranting about Muslims for ages, and he worried I was one as I was so dark, and now I would write about him and publish on the Internet. He talked more about the Aztec calendar and astrology. I took his birth details and promised to send him an interpretation of his chart. We returned to our respective hotels.

He said he wanted to shower so I went up to the roof top restaurant. The top two floors of the building were uncompleted, so it was only a room in a building–site. I sat and had vegetables. Eventually he came up and joined me. I had been chatting with the staff there, but as soon as he came in they went cold. He wanted to go in the kitchen and see what vegetables they had but he annoyed everybody. The room got full and we had to leave so we walked through the bare brick rooms and were about eight stories up. We sat and talked for a while, then we planned to go and see a nearby Buddhist structure. He said something like, why don't we go there, then eat and buy a ticket to Chittagong. It was then I told him that I wasn't going.

After that he asked to see my guidebook and started taking notes on his destination as he had assumed I would go with him, now he wouldn't have access to it. To save money he wanted the night bus at 10pm. I had arrived at his place about eight; we went up at nine. From eleven in the morning to nine at night, we sat on that deserted building–site of a roof. Occasionally I would walk round the circumference for a different view. Then I started writing, notes on what had occurred so far and he started chanting. The sun went down and the staff, whom didn't like us, had been periodically coming out to look at

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us in disbelief, now they sat and talked to him. He was actually polite this time, as he wanted advice about the bus. We ate again and went onto the bus station.

We traveled in a pedal–rickshaw, actually, I think it was the first time I had ever shared one, plus his guitar of course. We were mistakenly taken to a hotel, but then made it. He bought the ticket and we had about two hours until he left. We stood there with twenty people staring at us, then a man came and made conversation. Robin said, ‘The moon’– but he talked to me and recommended a restaurant across the road in the station. He led us there and said ‘I am an educated man and I could see your predicament’ For the whole of this time Robin hadn't noticed (I think) anything about my legs. It was just luck really, we kept sitting down, I was lucky with the bus seat, so I hadn't told him anything. I can only go up the stairs on one leg now, and when he saw that he looked at me funny; though he didn't say anything.

We went in the restaurant. It was so weird. Everything was maroon, the carpet, bulbs, chairs, tables and every wall had thick, closed dirty curtains that covered every window. It reminded me of a Victorian public house. We sat drinking coffee. A man came and joined us. He was on the same bus and Robin wasn't too rude to him. Then another man came. He looked about twenty–two, was smartly dressed, and good–looking except his ears stood out. He said he worked for the United Nations and was taking medicines to Chittagong as he was linked to the air force. He warned Robin that there were robberies on the buses and to take the train. He said the robbers drag the foreigner to the front of the bus and threaten to kill him if the passengers don't pay up. Robin asked him concerned questions but I was laughing. Then he said there are bus breakdowns and political terrorists attacking busses. He had every story to try and frighten him. He even said I myself would need a guide for Dhaka because I don't know the ways of Bangladesh, the violence. I thought the kid was absurd, but Robin seemed concerned. I said to Robin to just go anyway because we are protected with religious faith. The air–force man said he didn't believe in God since his mother died as a child and Allah hadn't answered his prayers.

The air–force man left and the other one came with us back to the bus station. He was saying something about a drink for Robin and I was concerned the two of them were working together and he was going to get drugged now, but Robin assured me that he trusts no one. We went to the office for a moment and someone led us to the bus.

It started raining so we stood under a little roof after a shopkeeper got grumpy when we dodged the rain under his tarpaulin. We stood talking until they started the engine. Walking to the door we hugged, promised to e–mail, he got on and I left.

It's strange to meet someone and travel on like that. I met an Israeli the first time I came to Delhi four years ago, but we just went straight to the hotel. Before that I actually traveled with a Scotsman, and that was six years ago. I'm not sure of my conclusion of the whole encounter, it's nice to connect

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as we agreed, but in a way I liked being alone again. For all his temper, I liked the old bastard. He's a gypsy like me, I think our paths will cross again.

I got an auto from the station. He got lost and ended up phoning my hotel from a little shop. He was out of sight but came back and said that the owner had used mobile and wanted 10 rupees. I laughed and declined. So he weren't in and the owner came out, but he wanted me to give the driver 10 rupees for using his phone, but admitted that they didn't know each other. I just said no and sat there for ages, but they gave up so quickly I'm sure it was a scam.

That's a thing about Bangladeshis, people completely unconnected will help people rip you off. Like opposite where I lived there was a place that sold pasties. I bought sweet ones, all the others had meat in and cost more. They worked out I was a vegetarian which is why I wouldn't but the expensive ones. So they pointed to one which they said was vegetarian. I said that they earlier had said that it was chicken – and they said no, Veg. I bought it and it was full of chicken. Another day I asked them where the Indian embassy was, they showed me on my map, then for no reason whatsoever, they told me the fare would be 100, though I didn't even ask them. I knew it would be less than 40, in the end I went for 30. In most countries ordinary people will help you when you're being cheated, Bangladeshis will push you into scams.

Monday came and so I went to the embassy. It was an office with about five foreigners outside, mostly other Asian people. The interviewer called us in erratically, not in order, but also some people would come and be able to interrupt. It took so long that the first day I only got the form, not to see him. While I was waiting a man asked to look at my Bangladeshi guidebook. He was about 50, dark, we got chatting. He was a retired from a university finance department in Canada, though originally a Bangladeshi. He had now returned home and was fixing up his ancestral home.

He went on for his visa and got it, he'd pick it up the same day. I asked him about Elephant Road as I planned to eat there. He invited me back to his sister's house where he was living at that time.

We walked a long way but then ended up in a very nice area. The building had a guard at the door and we went up to the third floor. We walked straight into the kitchen and I met his sister and brother in law, who spoke little English. They hardly said anything, though it didn't seem particularly unfriendly. The place was like a flat, with a boy–servant, mostly in pine with bronze statues, though it was dark due to a power–cut. I sat and watched BBC and she made me a meal, one of the dishes was mashed bananas with chili, I felt guilty as I was the only one who ate. We chatted a little on the sofa so we could have the light from the window on us.

Then we walked on, just the two of us, so I could see the ancestral home. It was nice; as soon as we walked in the men working on it were asleep and jumped up as they saw him. It was circular and the outside was pained dull mustard yellow. Inside it was much like the kind of rooms I myself would stay in. there was only a bed and seat due to the work going on. We started very briefly, I gave him a business card with my hotel phoneme and we

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agreed to meet up either the next day. He showed me to an auto, thank God he didn't argue like Robin, and I went home.

The next day he phoned me and asked me my plans. I was applying at the embassy again so he agreed to meet me there, he wished me good luck and I left. Finally I got in to see the interviewer, but it was very late. He looked at my passport, said I had only just left the country and they don't routinely issue visas like that, so I would have to see the cultural attaché. It was too late again so I went out to the reception and my Bangladeshi friend was waiting for me. We said we would eat but I needed money so we went to the bank. Then we walked and walked and walked because he wanted to buy imported goods for his friend in Calcutta like mayonnaise etc. The shop owner started talking to me and asked how he could work in England, then he started talking to my partner for ages about Canadian immigration. Finally we got out, then he had to buy a bus ticket. Lastly we got on a rickshaw and went to a restaurant owned by a German man, well, a man who had lived in Germany. I had the mashed bananas again.

After this place we had to walk very far because he wanted to drink tea at his friends place. We ended up in the business district and walking up yet more stairs to an office. His friend was a harried man with huge cheeks and constant interruptions. The office was small but seemed a comfortable place to work. He sold jute, there were jute products set up on the wall, like sandals, mats, cases etc. He was so busy he barely spoke, but they seemed to be discussing how to change money at the Indian border. Eventually it was time to leave. I had the feeling I was being shown off as his foreign friend like a trophy. Outside, he gave me vague directions on how to get home, promised to e–mail me, and our association was over.

Next day I was early at the Indian embassy. I went to the attaché. He was on the phone, an overweight, discontented looking man. He asked me what I wanted. I told him, he nodded and sent me back to the first man, without either looking at my passport or taking the phone away from his ear. I knew this meant I wouldn't get a visa because when you need a second visa, if you're given it they write something on the top, like 'pls. Issue 6 month and send you back. This man decided against me in an instant. I went back to the first man. He just said visa refused. I said, OK, ten days then, but he wouldn't even give a then day transit visa, and they are routine in any Indian embassy, even in the worst of all thew Indian embassies in Katmandu.

I went out to eat that night, and decided to go to Chittagong, there was another Indian embassy there I could apply again. On the way home I was limping quite severely due to pain. Some kids started laughing at me and shouted, ‘Look, a kangaroo’.

I left the next day. The train was full up so I booked a bus. A policeman said I looked tired as the skin was black under my eyes. I got on the bus. It was the same place, company and seat that Robin had taken. We went along but it started raining soon after leaving. The driver sped like mad, and every half–hour we would pass an accident. I enjoyed watching the ominous grey skies spilling into swelling rivers as we passed. It got dark and

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we were trapped in a huge traffic jam due to accidents. When we passed the tangled vehicle the whole bus started laughing and clapping as though it was funny. Then we broke down. The staff couldn't fix what was wrong but in the end a couple of the passengers tinkered and got us going again.

I got a rickshaw to the main part of town, it was about ten. Everywhere I asked was full, absolutely nothing. I ended up going to a rickshaw and asking to be taken to any hotel what so ever. He didn't understand, a crowd of maybe fifteen people gathered around me. Every time I asked for a hotel they asked for it's name. I kept saying ‘I don't know the name, I don't have one’ – which they took to mean I was lost. Eventually an English speaker came and it was translated. I got ripped off by him, then slept in a cockroach–infested room.

Next day I went out and looked around again. I ended up in Hotel Dream. The owner didn't believe I was a European nationality, so demanded my passport. When he saw it he was OK. He said I should take a lower floor but I said I'd be fine higher up. It wasn't much but it was very cheap. That evening one of the room staff sold me a bottle of whiskey, then he tried to sell me a woman, I'd checked into a brothel.

The embassy was closed for a couple of days. Eventually I made it up there. There was only one other foreigner, a Korean., The attaché saw me, was very friendly, asked why I limp and was I a Hari Khrishna as I don't have a moustache? He couldn't have been nicer, didn't even mention a transit visa and said there would be only one kind for me, a six month multiple entry, he even apologised that it wasn't free. I'd have to wait three days while they telexed London.

So I was trapped there. The whiskey was too dear, as the Internet, so all I could do was read and write in expensive restaurants all night. Some of the restaurants were lovely; I paid by VISA so that I wouldn't have to use the banks again. All the waiters always wanted to make conversation with me. I took notes for my next writing projects. I brought a Chinese umbrella when I got lost and was trapped in the rain for ages. It broke the day I got it. But that night I was meditating and I seemed to ‘get’ it, I entered a peaceful nothingness. I went to bed soon after but was suddenly awoken. I remember what happened. I was thinking generally and the thought came into my mind; if, when I first left England, I had brought a dog, it wouldn't just be an adult dog by now: it would be an old dog. Then, from absolutely no where I got a mental picture of how I could use a safety pin from my sewing kit to fix my umbrella. It was so unexpected and unusual I got up and tried it and, it worked perfectly.

Eventually the visa was ready. I went back and the man offered me tea. He said that he had been stationed in the embassy in Paris and had gone to London on a day trip. He was especially impressed with the cleanliness of the English Channel. After that he was stationed in Afghanistan. They are three–year posts, as you don't get any choice as to where you get to work.

I was so tired of Chittagong that I left the next day. In the morning I went over to look at the war cemetery. Then I sat in a restaurant for seven

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hours and wrote an essay, lastly to return and board the bus. This trip was fairly uneventful and I arrived back at the station where I had last seen Robin. For the buses I had to go onto where we had first arrived in Dhaka. I found the bus park, but I had little money and would arrive Friday night, so I wanted a cheap bus. At first they said there was only a 300 taka one in four hours. I argued for ages and it turned out there was a 120 taka one in ten minutes.

This one broke down in the first five minutes, also it was very uncomfortable, but I placated myself with the thought of being back in India. Again, it was the passengers who fixed it, the boy who worked on there was maybe eight, but he helped too. After a few hours we stopped and had to cross a river on a tiny boat. On the other side we got on another bus which was even more uncomfortable – but it went the whole way without breaking.

I arrived and went back to the Chinese restaurant. The boy remembered me and I ate a foo yung, I was again so hungry, but excited to be so close to the border. When the bill came there was a 20% service charge, which he removed without hesitation the moment I spotted it.

To get to the border was a one–hour bus ride, then I rode for ten minutes in a rickshaw. At the border itself I left Bangladesh and I remembered how Robin and I had entered it symbolically holding hands. Now I left alone and didn't care. At Indian Immigration I again had my details filled in a huge book that no one would ever look at and the man was thrilled that I had the business card of where I planned to stay that night.

When I went to get the actual stamp the man was toying with me, which was fine because people in immigration rarely smile for anything. When he saw my Pakistani stamp he made me say again and again that Kashmir is a part of India (but he was smiling, and hell, it probably is).

The moneychanger that Robin had insulted remembered me and didn't seem to bear any grudges, he seemed genuinely upset that I was unlikely to ever return. I got a rickshaw to the train station.

I sat and waited, worried if I'd get a seat or not. While I sat there some men sitting next to me suddenly shouted, got up and threw a stone at some crows, I couldn't work out why. Soon they returned and I realised there was an injured bat that they were torturing. They would grab it and throw it into the air. It squealed in pain each time and dragged itself along trying to get away from them. Each time it happened, someone would try and stop it. Some old Indian ladies with a little girl threw stuff at it, it was nice. Even here, people just don't like to see mindless violence, and can feel compassion for something that many would consider vermin. Eventually the poor animal was just lying there. I assumed it was dying. I visualised all the crows flying away. Soon a boy playing with a hoop obliviously started running up and down and so the birds did in fact go. As my visualisation had worked, I next imagined a green light surrounding it with healing energy. I imagined wisdom energy in its mind. I imagined it being well and happy, dying peacefully and being reborn as a Buddha. Then I forgot about it and worried how long I'd have to stand on the train.

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Suddenly, that bat just shot up into the sky, It was alive! It raced across the sky, the crows saw and were in hot pursuit – but it was alive and free. Goddam, that was shocking, and … I don't know.

The train came and I got a seat, no problem. The man next to me was dressed in while cloth with a huge necklace and was travelling with around ten companions. He had a little piano type thing that you have to pump wind into to use. He played it the whole journey – and sung at the top of his voice. He didn't do it for money; he just did it … because that's the way he passes time on trains. About half the carriage knew the songs and joined in, also at the top of their voices. We sped towards Calcutta.

It was good to be home.

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Calcutta

I arrived at the train station and made it back to the same hotel. The next day I went to the salvation army where Robin had stayed, but they showed me the register and he had already left. I checked my e–mail and he had written. He had applied for an Indian visa the day he arrived in Chittagong, then came back straight to Calcutta. In Chittagong I missed him by one day, In Calcutta by two days.

It had been three months since the US magazine, the American Novelist Monthly had asked me to write a piece for them. The editor always answered her mail so quickly, but when it was time to pay she suddenly disappeared. This happens so much to me I'm beginning to wonder if I amt some kind of curse no o is ever going to pay me.

I wanted to finally save all my web pages to a CD, I'd feel much safer that way. After some phoning around I started getting on with it. Also, I wrote a 5000 word piece of fiction The Romance of Ms. Nobody. Which I've been trying to get on paper as a novel for over a year. I thought if I did it as a short story I would maybe get into it more, but it's been awful, it just doesn't read very well. I also finished a new essay Quantum Happiness. It essentially contains the way my thinking/philosophy has gone in the last ten months. I'm much happier with this piece and am writing it as an outline, which shall probably become a non–fiction proposal.

The beggars in Calcutta are awful. They hang about shops and hang on to you as you leave. They wait outside restaurants and accuse you of eating too much. But round the tourist area they're all well dressed. The guidebook says they're professionals and tells you the street where they all eat. So I went there and they were all buying food and chocolates. One night IO was walking home and a kid came up and said he wanted to sell dope. I kept walking but he pushed himself into me closely so that our chests were touching. It was nauseating. He did this for maybe 100 meters until I pushed him away, and was horrified to find he was damp for some reason. He stood it the street screaming at me and shouting obscenities. Round the corner, exactly the same thing happened with another, cleaner, boy who said he wanted to sell women. It never happened again after that but it's still unnerving, they see me and call in the street. One of them is the Indian women that Robin met. I don't know what he was thinking of. Not all of them are fakes. There's an old man with a

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crutch, I've seen him sleeping outside my hotel. It's just hard to know what to do.

I got severe bad throat, had trouble swallowing, but that went away. I still get very dizzy spells, especially when I move suddenly. It's worrying as I've fell a couple of times now.

There's a restaurant in a street of Sudder called Oasis. There are few places to eat here so about three years ago, the first time I was here I tried it. It was terrible. They served me some Indian food that was so bad I honestly couldn't eat it. Then they stood right by my table staring to pressure me to give a tip, which I did. I didn't go again.

But now I return all these years later and there really are very few places you can sit and write at – so I gave it another try. It was exactly the same, though I could eat the food. However, I was so desperate to have somewhere to work I would go every now and again. Each time I went and they hovered, even for ten minutes right by my table, I would promise it was the last time.

Then I did have a last time. I went there and as I sat down my hourly chine went off so it was exactly 4:00pm. I ordered, rice, raita (yogurt) naan and channa masala. At 4:55pm. They brought rice and yogurt and said the rest was off. The yoghurt was curdles and warm, like it had been under a hot light. I had a few mouthfuls, maybe three, but it was inedible. I sat and worked, called the bill and paid the full amount. When he stood by my table waiting for the tip I just left. He grabbed a tray, got the salt shaker, vase, ashtray and slammed them down as hard as he could and threw them into a nearby cabinet, then stormed over to the door and stared at me until I had left. I promised again it would be the last time, but this time I have kept the promise.

I read a lot of Buddhism while I was here. One book was about compassion and mindfulness. I read it all the time. I was only hiring it. When I returned it the man said I'd have to pay extra because I got it dirty. I was all mindful and compassionate and coughed up – then went home and felt silly.

I realise that I spend an awful lot of time thinking about doctors. I mean, I imagine in my mind seeing them, sometimes I consult with them and I imagine they are friendly and we get on., other times I wind myself up by imagining fights with the, I've come to conclude that it's a spiritual lesson. I have this thing about trust and control. It's why I'm so scared of flying. If I was allowed to fly the plane myself I think I'd be OK. I couldn't trust someone with my fate or body and feel comfortable. And now this is a real hassle as I grew sick and disabled and didn't get help, or the help I received didn't help, possible because of my beliefs and ‘control issues’. As further evidence of my insanity: there are only three restaurants where one can eat here. I was in one of them when it was really busy. I had been going there daily for a couple of weeks. One day I sit there and the menu comes. Then it got so busy that some people had to join my table. I sat there with coffee sulking, when the waiter came I said I wasn't hungry. As soon as a table became free I'd freaked the waiter so much that they moved away the other people and I had the table tom myself. The waiter returned to take my order and I said I still wasn't hungry. I

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left and got a meal in another restaurant and the waiter from the first one was there and told the others I'd just come from his p[lace. Now there's only one place I can east here. I assume that you're human reading this, and are probably wondering what the hell I'm talking about. I should clarify; I'm describing the lengths I go to avoid human interaction.

I went to the Nepalese embassy thinking I'd go to Lumbini for a week to write the synopsis but the rules have changed and there's only a sixty day visa now for 30 US. I posted a question on a message board on the Internet. Two people confirmed that the rules would be the same at the border, everyone else flamed me, though I can't work out why. One called me a disgrace he other said… ‘This may be off topic, but do you get a lot of two headed dogs growling at you over toll–bridges.’ I love the Internet.

Yesterday I was in the only restaurant I can go to (weirdo) and a man came in saying his passport had been stolen and he needed credit. I think he was an Israeli. I noticed that all his arms were self–mutilated, but so deeply and viciously. There are others out there, but he seemed happy enough, bar his problems. Also yesterday, Robin (from Bangladesh) wrote to me and said he's up Lad with his Dutch girlfriend. She's come over for three weeks. I thought it was lovely that he wants to stay in touch.

That's all that happened in nearly two months here. I'm happy with the direction of the synopsis. M. wrote and said she doesn't know how long she can go on working. Anne is very sick and walks with a stick. I want to finish some work and sell it. I want to be self–sufficient. It feels like the clock is ticking, with my health, financial situation. I don't regret anything. I think lives are like arrows fired into the sky, and it's better to aim high and fall short (is that's what's happened?). I don't know. I don't know what's best.

I must get out of Calcutta.

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Calcutta – Delhi

I finally managed to get myself together enough to leave Calcutta. I was staying away from the main tourist place in an Islamic hotel, when I checked out I was shocked by two things. One, I'd stayed there 59 days, two, as alcohol was banned I had a fair number of bottles to dispose of. As they're all plastic PET bottles I spent a night cutting them up. Two months is really too long to spend in Calcutta, I got the feeling that they were suspicious of me. He gave me such a look when I was checking out – a bearded man in full Islamic garb. But as usual, after overcoming the apathy, it was good to be on the road again, I mean, it felt great.

My train ticket had two times on and a warning about new schedules. It was pointless trying to find out the time by phone. I tried the Internet but ended up at the station, nine hours early. I went back to the city and was paranoid thousands of Muslims would start chasing after me screaming about the infidel with the thousand whiskey bottles.

I'd been putting off writing to Junko as usual. I had never even answered the last mail that left me crying on a southern beach, and I didn't really this time, I just said I'd speak properly next time.

So I went to sit in the restaurant of three star hotel Lindsay. When night finally fell I went out and it started raining. I left plenty of time, but was standing for a couple of hours in various locations trying to get a taxi; there just weren't any. Maybe because it was raining. Now it was starting to get late and I became worried. Walking back towards the tourist area a tout, or whatever, saw my predicament and promised to get me one for sixty, double the rate. I said OK. He did get me one, but someone else pulled up and offered fifty, still far too much – I know as I'd done it fixed price. I went with the fifty but the tout wanted a tip. I didn't pay it and we drove off with him chasing after us and shouting.

Give an inch and they take a mile. The driver talked the whole way, about all the scams and greed and how hard and frustrating it must be for me. When we got there he demanded a tip, saying it was my duty. When I refused he said he'd accept it in cigarettes. I walked off.

Getting on the train was no problem. There was an updated board with the platform numbers on. But the carriage itself was weird. There were

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no wire loops under the seat for the bags, usually there are little signs, like telling you not to smoke etc. they were all removed. There were no handles to lift you to the bed. Everything was removed. Also, there was no staff on board, no one selling water or anything. It was just desolate. I lay down but my hip really hurt, I kept waking up in pain. Once, I lie there drowsily hurting and my eyes were closed. I saw a nail, clairvoyantly I mean, before me. A standard nail, like a tack that you drive into wood. It seemed to be freeing itself of something. The head was a picture. I can't explain it but I got the intuitive message that the things we use in our minds, the mental covers, to hide ourselves actually bond us.

I arrived in Varinessi. Walking down to Tourist Bungalow, the old Nepalese man was there and remembered me. He was going to try and get commission from my hotel, but then he remembered what happened the last time. He left me alone. Later on I saw Bihari, the driver I've known on and off for years.

I didn't stay there long, I wanted to go straight north. The only significant thing that happened at the time was some kind of demonstration at the Ganges. On the way to the main ghats there was a crowd with two dummies, human forms, with Hindi writing over them. There was much cheering as the dummies were lynched from a lamppost, then people screamed while replica guns shot the dummies. Then the whole thing became silly as people that didn't have replica guns started buying childrens' sci–fi laser guns and making whooshing noises as they pretended to zap the dummies. I've no idea who the dummies represented, but if those people are reading this, leave Varinessi.

So I checked out and went to the station. The night before enquiries had told me to be there one PM. I went to the right window but he said he didn't sell tickets. Go to enquiries. I went there and they said no train until 5. I went to tourist booking and there's a train at one. Back to the first counter and yes, there's a train at one but a ticket is purchased from a separate building and there's no time, I'd missed it. I went back to tourist booking. I sat at a desk before a man who sat counting money. He did so silently, without looking at me, for fifteen minutes, then said (still without looking at me) ‘Are you going to sit there or make a ticket?’ I asked about the day trains, but I couldn't understand. He could only book me a ticket for midnight, as it was advance booking only. Very expensive too but I had been traipsing all over platforms, I thought why not? I got it and went back to Garden Restaurant. Actually, I did a whole load of work that day, then I went to tourist bungalow and designed myself a logo representing my purpose in life, for letterheads and the web–site etc.

I was supposed to go to as special counter as I was on a wait–list. I did so but it was closed. Enquiries said there was nothing to be done. Well, I pressed him and he admitted the ticket collectors' room was on platform five. At last someone friendly, he confirmed my ticket for me.

The train arrived on time, I lost my ticket and found it. The guard was nice and said he'd wake me at five am. And I lay down. I quickly found

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that the bed was broken and made an inverted V shape, with its apex right under my hip, regardless of which side I lay on. I took a load of painkillers– maybe coming close to overdose, but it didn't help. I lie awake, the guard came at five and I was off.

I wanted tea and to sit down, but as before, there's absolutely no seat in the whole of Ghorakpur. I went to the taxis but they were awful, just wouldn't come down on the price at all. I checked in a hotel (Raj) that I'd stayed in a few times and I went to bed.

Ghorakpur is a place that people only pass through, no one stays so they don't go for repeat business there. Every single thing I did, every single transaction involved me being ripped off. I came very close to just leaving. I went to the station in two minds (the tourist board apparently opens when he feels like it) but there was no ticket back to Varinessi for three days, so I bought it and went out back to the taxis. This time it was easier and I got a ticket for a price in the ballpark.

On the way there it was nice to leave the city. I saw a woman walking along, maybe twenty–five. A boy she was holding was three. She fell badly into the road, actually over a water–tap. When she got up all the kid's face, lip and nose were grazed and bleeding. It started crying and she seemed ruffled. I was shocked when she started slapping the boy over the injuries on his face.

We arrived in Kushingar, where the Buddha died and was cremated. The driver didn't know the place so just dumped me, and asked for a tip. I started asking for directions at the government place. I ended up staying there. It was expensive, quiet, nice garden but the room smelt like urine; I wasn't unhappy though. I signed the register. The two names before mine were Japanese. One of them was called Junko Iseris.

I went out and realised it was a very small place indeed. There was hardly anything to buy, not even a bottle of water. There was a tourist information office. The man was sleeping. I waited for him to wake up and he pointed to his lips to indicate that he didn't speak English, gave me two leaflets. Then he made me sign the visitors' book, but he shouted when I got the date wrong, and wouldn't let me write any comments, only ditto beneath the VERY COOL at the top of the page. I saw the day before that Junko Iseri had had the same experience!

I went back to the hotel. In there I met a Sri Lankan superintendent. He tried to buy water but it was 35 (usually only 10). He told me his job was very dangerous.

I stayed there a day or so but it wasn't suitable for working. I went to see the mound marking the funeral pyre of the Buddha. It started raining and was a long way. I made it and there was a tour–group praying. Soon they left and I went round the mound myself. I prayed to be inspired for the book. I felt really peaceful. As I left a bus screeched round the corner with it's horn blaring – and I was back in the world.

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On the way back my legs were very painful indeed, probably because they had got wet, which always aggravates them. I arranged a taxi for the next day to return to Ghorakpur with the manager. I tried walking to the main stupa. It was terrible, the pain was so bad I made it about half the way but had to slowly limp home. It's sad as I was going to see the reclining Buddha, which is really the main thing there, but I didn't get to see it.

Next day it turns out the manager is taking my taxi too. We go to Ghorakpur. I suddenly realised about the illusionary I. I mean that our ego, sense of self, is actually contained in the thoughts themselves. I don't know why I got it in that taxi but that's what happened.

I also realised that I spend a lot of time thinking about doctors; either seeing friendly ones or taking revenge on bad ones. This is some kind of a deep issue in my life. Perhaps they symbolise my aloneness to me, or a fear of submission.

I was dropped off at the bank. I went there about four and two years ago with no problem. Suddenly they say they don't take visa anymore. I argued and they agreed to try and phone Varinessi for authorisation. I must admit that the man couldn't have been more sorry and helpful. I went down into the streets and had a lovely breakfast for just fifteen US cents. Then I saw an Andhra bank across the road. I went there and the manager said they used to do visa but all these banks are state owned and a central order went out that only selected branches could do visa now. I went back to the first branch (Baroda) and they hadn't been able to get through long–distance and so they couldn't do it. He wasn't lying though, he had the embosser out and all the papers ready.

I looked at a couple of hotels I didn't like, then walked back to the station. The raj hotel from before had tried to cheat me so I stayed in another place. I asked for a chair, but he thought I was saying acha (OK in Hindi), I got one. I spent my last twelve rupees on water but it wasn't sealed.

There was absolutely no moneychanger there. I had a ten–dollar bill worth 440, but the hotel offered 30, I got 38 in the end. I went out for a drink but they wanted four times the price. So I settled in. The room had a TV but only American WWF wrestling was on. Repulsive. I remember once when I was in Pakistan, I was in this tiny little restaurant and WWF was showing. All these bearded Muslims looked in horror at the screen and then glanced at me, like they expected me to jump up and start screaming. I don't think they understood it was all acting. WWF could be largely responsible for the world–rise increase in Islamic militancy. They watch this kind of thing in the Middle East and think all westerners really are like that.

I went to the toilet. On the outside of the window there was a firefly. It was flashing for a mate. I was impressed to see one closed up, and curious as there was a gecko (lizard) stalking it. Eventually, the gecko caught it. It took it a few moments to chew it all up, and it ate the light last. Right up until the light disappeared it was flashing intermittently, as though the dying gecko thought it still had a chance of living and attracting a mate. I think you can

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interpret life as you can dreams. I took it to be a lesson that desire can overtake us and devour us as sure as a lover's preying mantis.

I went and ate standing up at the station. I needed to sit down. I walked up on the concourse and saw that although nearly the whole place was packed, there was a bench on the last platform, twelve. I raced over to it and it was a disused line. There were a few people lying on the floor, Hindus in bright orange, but apart from that, no one had seen it! How can we be the only few when the whole place is packed? The benches were nearly all free. Wow, I couldn't even recall the last time I saw a free bench in India. I sat down and the buckle of my belt broke, snapped out of place and slid across the deserted floor, I've got to stop eating all this fat.

A woman was there with a baby, maybe six–month–old. It was grizzling and she tried to quiet it by laying it sown and hitting it (hard) in the face. I sat and meditated, then remember I had super–glue and fixed my belt.

The train came OK. My bed was 46, the very last. Three was a shortage of bedding so I spent an hour watching the frantic scramble and raised voices, so close as I had an upper berth.

I check back in the tourist bungalow and decide to write the proposal there. I ask Bihari to get me a drink so I don't get cheated, but he tried to cheat me himself (after introducing me to his son and saying I'm an uncle).

Going along I saw an adult cow but it's legs were only a 50 centimeters long, like a dwarf, weird.

I couldn't use Bihari to buy myself a whiskey, but I need at last a little or I keep waking up every half–hour at night in pain. I went to the shop myself. I explained to the man I knew the price was 170 and could I have it without arguing. He didn't speak much English but took a 500 note, gave me a bottle, and returned 50, saying it was 450. They wouldn't give me it back. I was livid and even thought about throwing the bottle at them. I got the cash back and started arguing. It was awful. They said OK, 400. I refused to leave and they just stood there trying to get me to leave by staring at me. I kept me nerve and stayed. Some kids came up and they provoked them to mock me by saying I was insane. When I wouldn't leave they got angry. He came out and I thought he was going to hit me. Someone drew up on a motorbike and he argued for me. He said that the price would be 180 if I buy two. As soon as he had driven off the man returned to his shop and denied ever saying it was 180.

I was there maybe an hour and a half. In the end I got it for 190.

I felt there was strain between Bihari and I. It didn't help when I put my foot on him accidentally. Often, when drivers ask for extra money, they point out that the Japanese always pay whatever is asked. I think it's a big disadvantage to come from such a trusting country. It's well known amongst travelers that con–people always go for the Japanese first.

I was reading a lot of meditation books. As the rickshaws were such hassle I started walking to and from the ghats, meditating while I did so. It went really well but I kept seeing drivers I know and they insisted on picking me up. One day I bumped into the man from Cushy restaurant, who

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remembers me from the first and each ensuing time I've ever been there. Well, I didn't actually bump into him. I passed him in a speeding rickshaw and turned to see him shouting and racing after us. Everyone in India is a character; I think it's because mothers never discipline their children so they never learn to censure themselves or their behavior, it's both annoying and lovely. It's the reason nothing in the country works and why the country is so fascinating.

I had to go back to the beer wine shop one. The man ignored me for ages, then started shouting go, then did a ritual before a Kali shrine, threw oil over the picture, then dead flowers from the shrine over me. Presumably he was cursing me. I stood my ground and got a drink.

One day in the bank a Dutchman came in and asked me what counter one was for. I asked him if he wanted to use a visa card but he just stared at me. Weird. Then he went to the counter and asked them to split a 500 note. They did. He produced another. They did it again. Then I looked and he was holding a number of notes under the counter, changing them one by one to see how long it would take them to get annoyed. Finally they got tired of him and refused. He then laughed at them and talked to me, the usual, where you from etc. Every time I replied he kept saying, yeah, yeah, yeah, constantly. I soon ‘got’ him as it were. He's a man that goes to an Asian country, then acts in a way to provoke situations where he can feel superior. I think I should have been a doctor. It wouldn't matter if he was fifteen, but he looked about fifty.

On the way home I passed a shoe shop with the sign: ‘Don't' expect a guarantee in today's fashion era.’ Then I passed another girl beating the hell out a younger brother.

Finally it was time to go to Delhi. I'd done maybe a third of the proposal, but I was missing the computers. I got the train time wrong so sat about a lot. Bihari was there when I left and he said goodbye.

I found and boarded the train without difficulty. It was properly equipped and very nice. An Indian man joined me and it soon turned into complete hell. He was a bore. He said he worked for jet airways and Indian History was his hobby. So he gave me the entire history of India. I stopped looking at him but was desperate to read my book, Sattipatana Sutta, I even thought of just asking him to go. Next he started talking about journalism. In THREE HOURS all he basically said was, journalists write about facts, fiction writers write with their hearts. So, great, now we know. Eventually he asked if I shave my head every day. I said yes and he asked to look. I took of my cap and he laughed. Mt cap was full of salt, as I'd sweated so much. I tried to wipe it off but there was too much. Then I was saved, he said ‘Go to the sink and wash it’. THANK YOU UNIVERSE!!!! I jumped up, completely agreed with his fabulous idea, and raced to the toilet. I stayed there until bedtime. Oh, I shouldn't get angry. He wants to make friends with people and possibly hides nervousness by talking. But, well if I had a trait like that I hope I'd be wise enough to see it and try and help myself.

In Delhi, everyone remembered me. The three people in gold regency, about six or seven people in Leema restaurant, three or four in

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Ganesh restaurant, the man from the book–shop, three or four shop owners. Hell, it was like coming home or something.

And then something lovely happened. I received an e–mail from someone who liked The Happiness Hike. It was beautifully written. The loveliest compliment I've ever received. Perhaps, in the light of my plans for Delhi, it was as a sign.

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Delhi, A Big Circle All Around, Then back to Delhi

I received a sad e–mail too. Someone wrote asking me if they could send me a manuscript for their novel as they had placed it at a publisher who had asked them for a large amount of money to publish it, and then they lost their job. They obviously saw my site The New Writers Network and assumed that I had a load of contacts and could help them. I had to write back and say I was every bit the struggling writer. Their reply was that their mother would help them, which is sad as it was obviously someone young.

My card was refused at the bank on two separate occasions, with a message to contact the bank. I had to phone England on a number that wasn't free each time. There were various recorded messages to get through with the phone cutting out when I tried to follow the instructions. Eventually I got through to an awful patronizing woman who said that ‘We're not a bank and you can't keep paying money in and not drawing it out'. This is absolute rubbish as I've been doing that for ten years, she tried to say that you can't do this in India then. This is also rubbish as I've done that for four years. I returned to the bank and it was OK the next day. There was over a thousand dollars there, or so she told me. The first time it happened they said the same and that there shouldn't be any problem.

It was OK for about three weeks and then it happened again. I asked the woman if I could have the print out refusing the money as the bank didn't believe that this was happening to me. She said come back tomorrow, get the money and I'll give you a photocopy.

Next day I returned. The bank was open but they weren't paying any money out as it was a half–yearly stock–take or something. I pointed out that I had come today because she had told me to return to take the money. Her reply was that this stock–take was only decided on in the morning. I asked for the printout and she gave me the original as she claimed to have taken the photocopy elsewhere. On the way home I saw that every bank in India had signs up saying they were closed for the same reason. And if this nation–wide closure could have been decided in the morning!

I wrote a huge, bitchy letter of complaint... (to the credit card company) then wrote a more polite one–page one. It was replied to promptly,

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saying that now whenever money was paid in that the account would freeze for four days for security reasons – but they apologised and gave me five pounds in compensation.

__________________________________________________________

I'm writing this much later than the above, about ten months after I was there actually. I really let the diary slip lately. But now I am trapped in Delhi waiting for my post, so I have some spare time to finish it. Anyway, all that time back, I mamanged to get myself sorted out to go up to Shimla, but then there was a problem on the train.

I'd been on a train about five hours and so went to smoke a cigarette at the end. While I did we pulled into a platform and I noticed a soldier was staring at me with a look of pure hatred, like he wanted to kill me or something. Well, as he was carrying a machine gun I wasn't too confident. He just wouldn't take his eyes off me.

As we pulled out the station he ran along–side and jumped on. He stood in silence staring at me. I finished smoking and turned to enter the toilet and he grabbed my arm and pulled my back, shouting that ‘You smell!’ He kept shouting it, and it turned out he was saying my cigarette smelt like dope. He shouted ‘you know hashish! you know hashish!’.

Well, I wasn't smoking that my dear, and told him so. Supposedly he had thought he smelt this twenty meters away where he first spotted me. Anyway, he completely body–searched me there on the moving train. He kept looking me up and down, so aggressively.

He found nothing, but this wasn't enough. He wanted to see my bag. So he came back to my seat and emptied the entire contents of my bag all over the seat. There was no one else around as he opened all my clothes, broke open a couple of cigarettes to see what was in them, even took the tops off my pens!

This wasn't enough either, he informed me that 'because you smell so bad' we'd have to go to a police station to be searched properly.

So the train was going along and I started thinking. He had obviously singled me out, plus emptied my money–belt so he knew how much travellers' cheques I had. What if he has PLANTED something so he can later FIND it at the police station, and then ask for a TIP to avoid a ten year jail sentence.

I had already re–packed my bag but suddenly started going through it looking for some planted dope. He came over and asked what I was doing? I said 'Did you plant something?' He said no. But then he grabbed my hand and pulled it up and pointed out that it was trembling, and according to him, trembling in such situations is an indication of guilt.

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Believe this. An hour later with him staring at me the whole way, I got off the train, he gave me directions of how to get to my destination – and just walked away. It was over!!!!

What a shocker though. I mean, I know there's a lot of drugs in Himachal Pradesh, but this is just being rude. Anyway, apart from this I did love Shimla, one of the nicest places I ever saw in India. Very relaxing and I got a whole load of work done.

I made it up to Shimla. I found a hotel, now remember this was the same day that I had this awful search done. When I checked in, the Muslim owners were absolutely paranoid about the paperwork, saying I must fill in a C–form (foreigner registration). Well, fair enough, sometimes people can be a bit pedantic with the paperwork. However, when I told them I might stay a fortnight, they were absolutely paranoid, saying that the police would definitely be suspicious about that. I had to say seven days on the form, and then I could fill in a new one seven days later.

But Shimla itself was lovely, it reminded me of Perth a lot. Lots of little boutiques. I went shopping and did really well. I remember praying for new clothes in Delhi and then had just handed the problem over, the problem being I was near enough dressed in rags. Also, I ended up working in a place called Park Cafe after the government restaurant smelt like urine and the waiters completely ignored me. Park cafe was lovely, I can't say what it was about it exactly, but it was lovely. I read the book Veronica decides to Die, and loved it, though I couldn't dig any of his other stuff. I near enough finished the book proposal Quantun Happiness. There was this forty year old half Chinese DJ there with a teenager. He had left for Korea to meet up with a friend a couple of years ago. His friend didn't turn up but the DJ never made it home.

It was a lovely routine there. I started speaking Hindi to people buying fruit every day. There was a good TV in the room. One day the man came to the door asking how much longer I would be there. Next day I went to fill in another C–form and I understood enough to understand he was telling his friend that he made up this lie about the tour group because he was worried about the police.

What the hell is in with this place?

The train down was OK. There were these really English people who were terribly impressed with everything. I was as down as I thought I would be returning to Delhi from a place I enjoyed so much. I eventually got into typing up Quantum happiness. I saw the Chinese DJ again and he said hello, plus I did a fair amount of shopping again, scared of the coming Indian winter after my hellish experience the previous year.

Robin wrote about then to say he was living in a Pune ashram and had got an extension because of it. I bough a book about Delhi for Junko. It was an awful day, I remember it. my leg really hurt and the sky was black.

I managed to finish the proposal. |Although \I had felt inspired in the mountains, I knew it wasn't really up to much. |I printed out and submitted

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three. They were all rejected in the end, although I presume thy were, although |I asked often, my family never mentioned anything. I went to get a ticket. Before me was a bulk–booking so the man told me to go and check my train number, although he never asked me to before. When |I did I suddenly realised I could go straight to Ghorakpur on the train and not have to bother with Varinessi.

The closer the time came to leave, the more scared |I became, mainly of the hassle of the trip. I was worried about the buses. My legs just can't take it. I was vomiting each morning with fear and felt immense yearnings to be with J. It's silly I know but I just couldn't help it.

Leaving time came. I had a stack of books In was leaving in the room, all the writing. |I wanted to photograph them but something went wrong with the camera and I was loath to just leave all that work, even though it was all transferred to the computer by then. I suppose I just want some record for posterity that I do actually work. This was my last push. I had promised myself I would finish a book proposal before Christmas, which I had done, and a novel before my birthday (30th) which I was about to do.

I left Delhi, to Ghorakput. I was on a train with this awful Indian family from Singapore. they kept asking me if I was an Indian and I kept denying it. When I went to the toilet I knocked their blankets and bedding into their thalis! (accidentally). I felt guilty watching them sleeping all night covered in the evenings meal.

Ghorakpur is much better when you can speak a little Hindi. I got a taxi OK, and was only messed about a little bit by the touts. At the border the worst type of Indian bureaucrat said |I had over–stayed one day (I hadn't). They were trying to wind me up, saying I would have to know the name of the entry town in Bangladesh. I didn't fall for it and stayed calm. When an American lost his temper they lost interest in me and started winding him up.

I was trapped in Sunauli a few days while I tried to work out what to do. The buses looked awful. In the end I managed to get a deal to see Lumbinbi and then go onto Pokhara for 5000nr. I left in a lovely green Martui van, though on the way to Lumbinbi I realised this was the last of the Buddhist sites |I was going to see. There was awful music in the van, people singing of sadness and broken hearts.

We got there. There was this questionnaire you had to fill out. It asked how much you earn, how much are you prepared to pay to go in. How much did you spend getting there. Horrible. For purpose of visit I put religious, and they crossed it out and made me put tourist.

The place itself was nothing, just a little pottery figure. I stood before it and prayed. A Nepali school teacher led a classroom of children the wrong way around it then they all stood gawking at everything. I left. It was definitely the worst of the Buddhist sites.

We had been driving on less than a few minutes when the van struck a goat and killed it. I was left with a strange feeling for the whole of the trip.

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We arrived and wanted a tip, although it was agreed that this was included. I went to Boomerang. I was cold and I felt depressed. I hadn't been to Pokhara for years, before I got sick. Now there were places up stairs that I wouldn't be able to go to any more. I walked around and checked in Hotel |Singapore. The boy said it was 250 a single, then when we went up said it was 300 as there was no single left. |It was a scam, all the rooms were exactly the same, so I checked out after three days. they were really rude any way.

I packed my bag and went. A Tibetan woman shouted and leered at me in the street, though I don't know why. I went and sat in Boomerang again, then checked in Hotel Greenland for 250. I asked him if it would be dim as the lights looked weak, but he said no.

I wanted to stay in Pokhara all that time because Saturn was returning to its natal position for months and I expected to have a hard time, though it wasn't bad at all. When Saturn was written about it old literature, the astronomers would always comment on it's depressing yellow glow, and this was like me room. Some people of nineteen checked in above me and would have unbelievably loud and screaming sex. Do older people make that noise? Is it less fun when you're older? I think people read to many magazines and have this idea of how it is for everyone else and try and fulfill this.

I couldn't start writing, and I needed to finish a novel by my birthday. I took to meditating in the day in restaurants as well as at night. One day I was practicing clairvoyance in Fewas Park restaurant. I saw an image of circles, which turned into the Buddhist wheel of |Life. Right then there were some people speaking in German. In the middle of this someone said in English

Everyone knows they're going to die, but no one believes it.

... and I suddenly had the idea to write about someone who has already died, based on the Buddhist wheel of life.

I woke one morning with a weird dream that there was something wrong with my heart and |I should take fish oil. then I dreamt about a novel scene, well, I actually dreamt a novel scene. then I had an awful dream about J. It left me depressed for days. I was planning to write weekly about the mind, meditation, and I had a dream saying she was occupied. Christmas was coming and this reoccurring throat lump sensation had returned. I needed to phone Anne and kept putting it off. One day I did and next day had a dream that it would go because I had faced up to that. And when I moved my neck, it had indeed gone.

The king had his birthday on December 29th and there was supposed to be a street party, but it rained awfully and so that was cancelled.

New years eve I went out but the noise was awful, people really wanted to party the end of 2000. I was in Mamma Mia restaurant. The chair in my room had left indents on the carpet and |I was worrying what the owner hari, would say about it. While I sat there the image of him hitting me popped into my kind and made me burst out laughing because he is such an effeminate man. I think it was because of my daily practice meditating that I was beginning to recognise my thoughts on a moment to moment basis.

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I hated it and so bought a can of beans and went home. I made a shrine, put my sutras up on the wall. It was lovely and had real atmosphere. I read the sutras and then meditated as I heard people counting down to 2001.

My family phoned soon after, it must have been the Saturn transit but there was absolutely no news, just awkward silences, and Geoff said he wanted to phone. I said wait until the transit passes.

Overall, it was an absolutely beautiful time. I meditated nearly every second of the day. I would walk to the restaurant watching my breath, aware of the flowers and bird song, and the feelings, good and bad, in my mind. Obviously there were off days, but mostly it was paradise. Funny as the last time I was there I was in perfect health and went on a downer. One day I was meditating at night and things around me kept rustling and making noises, then I felt a finger jab into my head so hard I recoiled. I opened my eyes and looked in panic – but there was no one there.

I finished everything but the last chapter. I had been worrying so much about the trip to Kathmandu and it was silly as it was the easiest bus ride of my life. I arrived and the man from the shop remembered me but for some reason, was convinced I had a son and kept asking after him. I checked in a place called Maryland.

There was quite a few new places about there. One that sticks in mind is Himalayan Cafe – not because of anything in particular other than they had no carpet but a hoover with nozzle attachment, which they had brought for the express purpose of hoovering up flies from the windows while they were still alive and hovering about. I would have laughed but the idea worked perfectly.

Of course, now I had the problem of where to go, with four Indian visas in my passport there was no way they would give me a visa again., I went around the travel agents. they all said they could go it, even get a five ort ten year one – but it was so expensive.

Something went wrong with M's e–mail machine, and so we were really out of contact for six months.

I tried some experimenting and finally found a way to stretch watercolor paper. I remember trying this even when |I was ten, so it took some time. I'm really looking forward to painting, but of course I have to get paints and everything.

Things soon turned sour at the room in Maryland. There was a nearby disco that stopped at 2am. Plus the window was so dark, it allowed in no light what–so–ever. Also, one of the men was a total idiot. He would stand and take the piss out of me every time I went past, like I'm deaf or something and wouldn't hear. One day I came home and they had come in the room, ostensible because there was something wrong with the plumbing, but they had been through all my stuff, touched my shrine and polished the Buddha. I checked out very soon after that, actually May 5th.

I went back to BJ's at hotel California. He was really friendly. I left my bag there and went up to Nagarkot for my birthday. I had a taxi. I nearly killed myself walking all around but ended up checking in at the Hotel at the

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end of the universe. But they were playing music loudly and the waiters were rude, so I left and walked about, just as I was about to drop I went to another place, half the cost and twice the size and really very nice indeed. I collapsed on the bed and would have been happy just sleeping but I forced myself up for the last day of my twenties.

I went and ate something non–descript in the hotel restaurant. I had a shared balcony, though there was no other guest so I just looked out over the mountains in the moonlight. the waiter came and say with me. He said he earns twenty US a month which he gives to his mother. Then he said |I look 40 after I told him it was my birthday.

Next door there was a large gothic hotel and there was a Chinese group in. They had a birthday there too and sang happy birthday, but then got really rowdy. I think they were singing about their tips. They sang about Bodhgaya, then chanted three cheers for Kalka, which is on the way to Shimla. It would have been awful, but every one has to get up at 5am in Nagarkot to see the sun rise, so they went to sleep about ten.

Come midnight, there was a thunderstorm. I watched the mountains flash in and out of brilliant view and then my hourly chine went – I was thirty.

Next day the water was off. It was fixed and I went to the place recommended in the guidebook and ate breakfast, but it was awful, expensive and hot and empty. I walked back down and found a lovely terrace, cheap and with stunning views. A Nepali man turned up with his Japanese girlfriend. So many people learn Japanese to meet women. I always cringe. I suppose because I have to acknowledge deep down that they are so obliging that they rarely say no to anyone – and did I push myself onto J? It's a horrible thought.

Yet I did completely write and finish an article Living Abundance, which I later submitted to magical blend magazine in the US – and never heard from then again.

Next day I checked out and went on the tourist bus down. I couldn't move my legs at all. the pain got worse and worse, then seemed to reach a crescendo and just disappeared. We got there, went to sit in Alices restaurant and later went to hotel California.

I gave me phone number in an e–mail in case someone wanted to call. One evening I was IN THE ROOM and There was a knock at the door. They had brought up the walkphone. It was Anne! I told her the work I was doing was the best I have ever done, and she said, well I hope so for your sake'! Well maybe that was a bit of a slip. A few days later they arranged a call. There was the usual news, but I had been asking about letters Forman Japan. I missed my post in Delhi and so it's been a year and a half, i,e, three letters since I read anything, though she has been faithfully sending them, or is that a dutiful Japanese thing – I dunno. Anyway, it turns out, that since the seven years since I knew her, this was the first year that I didn't hear from her, she didn't write. I went on downer for days. I've analyzed this whole thing, every single second that I knew her, with every single possible speculation about every single possibility, it's painful to even recall her nowadays – what

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the hell ever happened to me. Here in Delhi as I write this I am waiting for her post that I haven't read, and it's draining me.

It came time to leave and |I was ready for it; I hate cities nowadays. I found a couple of paper–mache cats that J. might like and returned on the same Sunny bus. We passed so many crashes again, Nepalese roads are a death trap. At one point the old weirdness came out. I have so little contact with people I often forget just how weird I am. We stopped at a place to eat and I sat there with my coffee. Then three people smile at me and joined me, westerners. I picked up my cup and left without a word, went and sat behind the building. I hated myself, but I just don't like conversation.

We got there and I went looking for a hotel. I ended up staying in Kiwi, I was back in Pokhara. it was lovely. I fell asleep one night praying about J. and had a dream that reassured me that she would write again. I started asking travel agents about a taxi to the border and I asked people on the internet. One of them gave me the idea of going via Chitwan national park, and I found out that there's a tourist bus there.

The cybercafe owner invited me to join the cybercafe and I said OK. I paid for 500 hours as it was a million times cheaper that way. As soon as I'd given him the money he told me I had two days to use all the time as there was a three day general STRIKE coming where everything would closed, even taxis!

So I took the bus down. I had to fight for my allotted s4eat, but it was a lovely trip. In stopped at a place where my parents had waited when they went to Pokhara by themselves. the bus was delayed but we made it down. You have to cross a bridge to get there and then the jeeps refused to take me to the hotels. I walked all the way and checked in a place with a lovely garden where they weren't friendly.

I went out to eat that night. there was a woman from Taiwan talking about how hard her father had had it in his early life. the owner of the restaurant warned me that absolutely nothing would be open during the strike. I bought lots of water and went home.

He was right, it became a ghost town. I ate at the hotel once but hated them. there was a Indian family with a kid with severe problems. he would hide under the table for hours screaming. I found another place open. River something, the last place on the road. He stayed open, the next day I went back and he told me the Maoists had –honed and threatened them.

There was a man from Ireland, about fifty. He was pottery teacher, teaching kids for ten pounds a term. Very friendly. He'd popped down to the Indian border expecting to be allowed through, not knowing you need a visa. Then he wanted to buy a dug–out top drift down the Ganges to get a feel of it. He was friendly enough.

This same place arranged me a taxi to the border which went completely without trouble, he was even a good driver, three hours exactly. I crossed the border the day my visa expired, then was harassed by Nepali immigration as they thought I might be working there. I found the same tout

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who had arranged my taxi to Pokhara, and he got me an expensive car to Ghorakpur. I checked in the same place and the room boy told the owner in Hindi I was a bad man.

I went to buy a ticket. the foreigners in front of me wanted a ticket to Delhi and the waiting list was over 200. My plan was to beg. But then it was lunchtime, so I stood there queuing for the lunch hour, and someone else came on duty. I asked for exactly the same train and got it straight up, from the tourist quota. All the Indians in the queue were annoyed and frustrated, everyone was pushing and shoving, you have to push your requisition slip right in the clerks face or you won't get served. If the clerk insisted in queuing then they would have to, the whole problem, hated by Indians as well as videshi, is due to Indian peoples[;' good natures, someone pushes in and they accept it.

The train was no problem. I arrived here and checked into Vivek. It was a lovely room, and so cheap. But come night time, the water was off, same problem as three years ago, and it was so hot I checked out to the same place as usual. hare Krishna. That was OK but I had a room low down. On the roof one night I saw an empty room so I went and asked the night man, who is Chinese. He said it wouldn't be empty until 8am. there was someone in there, well rubbish as I had just looked around in there.

Well I waited up, and he kept saying 8am. 8am. Then he said 11am./ and pretended to phone the room. He turned to a man and started laughing about it in Hindi and I lost my temper. I tried to check out and said I wouldn't pay and it turned into us grappling at the door.

The usual man arrived who's known me for years and everything turned friendly. he seemed upset and said |I didn't have to pay if I didn't want to. I paid anyway, but left too. I moved to hare rama, same owners but different staff. TV and fridge for just forty more.

And here I am now, typing this inn Gold regency and waiting for my credit d–0card, which was scent fifteen days ago and might have gone misusing. I had to cancel my ticket to Dharamsala, but as soon as my post comes – I'm off! Cities just don't suit me any more.

UPDATE The letter is lost. I have explained everything in a message I've

posted to a message board:

How do you trace a lost letter in Delhi, a registered one? I've had fun and games doing it my way — I though someone else might have a better way, especially as it contains something extremely valuable, irreplaceable. Anyway, I know alot of you are sadistic so I'll share my pain with you so far.

My brother knew I needed this post sending, asked where I was going and I said send it now to New Delhi GPO and I'll collect it on the way to Dharamsala. Yep, OK.

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I arrived, bought a ticket to Pantankot and went to the GPO every day. It never came after three weeks. The man there told me letters take only three or four days, via Bombay, ten is the most he ever heard. Go and check old Delhi in case it went there.

I did this and it wasn't there.

OK, next day he said get the reference number off the letter and make an enquiry.

I e–mail my brother, he sends it, I go back.

No, he says, you don't make an enquiry here, you go to the nearby speed–post office. I go there. I fill in a form. I wait all day. then a lady tells me the reference code means it's a registered letter, not speed–post, go back to the GPO.

I return. No he said, it's definitely the speedpost office, as the registered letters are received there, but at the first floor.

I go back and see the same woman. I say the GPO told me that registered letters are received on the first floor of this building. Indeed they are she says. So why did you send me back to the GPO? She just looked at me.

I went to the first floor. I get moved around from office to office. Finally a man looks in a book, no, it's not recorded there, go to the second floor and see the deputy assistant, he has more books to check.

I go up and a Sikh man asks me what I want. I explain everything and he tells me to go back to the GPO, the whole thing is recorded there.

I become angry.

He agrees to tell me where the deputy manager is and I can see him.

I see him. He's old and chain–smoking, coughing, but helpful. He sends a boy to check one book, sends a boy to check another book. No, it's not reached Delhi, you'll have to go to the Foreigner Post Office. It's too late, go there tomorrow.

Next day, I go to the pre–paid taxi at the train station. The man says it's near Connaught, 20 rupees. We get lost, it's miles from Connaught. I have to pay double. I find the newspaper building it was near, go in, get directions, and find it.

It's a tiny dark place, hot, no power, no one speaks English. I'm in the wrong place! I get directions and find the right place.

The reception tells me they only receive foreign parcels, but go to the first floor and see Mr. Sharma. I go. Mr. Sharma left two hours ago. No one knows why. He just stood up, walked out and he didn't return. His assistant says he can deal with me. He's friendly and helpful, but they definitely only receive parcels. I'll have to go to the Delhi International mail centre.

Next day I find out this is in South Delhi, an hour and twenty minutes both ways @ 180r, oh God, whatever, let's just get this over with.

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You wouldn't believe this place, papers and files stacked in long lines and forming aisles. The whole time I am there are these pigeons flying in and out to the top of the files near the roof — I realised they are nesting there.

Anyway, this place had power and I must admit they tried to be helpful. Yes, I'm in the right place, no it hasn't reached Delhi, no, he can't check Bombay, but I need to contact the British post office and get the following info:

1 – Check it was dispatched via the ‘Reading Hub’ 2 – The dispatch number 3 – The dispatch date.

Number one means that when you post a letter to abroad it leaves the country via various hubs. The dispatch number is a second number that the British post office gives when each letter leaves the country.

I contact my poor brother, who says he's losing sleep. He asks the post office in UK for me. They have no idea what he's talking about. Though he says it was a Swift Air Recorded letter????

So what's that, speed–post? Shall I go back to the speed–post building, yet the woman there didn't even know what was on the first floor of her own building. Is recorded post different to registered? I went to the web–site of the British mail at www.royalmail.com, you can track items there if you have the registered code. I checked and it told me the letter had ‘been handed to the overseas post office for handling’.

Oh God!!! What shall I do. It's been missing nearly a month, should have been four days. I've lost the money on the Panthankot ticket. Is there any other office, would the tourist board help me, does prayer work, if I use it is there a higher power that will intervene, is there somewhere quiet near Delhi where I can wait this out without the noise and touts. I want someone to hold me and tell me gently that it's all going to be allright.

Say something.

Again, I haven't even time to check any of this properly. I'm thinking of turning it into a log or something, I think it would be better to update it weekly, in small batches –, then I'd have time to check everything.

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Interlude

The Diaries changed about this time, becoming dated and dreams

which had previously been kept separately became part of the main diary text.

The diaries also became more honest as no one was reading this far. As an interlude, Confessions as well as the original separate dream diary

are now included.

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The Confessions

The following are extracts to a friend written during a time of depression (possibly caused by nicotine withdrawal). 'A bearing of my soul'. The 'friend' I'm writing too is someone I knew (platonically) five years ago for less than four hours.

I feel bored all the time. Do you feel bored? I mean I'm just bored with everything. A teardrop I don't eat out in the evening because it's just, boring. In the evening I read newsmagazines, but they're boring. So I sit and try to think what would thrill me, what would give me some pleasure, and I just can't. I mean, I could hit it really big. I write a book proposal and it sells a million and I personally make a million US dollars and I can go anywhere and do anything, and I really don't know what I'd do with it. I mean, I can't think of anything that would make me happy. Is that weird? I can't imagine anything being good; I can't think of anything I want. What do you want, fundamentally?

Where do you see your life going, ten years from now? Are you happy when you see your friends? What are ther things that make you happy. When you get up in the morning, do you wake up happy, unhappy or neither? What's your normal mood, from morning to night, are you happy most of the time or none of the time? If it's none of the time then what do you need to find joy again, what in the world? where is it? Am I alone going mad alone or is everyone living gloomy days of unfulfilment?

I don't speak to anyone now. It's just the way I am. Today for example, I went out to eat and said 'egg, toast' etc. and ordered my food in about fifteen words. When I finish here on the computer I sign my name in the members book and say 'Thanks' as I leave. Then I'll go to the shop and say 'bread, cheese, two bottles of water' – perhaps twenty–five words, then I'll go home, read news magazines and sleep.

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But yesterday also, I ordered food in ten words in the morning, said 'thanks' at the business centre and said 'bread, cheese, two bottles of water' at the shop.

And the day before the same.

And before.

Now the last conversation I had was a man called Rajiv Singh I met on the way to Bodhgaya just before new year. I knew him for one night. Before that I spoke to my parents when they came July to Nepal. Before that I can't recall. I think it was Christmas 97 when I met my parents again in Goa. I mean between January 1997 and July 1999 I didn't have a single conversation except to phone my family, on average every six weeks. Now we all use e–mail maybe I'll never have a conversation again?

When I lived in England my parents had a pub. We had our house in the town, kind of the suburbs, but the pub was far out, like twenty–five kilometers and pub hours are 11am. to 11pm. So I would go to school and come home, get my own food, go bed and they would return around 2am. In the morning my father left very early before I was awake and Mother was still sleeping when I left.

When I was about twelve years old my Father was stopped for drink–driving. The police set up road blocks and use a breath machine to see if anyone's been drinking. If you get caught it's six months in prison or a fine. Well, he got the fine but they take away your licence for five years and you're not allowed to drive.

There was no way they could use taxis and Mother didn't want to drive like that so they moved a bed into the office and stayed there overnight. I mean, their pub was in a kind of huge site set over hundreds of acres owned by a millionaire called Sam Makness. There were lakes and rivers with boats, hundreds of caravans that people could rent for a day, week or month, a mini–railway, shop, restaurants, theme park, rides, arcades and racing games. It was a bit like, I don't know, I guess Disneyland but much smaller. So there were baths and showers there because of all the people living in caravans. My parents could wash there, use the laundry. There wasn't any point coming back as the taxis were so much trouble.

So it was decided that they would go and live there. My sister would come once every fifteen days to clean. She would bring an envelope of money from my parents for me to buy food. And I would stay in the house by myself.

I thought it was great. I gambled most of the money on horses and stopped going to school. Eventually someone from the school started writing so I just pretended I was sick. There wasn't much anyone could do as the school didn't have the address of the pub.

I think the whole problem started then; life was too easy. I just stayed there for years. No one ever came round as I was a loner at school. I had a TV, computer and alcohol and so I 'dossed' as they say in England. I just dossed for years. It was like now. I mean I work now, but I would say for about six years I hardly had a conversation.

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One day I bumped into a friend from years ago, Matthew Topp. He was going to college and we got talking and I said I wanted to return and finish schooling. I did, plus I went to work for charity in a shop. I was perhaps nineteen when I met him, so it was about six or seven years I stayed in the house. I saw my sister twice a month and said hello to a man who cleaned the windows every two months. But apart from that I stayed in, read, wrote, went shopping, played music – and had absolutely no contact with other human beings at all.

Well, I finished college, then signed on to do courses to get to university, but there were too many night classes and I didn't like the people – I got really depressed. A business called George Mann accepted a non–fiction book I had written about religion. I was over the moon, but it went bankrupt before it could either produce it or pay me. That was too much of a disappointment and I left the country in despair, vowing to stay away, for better or worse, forever And that is a vow I have so far kept.

Why am I telling you this? I don't know. I mean the way I live now just might be a part of my karma/fate. The funny thing is that whenever anyone tries to talk to me I only answer in monosyllables and cold shoulder them. People annoy me generally and when they're with me I just wish they would go away. But when I think about how little contact I ever have with people it bothers me. There are all these images of 'everyone' and 'regular people' or 'the world out there' in films and magazines and TV. People, everyone, goes out, has a circle of friends, nice neighbours, lovers, children, hard days at the office, holidays on rivers – messing about in boats, making picnics, pet cats that scratch the furniture but are ever so cute, carpets, fitted kitchens, lots of clothes, laptops, smiles, telephones, and....... just lots of things that I don't have, haven't had and can't ever imagine having.

Every time I look at a magazine or film I feel incredibly abnormal. I mean I sit here typing now and I look out the window and I can see foreigners whom should be just like me and they're nothing like me at all. They dress in a way I don't, do things I can't. Outside this room I just saw two people laughing, climb on a motorbike and drive off, I see them and feel like an outsider as I never laugh, wouldn't climb on a bike and don't know anybody.

I think there's something wrong with me, as a human being I mean. Right from the start. I always hated other kids coming to see me, I was a moody five year old and Mother would force me to invite kids in the house but I really hated them touching all my things. I was about five years old when this joint problem started, I had to go to the hospital when I couldn't walk but the X–ray didn't show any damage and they said I was lying and they made me walk round.

Oh God! What am I going to do? I feel bad when I don't get to speak to anyone for months, but when someone tries to speak to me I hate it and wish they would go away. I'm completely insane and nothing makes me feel content.

I think negative thinking is massively under–rated. If you always expect the worst things to happen, the worst part of people to manifest, bad

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luck and constant unhappiness and calamities – you're never going to feel disappointed. That might be the problem. I was living this hell in England, but I had the general idea that everything would get better. I thought that one day I would carry on and have a life like the people in magazines or on TV.

Oh THAT'S ENOUGH!!!! I mustn't keep whining on like this. It's awful and I'm going to depress the both of us.

Sorry for all this gloom.

Love

Let's talk about love, going right back again to my past. You know at this rate, you're becoming an excellent therapist! You know I'm Asian don't you; I can't remember if I mentioned it. My mother is a white European, but my father was from Kenya, but of Indian race. So in other words I'm Eurasian (half–Indian – half Caucasian). I mention this as I grew up in a town about 60 kilometers north of London. The further away you go from London, the less black or Asian people there are. Well anyhow, English people can be funny about race and it became a big deal. I was very aware I was Asian.

Well I'm not sure how it happened but I became obsessed. You recall how unhappy I was at 16 years old, I was about to spend the next fours years barely venturing outside the house where I lived alone. I got the idea in my mind that I would find happiness by renouncing England and becoming 'totally Asian'. To transform myself I would marry an Asian woman, we would go abroad, I would learn to speak her language, wear foreign clothes, etc. I thought that the source of my unhappiness was England itself!

Once I had this idea it really was a true obsession; I thought about nothing else. I started eating only Asian food, watching Asian TV programs, and basically went round thinking that I would marry some Asian woman and we would go off and I would become a transformed and happy individual rather then the pathetic recluse/hermit that I was in reality.

And I did this for about four years. Now in all that time I had one male 'friend', and didn't actually know anyone else. My friend moved away to Wales (a small country next to England) and then I knew no one again.

I mean, for all that time I stayed in, I stayed in because I had to. I had some kind of phobia or something. When I went out I would kind of tremble, feel I would panic and run away. When people spoke to me I froze and couldn't reply. I was insane probably. I mean in even got medicated for it in the end and I sort of slowly recovered.

Anyway, I lived this absurd life, finished college and then came to Asia. I came with the specific idea of settling down with an Asian woman. I was still obsessed with this. Well I arrived in Asia, traveled about, taught English, and didn't really meet anyone. I was like I am now: I just traveled round alone. Well, I did meet one woman I lived with for a couple of months but it weren't right, we didn't even like each other.

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I was 23 by then, and had 'known' exactly one woman (I know, that really is pathetic) and I ended up in Penang, Malaysia, not far from where you used to be. I stayed in this hotel where the owner would bring me food. I got really depressed there. I mean really depressed and I started getting nervous in public again, so I stopped going out. The only time I'd go out was after 10pm. I would go sit on the front step, and once a week I went to the bank. I found it really hard to get to the bank, I mean I'd tremble and hardly be able to sign my name.

From this point on, the whole story turns awful – but I really have to write this. An English woman (white) turned up. I should have been suspicious as she was travelling with a man called Richard who was so thin he looked like a skeleton and was a drug addict. He openly admitted that and heroin was about the only thing he would ever talk about. They weren't lovers, they had met recently and checked in together to save money on the room.

Anyway, she started 'showing an interest' as it were, trying to get me to go out and attend a yoga class with her. I didn't want to go but she was amazingly persistent. I would sit out on the step alone at night for hours and she would do the same. But there was something weird about it, I mean it felt like we were acting. She talked me into travelling on with her to Australia, we became lovers (though it was repulsive). We did indeed go to Australia. She wanted to work there for a year.

Once we landed everything changed, she hardly would even look at me. It slowly dawned on me that she had planned this whole thing, as she was fearful, I mean she was fearful of travelling alone. In fact, she often recalled anecdotes from her past of other men she had met and pretty much done the same thing. She would just have to travel somewhere, got scared, found a man who was... 'mentally unstable' lets say, and start a relationship that would last as long as,.... well, until she was settled. So I was duped, living in Australia where I could hardly afford to eat anything, in this awful room with an awful woman who wouldn't even talk to me.

Oh but what the hell, that doesn't matter, I'm over it. It's what followed.

I would spend all day walking round feeling awful and one night an Englishman was going out with a load of people and invited. There was about six of us, we went to a Jazz club. I was seated opposite a Japanese woman who was staying where I was. We talked, went home.

Next day the Japanese woman checked out as her Mother and sister were arriving to visit her for a couple of weeks. A few days later I wrote her mother a silly letter for a joke and they phoned and invited me to lunch, which I attended. I left but agreed to meet her at the same Jazz club when her mother had left in a few days.

We met up. This was the first time we were alone, and we just got on really well, I mean like no one I've ever known. I told her about the English woman I was living with, our troubles. She told me of an Iranian she lived with for two years in Canada where she had been studying English, he was

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married but he lied about it for two years so she had been duped as well. At present she had a boyfriend in New Zealand and they were going to get together in a couple of months when he saved enough money.

I didn't see her for a few days. I was at home with the English woman, we were having as terrible time right then, and then it turned into the happiest day of my life as the Japanese woman turned up at the door! We went out just the two of us. The English woman didn't care as she had already given me a deadline to get out the room.

The Japanese woman and I went to the Jazz club, then started meeting on as regular basis, then on 5th November 1993 we stayed out all night at a club, in the morning we went to the bank at 10pm. Then went home and became lovers. I mean we got on so perfectly;

I was in Paradise.

The minute we finished... well, you know, ... sex, she told me she still wanted to stay with her New Zealand boyfriend and would only be able to have a short affair with me. I was devastated but I had to agree, as I couldn't leave her.

We checked into a room together and lived there for about 20 days. It was blessedness. She had a job in a restaurant, I was writing. We would cook breakfast together, talk all day, hang around the shops, in the evening we would sit up on the roof of our hotel and talk, talk, talk. I felt like she was my soul, if I examined my inner–being it would be her. I would tell her I loved her but the Iranian had hurt her too much and she would say she can never love anyone, not even the boyfriend in New Zealand. Eventually she decided she didn't want me to go but wait until her boyfriend came over and the three of us would discuss what was best.

At this time my brother arrived in Sydney for two weeks so I had to fly and see him. While I was away I wrote to her every single day, all I thought of was her. My brother left and I went to the post office to pick up my mail. There was a letter from her. It said her boyfriend had phoned her very upset and she had agreed to stay with him and only be my friend, She had moved to a new smaller room but said I could return but I'd have to sleep on the floor.

Of course, I couldn't do that. I returned, didn't go and see her, then bought an air ticket back to Asia. The night before I left I bumped into her by chance. She was with one other Japanese woman and a black man, We went and ate, talked for ages, then she went home.

Next day she came, we went to the airport, stood outside just looking at each other and crying. Then I got on the plane.

Her boyfriend arrived in my absence. They went to Japan together and lived as lovers. She would write perhaps 6 times a year and send small gifts. About two years later I was in north India. I was just falling asleep but suddenly my soul/consciousness was pulled from my body, I was looking down at my body from the ceiling. I went flying through a tunnel and suddenly was in a dark room. I looked and realised my Japanese friend was

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there. She was crying and there was an awful sense of gloom, then I returned to my body and woke up. The sense of gloom stayed with me for about three days, I just walked round and couldn't shake it off. Absolute blackness and I couldn't explain it.

In her next letter it turns out something awful happened between her and her lover (she wouldn't say what) and he had left, their relationship was over.

Since then I still write often, she writes twice a year, she stopped sending gifts. She traveled Europe a few times. I only write, we've never phoned, or met. She doesn't love me; she considers us friends.

But I haven't stopped loving her; I don't think I will. I know it's stupid, but I can't help it. She was the only woman that could fill my obsession and I lost her. Its six years ago and there's not a day that I haven't thought of her. I've not even slept with anyone since I left her, Six years! I'm never going to recover.

And now it's been so long, I've got sick and turned crippled and I suppose I'm feeling bad as I begin to accept that life can never be like those short weeks again. I can never find someone I would feel the same way with. All I ever wanted, I found it, and lost it.

Recently she sent me a photo of her in France. It was the first time I had seen her since Australia. I opened the envelope on the beach and just sat and cried, even now, all that time ago.

So there you have my pathetic past. Someone broke my heart and it can't be mended and life can never be good again. They say it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, I wish THEY would tell my why I keep praying I can die in my sleep.

Past

I've just sat here fort a couple of minutes trying to think of a confession, and finally something has come to mind. maybe if I keep confessing like this you'll get freaked out and BLOCK SENDER, though I hope not. Here goes!

My Mother's marriage to my father was unhappy. She suffered from depression and tried to kill herself once. The marriage broke up in 1977 when I was eight. Father moved away and we didn't see him again. Mother moved in with a white man and they went into business together. Nowadays they're publicans/restaurant, but then they were stall holders in a market selling electrical goods, like torches, fans, that kind of thing.

The man she moved in with didn't really like me or my brother so my brother went to 'boarding school' which is a private school where you live at, I had to go live with my Aunt. My sister was already 18 and married.

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Anyway, my aunt lived about six kilometers away in the town centre so Mother agreed to at least pick me up each day after school and drive me there. She was always really busy and so was late. I mean, school would finish and everyone would leave, their parents were waiting and my mother would come two hours late, I was always the last. It looked so bad that strangers would keep coming out their houses to invite me inside as they felt sorry for me. Other times we had sports days or parents evenings where the parents had to turn up, and only mine were ever missing.

I've just sat at the keyboard and again tried to think. I mean, how much of this mess should I vomit upon you. You see, this is what happens when bored people wake at 3:00am. in the morning.

I was living still with my uncle/aunt for some years. I was about 12/13 when my uncle got spinal cancer. It was awful, they moved the bed in the lounge as he couldn't walk, he screamed in pain all the time, they gave him loads of morphine painkilller but it didn't work. One night we were playing cards and he died while we watched.

That was about the same time I stopped going out. I refused to go to school again and acted really wierd. Mother came round and beat me about the head but I still wouldn't go out. My brother came back to live with my aunt and I went back to Mother's, but of course by then her house was completely empty so I had to live alone, and this is, at least a large part of, the story of how I went insane.

When I was an adult there was a fight and I didn't see Mother for about three years but then we bumped into each other in a cafe. Funnily enough we got on alright then, I was about 19. We would meet every week and talk for ages. I would show her my writing, and we were just OK. She apologised for all the trouble we had in the past, she said she had made mistakes and regretted them. When I got depressed and made arrangements to leave the country she completely supported me, and has ever since. We're just fine now – so don't get me wrong or anything.

Oh dear, is this all to much for you? Well, it's much later now and I think the restaurant's open; I'll go and get some breakfast. Thanks for listening to me.

Pain

There's no kind of love that comes without the risk that it could all be lost. You know, if that woman that I loved in Australia walked into this cybercafe right now, alone, and wanted to start it again, I wouldn't know what to do. I'd be trembling with joy at the thought of being in love again, but shaking in fear at the thought of losing someone a second time. If it didn't work out and she walked out the door, and I knew I would be alone the next six years again. Oh I don't know. You have this pleasant time with a lover, then they leave your life. and all those pleasant memories turn to sour vinegar

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throughout the following years as you lie alone at night recalling the happy times, now long since gone, never to return.

Oh God, I don't know, I don't know. Is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? Did I ask you that before? I mean, did you ever have someone, then lose them?

What is happening?

Work

Everyone I ever worked for has either cheated me or not paid me. I failed. here, I only notice now as the editor of The American Novelist Monthly asked me to write 600 word article in March, which I did, now she's published it and completely ignores me when it's time to pay. It was the only decent piece of work I sold for ages. Absolutely everyone I deal with does this; I haven't been paid a single penny.

I used to really love completing a big piece of work, sending off a whole load of marketing letters to publishers and awaiting their replies. I would skip down the stairs each morning and tear open all the envelopes like they were presents on Christmas morning. There was rejection and rejection and rejection – but it was all OK as I knew deep–down it would be the next one that would make it big for me.

And I'm tired of it now. I don't sell anything. Nobody pays, everyone cheats. I have a new novel outline and a piece of non–fiction that's coming together, but it's all hard work and I used to enjoy it. I've stopped believing now. It isn't going to be alright, I'm probably not going to make it. How long does a person need? I've had long enough. But what else to do? I have no other skills.

The only thing I love is the web–site. I loved doing it and I love updating it. When someone sends me an e–mail and says they loved it or it changed their lives (it still happens) nothing could make me any happier. I look at the counters and together all the pages have 9000 visits.

But it's free, no one pays, it gives me no income.

I have to keep asking everyone for money. When I left the country I gave my brother my savings and told him to invest them, but I've no idea how they're doing. I stay in South Asia because I can afford to live well, but I'm trapped here in a way. I couldn't even afford to live in a way. My family probably haven't made provision for me (why should they?). so their handouts won't last forever and I could well end up destitute.

There, this is a good confession. I've screwed everything up. I have no job, success, skills, qualifications, prospects or hope.

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I stay in nice places, hotel rooms I mean, but I don't own anything. I have a small shoulder bag full of stuff and that's it. Clothes, wash bag, one little book, a $20 camera. Since I was robbed last time (off the train you recall, the fifth time) I didn't replace anything. It's just like finding a lover isn't it, the pain of losing them outweighs the joy in loving them, as love, so possessions. It's nice not having to carry very much and I feel free, but these bare rooms are depressing sometimes.

I mentioned earlier that I got depressed when I gave up smoking, but I've thought about it and it's an excuse really. I've never been quite right. I told you about when Mother tried to kill herself but I don't think I mentioned that I did the same thing did I? I don’t really know why. I had been alone in the house for weeks, I suppose it was just boredom. There was one bottle of alcohol in the house and if I drank it I’d be in trouble but it was so tempting I thought it would be worth dying for. But I get depressed on a periodic basis and used to regularly mutilate myself. There’s something badly wrong and it probably needs to be medicated but I don’t speak to anyone so it can’t even be treated. Yes, so I’d say that I have a life–long periodic depressive illness that probably can’t ever be cured. It’s maybe twice yearly I go down on an average and sometimes can’t function. But not only that, I’m completely mad as well. I make a huge world in my mind and live it. When I’m at home I find myself gesturing and talking to people who aren’t there. I think I go down when I’m forced to face reality and live in the real world. So either I’m living in these mental worlds of opulence, health happiness and fantasy characters or I’m here drinking myself to death and traipsing round the streets wearing a death–mask so gloomy that people will actually point me out to their friends.

I hope you're doing better than I am.

Two Years Later

My friend (whom I was writing Confessions for) went to live in Holland. I was in Kathmandu. Everything had gone wrong. She sounded like she wanted me to let her go.

How are you? I had a terrible night last night. Another one. I sat and wept. About everything. I fell asleep but had a nightmare. Mother was with me and had offended the mafia. She had to go and live in France and so could never have contact with me. So we had to say goodbye.

Later, I kind if woke up. The sun was just coming up, so maybe it was five in the morning. I Became conscious, but my body was still asleep. I prayed to be dead. A black shadow appeared at the foot of the bed and started to lift me out of my body. My legs started rising up, but the head end was stuck to the bed.

I went to a Mexican place for breakfast. I just can't face work. I sat and tried to think what to write to you. I called the bill and went to the toilet. My bowels went, plus I was sick everywhere. I feel really awful today.

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I went to a bookshop. It's a really expensive, huge place. In Medan there are lots of places which are quite Indonesian, but there are western places, like KFC and stuff. In South asia, everything is local. But this bookshop is modern. It's the only modern thing here. It reminded me of London. I haven't been there in ages. I just wandered around aimlessly. I wanted to feel like I was somewhere else. I didn't want to be in asia today.

Then I came to the computer. I tried to think what to say to you. You remember when I was dowm in Delhi, ages ago, and I told you everything. I kept all of that. I looked at it today. I had forgotten I'd told you all of that. It's everything I was going to say now. But if I've already said it, there isn't much point, is there?

Just recently, I've lost everything. My life has fell apart since Christmas, which is kind of ironic as your life has worked out since Christmas. I had such a fight with my brother we're likely never to talk again. I think my Aunt's given up on me. Last I spoke to her she sounded so tiered, asked me if I'm having any luck with publishers, she said she hopes it works out for me, but she said it with such resignation. She won't give me any money anymore. Mother said don't worry. But my brother said it's time to admit that I'm not going to make it as a writer. He said I have no self–respect and should do something else.

So I've tried to think what I can do. I tried to set up the domain so I can start web–reselling, and of course, I've completely messed that up. I've finished the ebook, it's on–line and for sale. I've put the demo version right across the Internet. I had a fight with all these people on a Thai message board, they were really horrible to me, they barred me, I got upset.

But whenever I log into the bank, the balance is always zero dollars and zero cents. Maybe my brother's right. My web site has over 42,000 hits. People write all the time saying it's great. One woman wrote a poem in my honour. I've counseled and helped many people, so many, I helped someone who was suicidal.

I spend so much time on the site, all for free, so I put a donation button there. But nothing. Out of all these thousands of people, not one penny. Recently a man wrote to me. He said he had everything in life except happiness and could I help? So I spent the afternoon helping. 2000 words (over). I do everything I can for people but get nothing. When I had the fight with my brother, he kept asking me what I'm doing. I told him about the site, but he just kept shouting, but what good is that doing you?

It wasn't meant to be like this. I left England just to live abroad for a while, find some happiness, but most of all get married and just be normal. I can tell you all about the past obsessions, but I just read back and saw that I've already said everything. Life isn't what I thought it was. No one wants a man like me. In Perth, she chose someone else because he had more money, could speak Japanese, had a Japanese work visa, I was poor, selling stupid pictures and articles.

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And you don't want it either. It's true. It's time to face up to reality. No one wants me. She wrote to me all this time because she's polite. She made her choice and it was someone else. You only knew me for four hours, or less, there's no way you could want me on the basis of that. What would you have felt if I was an Indonesian? I lived in Medan or Bali. There had been no chance of us being abroad. You only wanted to be abroad. I always knew it deep–down, But I'm lonely and I hate myself, and I need to have these illusions in my life. Up until just now, I used to get two letters a year from Japan. I put off receiving them. Once every two years I open them somewhere. I go to a church or something. I cry. But I have this illusion that I was normal, a person.

Every now and again, I get an e–mail from you. You've read what I've written and are responding to it, and for a time I can feel normal, that there's someone in the world who knows me.

But the whole thing is tinged by fear. It always has been. I always wondered when I would lose it all. Every time I get a letter iI make myself sick with worry in case it's the last and I lose my illusion. Every time you sent me an e–mail, I felt less alone, but was always aware that I might open one one day and you say that's enough, it's too long, or maybe you found another way to get abroad,

And now all my fears are realised at the same time. Just at the time when everything falls apart in my life and I have to be treated for depression, the things I've always deeply feared have happened at the same time. There you are. You got what you wanted. You are abroad. You don't need the dream anymore. You keep on giving me opportunities to let go, because it's what you want deep–down. You think I do but you're wrong. All I ever wanted was someone like you.

But you're waking up to reality. You're already there without me. You made some joke about meeting someone at school and staying there, hahahaha, but that's it isn't it? You have woken up to who and what I am. You misunderstood me when I said I need to be rich. I meant I need to make enough to live on, which I don't. So I'm scrambling around from idea to idea, trying this and that. The book is out and no one buys it. OK, so now I'm going for the publishing idea. But everything is such a long shot. A best–selling ebook by someone else sells 500, most less that 100. Even if I take on twelve authors and they all do well, it won't be enough to live on. So I'll write another synopsis too, and try and sell that. But I've never sold one before. It's just one more attempt.

But I hate doing it now. I'm so tiered. I started writing, well, sending things to publishers, at sixteen. I used to love it. I'd run downstairs every morning and open all the letters, hundreds of them, absolutely certain that sooner or later there's going to be a contract and a cheque rather than manuscript and rejection.

I don't expect it anymore. I question if I can make it. All my passion has gone. I'm waking up. Even if I sell it, I have to market it, do book–signings, public appearances. I don't want to do book signings and public

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appearances. I don't want to do what I do anymore, but can't think what else there is. Maybe there's nothing.

I've just looked back to everything I wrote you before and what I said so far is almost identical. It's the same thing. All that time ago and nothing is any better. It's just thing after thing after thing after attempt after attempt after attempt, and I never get anywhere.

I've come to the conclusion that my life is completely unmanageable. I've always known I was weird, but with all my running away from life and illusions, I managed to get by. I sit every day completely by my own, nit speaking for months or years... because I'm the intellectual thinking eccentric. But really I'm not the intellectual thinking eccentric. I'm the lonely man that's never been able to make any friends. I didn't stay alone because I'm a loner. iI was desperate for everything, passionate and endearing love that lasts forever. To join in union and be whole. But it just hasn't turned out like that. Women want a success and I've failed in life.

I can't think what to do but give up. I've tried all this time to sort out the problems in my mind. Psychology. meditation, therepies and now medicines. I've published my own theories and methods and they've helped other people. Through my site people who are sad down and broken contact me for help, and I lie to them. I pretend I'm someone I'm not. I pretend I have all the answers and I help them and turn them around, and they are OK again. I don't tell anyone I'm completely broken myself. No one knows how bad it all is for me except you.

You remember when you first left home and went to Bali, and it was really bad for you? You mentioned it yesterday and got upset. You didn't eat for a week because there wasn't even one cent. I hope I didn't upset you then, I wasn't suggesting I have less than you. But I remember the way you wrote to me then. You kept mentioning God and saying you'd be looked after and be placed somewhere. But before then you never made any reference to spirituality, and since then you've never made any reference to spirituality. You see, then, in Bali, you lost everything at the same time and there was no way out of your situation. All you could do was turn inwards to The Light, because there was nothing else.

And look, you're OK. You got the CD job, and there you are in Holland, with a brother in law who's generous and you're going to school.

I've lost everything in the same way. I really have lost everything. I don't even have my work now. Ages ago I told you I have nothing, except my web site and writing, which I love. But I hate it now. There's nothing I love. I can't get my mind straightened out. I can't get my life straightened out. I can't think of any way out of this situation. I can't think of any way I might find happiness (I've started crying now). I can't think of any way to make a living that I could live for. I can't think of anything to live for full stop. I hate it here. I hate being alive. All I can think to do is is to keep doing the stupid things I do. Help people for nothing, market an ebook that no one will buy, set up a publishing company, and I hate every minute of it, and all I really want to do is die. So I wake up every morning and do the things I hate and UI try and be

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like you in Bali. I just pray to a higher power, this is the misery in my life. These are all the problems in my mind and I'm a mess and I can't get anything solved. I've tried at wholeness and success my whole life and I just can't do it and I just hand the whole thing over to you and I humbly ask you to cleanse me and place me somewhere that I could live with. I pray this constantly. After a whole life of struggling, all the fight is drowned out of me and I just let go of the whole thing and pray because I, try as I might, solve anything.

It's all coming to a head now. I left England on the 22nd February 1993. So this February it will be ten years. I'll have to speak to my brother again at Christmas. If you recall, last time I did that it left me under the covers in a dark room for a month. Really, it hasn't cleasred completely since then, and is largely the reason I ended up getting medicine from the doctor, so often I just can't change my mood.

I pray so hard and I work so hard and I'm so nmiserable. I think if there's no significant progress by Christmas, I might let go. (I'm really crying now, but this cybervafe is empty so I don't think anyone sees.) I can't spend any more time like this. Day after day. I think of ways out. I lie drunk on the bed and I think what it's like to cut your wrists open. I imagine doing it in the bathroom. But I catch myself and hand all the pain over. But the life I lead can't go on.

I pray, and my faith is good, sometimes... but it really is a longshot. My whole life was a long–shot. And you want to be free of it. You started asking what I wanted between us since you had the chance to first go to Holland. Why shouldn't you? I have these immense problems and such a tiny chance of success, and you're over there doing OK. Any man you might ever meet is almost certainly a better man than me (unless you end up working in psychiatry).

And you're WRONG, WRONG, WRONG about me. You think that I never really was interested in you. I know you keep on giving me opportunities to let go. I know you're waking up to the fact that I'm likely, try as I might, to not be able to sort my life out. You asked me to phone you to hear your voice. But it wasn't your voice that I was supposed to hear, but the tone of your voice, how tiered you are. I give you nothing. You give me everything. I don't ever remember your birthday. This year, you alone remembered you.

No, you ARE wrong. To let go of you is awful to me. I have no one else. I have mother, but I could never talk to her the way I do you. I could never send all the confessional emails because she'd get upset. She knmows deep–down I'm depressive, but when she asks me how I am I say I'm OK. Yesterday I told you I grew up with my aunt and you already knew that and it's no big deal, but I told you something ages ago and you know that about me, you read it, it registered, you still no it, and no one else knows anything about me.

I used to go and sit on a park bench in Hyde Park in London. I couldn't go so often because it was expensive, but I used to go maybe every four months. I sat on a bench in Kennsington Gardens. It was really quiet and

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there's a big lake called the Serpentine to look over. I was sixteen and still optimistic. I'd dream of leaving the country, working, getting married and being a success. I thought that when I do that, one day, I vowed that I would return to the bench with my spouse, new mind and new life and give thanks.

More than ten years later, I'm abroad but alone in Kathmandu and doing worse than ever. It was meant to work out. My Aunt begs me to come home, or at least she used to. But I messed my life up in England. I got really depressed and nearly let go, but mother told me to follow my dreams. So I did, but it hasn't worked out. That's why my Aunt has given up on me. Never even an e–mail. She thinks I don't go back because I don't care. I stay because I had no life there and I left to make one. It isn't working out but to return is failure. Return to what? I'm in exactly the same situation as when I left.

I didn't know, until yesterday, how upset you were that I never came to Bali. But I've lived this whole time, since I was sixteen, that I'll just about to make it. It's the book I'm working ion now that is the one, publishers will love it, it'll sell and make a million and I can return to Europe in a blaze of glory. I know you don't believe it, but I would have come to you first. I return to my country and family a whole and balanced success.

But it didn't work out. And now I'm trapped here. And it's likely the last year that I can try. It needs a miracle. One day mother will go. She cannot be here forever. Most days I look at the inbox and there's an email from her. And she says don't worry, and she says work less, and she say's I'll make it but it takes a long time, sometimes she refers to me as a genius (but that's a bit far). There's only the last thing I dread left to happen. I come to the e–mail. There's nothing from her but my brother. She's gone. He'll be mad. I'll sign out of the mail box and stumble out in shock. I'll go and sit in the restaurant and that is it. There will never be another e–mail. I'll never see her again. I'll never hear her encouragement. The only person who completely believes in me is gone. I'll sit alone and stare at the table completely alone and no one around me will know what's happened. If I still don't make enough, then there won't be enough money to live here. But if I go back, a failure, there's no where to live. I know no one. I can't walk far enough or stay on my feet long enough to do most jobs. The entire situation is unthinkable.

But the situation is inevitable. people don't live forever. At some point I will be here, alone, with dwindling resources and not much I can do about it.

Oh, but this is just talk, talk, talk. You want me to go. You think it's the other way around and you're wrong. I'm probably not going to make it; there's a good chance I can't dig myself out of this mess. I can tell from the chat, from the phone, you want me to go. So I'll go. But don't ever think that this was nothing to me. You're wrong. Why am I sick this morning, with my bowels gone? Why am I walking round a shop trying to pretend I'm not here? I think back over the years. I think to the sweet letter in Madras. I think to all my confessions. I think to sitting alone by the beautiful lake in Pokhara and telling you how weird I am, and you sent me an e–mail called 'the weirdo returns', and you made me laugh about something that usually makes me cry. I

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remember when I got upset about... her, and you said 'sometimes things you want and things get not same', and it made me smile and it was so true and i told mother and she told me to listen to it. I think it now sometimes. I think now of how I'll be without you. I live here and there will be no one to say everything to. I have to lie to people who come to my web site and I have to tell mother I feel OK. If I let go now in this e–mail, then it is the last time I can open my heart and just say everything. After this I'm alone. You think it all meant nothing to me but it meant everything to me. This wasn't the plan. I was supposed to make it. I could have come back someone with my life intact. I didn't mean it to be like this. No. I wanted you. If I could have got my life together then I would have wanted to spend it with you. But I didn't. I've made this mess. I've ruined it. And it's my fault and not your fault and you shouldn't be punished for it. I go. But there really is a huge hole in my life. I can't make you unhappy any more. I'm completely alone without you. But you've got somewhere in life and I haven't and I'm broken and probably as good as dead and you have a chance at happiness and this is just the way things worked out. I hate writing this. I've needed a drink to face it. I can't even face spell–checking it and send it. I'll have to save it and see how I feel tomorrow.

Six Months Later

Even worse, in South India, completely washed up. I've told her I can only be friend. She got funny about it and phoned Mother in England, who wasn't so happy as she was busy. I'm supposed to phone her in Holland but just can't face it. The following was written to an on–line help group. You've heard it all before, it's the same story, just a little more desperate.

I'm writing because I'm in a situation which is very hard to see away out of — which I suppose is pretty much the reason for all the e–mails you receive I suppose.

I'm from Northampton, but am abroad right now. I really hate to whine on with a life–story, bur it's very difficult to explain the problem without some background as I think no one quite lives a life like me and I've probably gone mad.

Both my parents are foreigners. They divorced when I was about seven and I saw my father rarely for a couple of years, and then not at all, which is OK as he was a bit quiet and we never really said much. Mother had been really unhappy and took an overdose of sleeping pills. So I had to go and stay with my aunt, and uncle, who were childless. My brother, elder by ten years, got married and moved out — my brother went to boarding school, but I was in the state school as there was less money by then, I think Mar slept in a van sometimes when she did the markets.

They ended up as publicans. I went back there, but it was a bit stormy between them. Plus I'm Eurasian, they're both white, but sometimes he'd make a comment that made me uncomfortable. I went back to my aunt's

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for a few years. I was about twelve and her husband got spinal cancer. She couldn't admit it and kept talking about 'when he gets better'. He got worse and worse. In the end, he was screaming in a bed in the living room. One night he breathed strangely, all bubbles came out his mouth and he died.

I made a fool out of myself at the funeral and cried. Afterwards, all these distant relatives I didn't know came. My Aunt told them all the times I wouldn't catty the shopping or didn't wash up or was supposed to help lift him and just ran away instead.

Then there was a different uncle who died of a heart attack. His wife stayed with us for a while, then went home and died in a fall.

I went back to live with mother them. They had a house in the suburbs, but their pub was half an hour away in the country. They came home really late. Then he lost his license to drink drinking and so they decided to move into the pub. So I lived aloe in the house. I was thirteen or fourteen. I stopped going to school. Letters came and people kept ringing the bell, so I just closed all the curtains and never answered the door. My sister came once a week to clean and do bar towels and give me money from Mar. After a while, I didn't like going out so then she started bringing food.

But it kind of developed into agoraphobia. It stopped being that I didn't like going out to not being able to go out. Then I couldn't have the curtains open, then I didn't like being downstairs or even awake in the day because I didn't like the light. My brother doesn't like being Asian, maybe because he was at private school and there are less to identify with — so he pretends he's white. As a kid he was always shouting at me to roll my sleeves down, not to take my shoes and socks off, to stay out of the sun because if I get darker 'it'll be harder at school and I'll regret it'. All his friends are white and he sits about with them making racist jokes about our own people — which is pretty pathetic as he's fairly dark and his second name is Asian, people laugh at him behind his back; I don't think he knows how silly he looks.

I took an overdose about then, when I was trapped in the house that is. I lived (obviously). Mother took a day off and we went to London, but it was really hard as I was getting strong anxiety in public. I had to see a psychiatrist, but I only went a couple of times. I think he had more problems than me actually. So everything kind of went back to how it was before, with me alone in the room with the curtains closed.

But I read a lot. Religion, psychology, meditation. I read much about exposure therapy but didn't quite get how I could make it work.

One day, when I was nineteen, this kid I had known at school turned up out the blue, though I'm not sure why. He was going to this music concert, camping for three days but didn't have a tent, did I and would I like to go? Well, I couldn't of course, but I mentioned it to my sister, who mentioned it to my aunt, who sent up a load of valium and stuff she got when her husband died.

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And I did manage to attend this concert. with loads of medicine and booze. But I'm weird, I wasn't able to make conversations with his friends, I just looked at them when they spoke to me and they avoided me. At the end, I didn't see him again.

So I went how, but now I'd been out I couldn't stand being there. I drugged myself and went to the doctor. He was really horrible, but I showed him everything I'd taken and got a load more. I went up to live with my Aunt.

Then I volunteered for Oxfam. The first day I took so many diazepam I couldn't even answer the phone and take a coherent message. But I got used to it and in the end could work there without needing any medication. Then I trained in a factory for a time, but I was the only Asian and there were really hostile. So I went to college and padded in English and photography. I wanted to be a writer. I wrote a novel and about five book proposals. I gad spent so long studying and experimenting with psychology and Eastern religion I was able to write about it.

But, although there was sometimes a bite of interest, I just collected files of rejection letters.

I really hated living at my Aunt's. We had a fight. First of all about food, then she said I smoked too much. I wasn't allowed to smoke in the bedroom, then not in the house, so she moved the furniture out in the garden and outhouse. So I was pretty much lining outside all the time I wasn't sleeping.

I hadn't seen mother for years, but I bumped into her one day and we arranged to meet in a cafe once a week. It was really nice. We got on great and talked for hours.

But I got really depressed. I couldn't see any way I would really be happy and started planning suicide. I got rid of most of my possessions. I told mother in the cafe. I was crying. It was nice, in retrospect. She told me about the time she had tried to take her own life and how much she had hated being married. Then she listed all the things she had ever done to me , and basically apologised. I didn't blame her or anything. It was just something that the said and was really nice. She told me to do something drastic, but not that — just anything else.

I came to the conclusion is was England. ON e night just before Christmas, I went to the Indian shop for samosas and my fingers were so cold I could barely count the change. I thought I'd live abroad. I'd saved money, sit would be warm. People would be the same colour as me, and I'd have a place to live and be alone.

So I looked into it. It's possible to live abroad teaching English. If you have a degree, which I don't, you can go to rich countries and make money. If you have no degree then you can go to poor countries and get by. My reasoning was, it's either this or suicide. If I go for suicide, I'll be in the afterlife. If I go to Asia and don't like it, just pretend it's the afterlife and pretend I'm already dead.

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So I went down to Surrey and did a two week course in teaching English. I'd been writing since I was fourteen, book proposals, but also diaries detailing my experiments in psychology and religious methods to become sane and transcend. Plus there was all my photographs. I put the whole thing in a lockable trunk, asked Mother to look after it, took loads of valium, and went to Thailand.

I really didn't like it; it was noisy, dirty and I wasn't like the people around me. I lost my first job because I couldn't control the kids. Then I got a better one teaching adults.

It was hard though., I started to realise how weird I am. I've spent so long on my own that I have all these stories and dialogues going on in my mind. Once, I recall being back in my aunts hall and I heard her say to my brother, he's gone mad, he paces up and down like a caged animal.' it's true, I do get involved with all these thoughts and fantasies in my mind and I forget there's a world around me. Sometimes students would shout at me and I'd realise I'd stopped mid–sentence and got lost in my thoughts and was staring into space.

I was robbed at gunpoint; lost all this stuff. I met this woman who helped me get through it, then she saved in as she didn't gave any money. We became lovers. I'm too; weird for it to be normal though. Like we used to go to the bar and drink beer. I'd turn my back on her and stare at the wall living out all the dialogues in my mind, and she'd either just sat there or would take to other people. I think she stayed as it was better than going home (just). She got pregnant. We got engaged. She went home for Christmas, miscarried on march 3rd, corresponded for a while. then her mother stopped it.

I went south for a while. I stayed in this place being run by an American staying there illegally. I used to do the beds and man reception for food and board. I kind of got trapped there. Although it was nowhere near as bad as before, I started feeling anxiety in public. The boss brought me all the things I needed, so I just stayed in.

One day this woman checked in. She seemed really interested to 'rescue' me. She was always around me, asking me what's wrong, why don't I go out, why don't I speak to people. She wanted us to get together and I couldn't understand why. Obviously, whatever we end up with is going to be dysfunctional. We ended up living in Perth as she had a pre–booked ticket. I wrote for a newspaper. As soon as we got there, it became obvious that the had made such an effort on me because she couldn't travel alone. Once she was settled, she wasn't interested. She wanted to be sociable and make friends and I frighten people.

I fell apart a bit as it's stressful being there. Someone saw I was down and invited me out in a small group. I met a Japanese woman. She was with someone else and we had an affair for ten days. It's so hard to explain what this was like. For those ten days, I was normal and happy. Like people tried to talk to me and U would just stare at them and so we didn't know anybody and she didn't mind. At night, I pace up and down and mutter without realising it — and she would laugh and refer to this obvious mental illness as 'cute'. We

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got up, cooked food, went to work, came home and talked all night on a rooftop. I washed her clothes for her. We did stupid things like dance in the street where there was no music. She loved everything I wrote and always wanted me to do more. I started selling photographs as well as write. We went to the cinema, played backgammon. She bought me a ring as a surprise and we went to church to put it on. I was human, like everyone else for ten days.

My brother wanted to see Sydney so I had to go. I wrote to her every day. My brother was argumentative and put me down. He hated it because he was with friends and I can't talk in crowds so I just looked at them and was a frightening, creepy person.

When I went to collect my mail, she'd written that she'd phoned her lover, he was broken when she told him, so when I get back we'd have to sleep separately and be friends until he arrived and we could all discuss the situation. She told me where to meet her but I didn't go. I bought a ticket back to Asia, but then bumped into her on the last night. We spent it talking. She invited me back to the room, but I'd paid for a dorm. The next day she came and we went to the airport, both of us stood there weeping. I told her to stand there and went towards the plane. I looked back and she was running towards me. I ran through the gates and got on the plane. This was nine years ago.

My life kind of stopped then. On the plane I had this feeling I was going to break down and start screaming and I had to just keep repeating to myself that I'd see her again.

We're still in touch now. She writes every New Year and birthday. I write often and send stupid gifts. About two years ago I was in bed and had this strange experience where I came out my body and went to her. She was on a bed crying in a darkroom, saying she was sorry and I could palpably feel her regret somehow. I walked round dazed and it took me three days to get over it. A while later she wrote that her lover had 'done something horrible' and they had broke up, the same day I had this experience.

I came to live in India. I wrote three novels which didn't sell. I wrote an extensive web–site for writers, a database of paying markets, updated by writers themselves via the online chi form. Also a site about happiness methods of obtaining it, philosophy, techniques etc. This received 45,000+ hits and is in Google. It generates a lot of mail, usually compliments, but people ask my advice and to help them, it's kind of a free counseling service.

I got sick in 97. It started with a pain in my left hip and a click each time I walked. It got worse. Within seven days I couldn't stand. I spent a whole day in bed until I could even limp to the bathroom. It got well enough for me to get out, but over the years has spread to all joints. I get really stiff. I can't get up and down off the floor. I walk with a limp. I can only go so far before the pain forces me to sit. My shoulders have come out the sockets a few times. Sometimes it completely freezes, I have to sling t and sleep in a chair. If I lie down more than twenty minutes I wake up in agonising pain so I sleep in a chair. Much of my family have something similar and I first went to the hospital when I was five as I couldn't walk, but it didn't show up on X–ray so they didn't believe me. But looking back it often hurt in the cold and I

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could never do things like push a car. By the time it came in severe I hadn't eve had a conversation in years and so there's no way I could get it treated.

Last Christmas there was a really horrible fight with my brother. I ran out of money. He told me to stop writing, that the web site did me no good. That I had no self–respect. I got depressed, physically ill. I spent New Year weeping in a church. I stayed in a dark room having nightmares. I kept thinking about the people falling out the window in 9/11. I stayed under the covers for about a week.

So to make more money, I got a domain and commercial web–space, to sell design, space, ebooks etc. It all went wrong. The company were no good, nothing would work there and I got a refund from the bank.

I finished a non–fiction ebook and am selling it electronically, but it's from a free site. People keep complaining it won't download properly. A few readers contacted me saying it was good and they want more. But it doesn't sell so many. I'm making a new central home page to link everything together and do as I planned, an online bookstore, selling digital art like ebook covers which I can do myself. But this free host is really slow space and there's loads of advertising. Sometimes there's a pop–up advert for anti–virus software that says YOUR COMPUTER MIGHT BE SPYING ON YOU. But this pops up just after someone buys a book and has put their credit card number in the computer. It's insane. It's a wonder I sell anything.

I've been able to feel a lump in my throat for a few years now. Then got one in my tongue and a painful on in my ear. I got really worked up about it. I took a load of tranquilizers and went to see a really expensive doctor. He said he couldn't see anything in my throat or tongue, the thing in my ear is a cyst and the pain is hard wax.

Then he pressed my stomach and I doubled up in pain. He asked if I took drugs and I said no. He asked how much I drunk, I said a half a bottle to two thirds a day, at night in the room so I don't walk round all night talking to myself and slapping myself. He said to stop no matter what, even better to have sleeping pills because 'it might not look that good there'. He asked if I'd ever been diagnosed as psychotic, so it was nice to know at least he wasn't listening to me. Then he wrote a diagnosis of depression/anxiety and gave me Prozac. A couple of weeks later I was in a restaurant and he walked in, looked horrified and ran out again. Actually, that's pretty funny isn't it? Maybe I should have gone after him making animal noises or something.

But I'm not sure if I can live anymore. I keep having nightmares that my Aunt dies. She's had a stroke and heart attack. She wants me to go back and AI really can't imagine living in that house. Things are so expensive. I couldn't afford to do anything. I couldn't sign on. The damage to my joints would almost certainly show up on tests now, so if I could drug myself enough to get through them all I could get disability. But then what for? No web site, no writing, no chance, I make no difference in the world.

These letters and cards keep arriving from Japan. I haven't looked at them for the past two years, but I sit and cry about them, I've thought of her

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everyday and it didn't work out. There has been no one else since. I'm crippled and failed. The whole time I was dreaming of a huge book deal, get a nice place to live and send her an invite, and now it can never be. She must have someone else by now. It really hurts to see her post. I'm insane about the whole thing. Sometimes I see a Japanese tourist in the street and I think I'm going to cry.

I started coughing up blood too.

I finished a print book proposal too and have just received thirty rejections.

I really can't think what to do. I decided to end it a few days ago. I was a relief and I was really happy in the morning. In the afternoon I went on the Internet to find out how to inflict a wound to do it, and was really surprised how hard this is going to be. A razor is really ineffective. I keep managing asphyxiation, pressing my throat to imagine what it would be like. I could go to Belgium and ask for euthanasia for mental anguish and incurable creepiness, but they'll want joint and liver tests and I 'm too weird for normal conversations let alone something like that.

On 22nd February it will be ten years exactly since I left. The next day is her birthday (in Japan).

All I can think to do is go back. If the stress doesn't kill me, go through the diaries, photos, my entire past, scan it all, send the whole thing to Japan so I don't own anything. Put a note on the web site that I'm not available for counseling, take down the payment buttons on my book and make it for free — then go somewhere and finish it with a blanket. It's also difficult because I don't want it to be in England. I had such an awful life there. What if I go back and the stress doesn't kill me but I get sick really quickly, don't have time to get out and end up in the NHS without the means to finish it myself. They'll watch me dying slowly and say it was my fault.

I haven't had a single conversation since March, when I met someone and chatted about computers for a few hours in a restaurant. Before that it was years since I talked. Bits of my teeth have gone black and fell out and I'm too weird for the dentist. This is how I've ended up. I'm a mad man, completely alone wandering round the streets muttering to myself, slapping myself in the room, possibly dying anyway. The most isolated person in the whole world running a web–site that coaches people to be happy.

I can't think of anything I could possibly want that could be worthwhile.

Any ideas?

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Dream Diary

This is my personal dream diary. I began recording my dreams around fifteen years ago. I'm now posting an on–going diary on–line to illustrate my new method of interpretation, which is explained in another section of this site.

To better understand the meaning of each dream you might check the diary section of this site to see my circumstances at the time of the dream.

NOTE: In the dreams themselves, a paragraph transition specifically shows that the scene of the dream changed. that makes them slightly harder to read but it makes it easier to see the various scenic transitions in each dream. (Note always followed).

7th November 1999.

Dark Millennium

I was in a hotel in an unspecified Asian country reading a computer magazine and thinking of all the free programmes that came on the CD. There was a computer before me and I was looking forward to playing it. Then a boy came up to me. He was excitedly telling me about something he had from nineteen eleven'? or something like that. He seemed to want to show me something but I didn't understand so I told him to go and get it. He went away and returned with something that looked like an old record. There was then another foreigner there and he played it to see what it was. When it played it was like a video. The TV showed a childrens' propgramme from Nepal with Nepali presenters showing Nepali children life–size models of Nepali rickshaws but they had British flags all over them for some reason.

There I was in Panjim, the capital of Goa (South India(where I was thinking of spending the millennium)). I stood on a street corner and two friends arrived, one man and one woman. I was shocked that they had planned for us all to go up in a light–aircraft. I thought I'd better change my trousers, and when the man saw I had a joint disease he kept trying to help me, but was

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really annoying and kept pushing my head down. We had to get a move on because it was the night of the millennium and he was Scottish and wanted to celebrate. We saw some kind of Scottish pub but he had an unstated objection to it, perhaps because it was so rowdy. He wanted to go to an Irish pub. We went to neither but started running for some reason. While we were running the woman gave me a large amount of money that she said she owed me; it was in a money–belt that looked exactly like a pollution–mask. I asked her if she'd stay with me until I transferred it to my own money belt but she hesitated because it was dark already and there was nowhere to do it safely. All this time we were running. We then ran into a restaurant. It had a huge wall as a kind of dead end and there was no where else to go. The man grabbed me and started theatrically dancing with me. I was vaguely aware of people looking at me but was very drunk all of a sudden. I looked and saw there was a path ahead that lead away but was so drunk it wobbled and was hazy in my vision. We realised it was nearly midnight and we lay down in each others arms. I was vaguely disappointed he wasn't female but when I thought about it, it wasn't that bad.

Interpretation

I think this is generally about being single. The first part with the computer represents me here in asia, living and working on computers. Before I was into them I used a typewriter and didn't get on so well career wise. the part with the child shows that even though life is better now as I work efficiently, I still don't fit in as I wasn't born here. though I am an Asian, I can never get away from the fact that I was brought up in Europe.

I think the part in Goa shows I was planning to go there for the New Year (I'm not now) and it's essentially an English resort. I find the man annoying because I don't fit in with Europeans now, especially the English as we decide against the rowdy pub, and that's how Goa is at New Year.

We start running and the woman gives me money she owes me in a pollution mask. I think that means that I'm rabidly single since the last time (and first) someone broke my heart! The pollution mask means I avoid every one and all social contact, owing the money could mean owed time in that I've not really spoken to anyone for years.

We run into the restaurant and the man dances with me. I suppose it represents being so single. There's a path ahead but I'm avoiding things and don't see it. I'm not sure about being happy with my male companion in the end. It could mean I've settled for second best, or it could mean, if you're going to be single for life, start liking it!

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25 November 1999

Drowning in Multiples

I was in a lounge type room with a psychologist. He was trying to hang a mirror on a piece of string suspended across the room. He tried for ages but it kept falling down as it was hard to balance. He got very frustrated but managed to keep a professional calm. I walked to the next room to see where the string was tied. I thought I would re–hang it, but I couldn't untie it because it was tied with lots of little knots that were too tight to undo.

Then I was out in the street, on my way to the station to travel south. I saw a shop selling coats and realised I wouldn't need one in the south because it would be much warmer. While I was walking round the streets I saw a woman limping and felt a kind of empathy with her.

Then it was night; I was in the country standing by a riverbank. I looked to my left and saw a hotel or restaurant. I wasn't sure, but it looked like an actual hotel I know in Baga, Goa, where I was planning to go for the millennium. There were some people there but it looked closed. Then I started walking right... without walking, I'm not sure how but it was like there was some kind of vehicle beneath me. I looked in the river and saw it was full of thousands of rabbits running across the river bed without drowning. I kept going closer and closer to the edge, kind of tempting fate to see if I would fall in. I thought to myself, 'don't panic' and stayed calm as I started to the shore. There was an unexpectedly strong current that kept me away from the bank. I realised I might not make it, and suddenly felt a huge terror. I kept repeating 'I don't want to die, I don't want to die'.

The fear woke me up.

Interpretation

This dream really persuaded me not to go to Goa for New Year. The physiologist part shows my inner–problems are very deep–rooted and I'd probably feel bad amid all the drunken festivities.

The going south part lets me know it's about my plans to go to Goa. Seeing the woman limping is telling me that I'd feel left out in the south where everybody's partying because of my joint disease and not being able to join in due to the pain. As a last warning, I arrive in Goa and the rabbits in the river represent my painful thoughts. I coax them and fall in, then panic. I think it's saying, if I was in Goa for the New Year, once it passed and I settled there to work, I'd become depressed.

So over–all it tells me not to go for a party at New Year, so soon after this I booked a ticket to Bodhgaya, the Buddist site, and now shall have a religious New Year.

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I've just looked at this again (July 2000). Another way to look at is is that the first part in the psychologists lets me know the following is about deep seated problems. Not needing the coat and the disabled woman could be that I avoid people as I'm unable to explain my experience of illness/disability but hope I could 'shed the shell' with someone in the same circumstances. The rabbit part means that where ever I go, I have to take my mind with me.

28th November 1999

Good it's Gone

I was in a very expensive restaurant lying down on a sofa. Someone came up to me and they said they were making my bill up now as I wasn't a guest. I got the feeling that I wasn't very welcome. When the bill came I noticed it included a short piece of miscellaneous writing from my Aunt, being a hoarder it was the kind of thing I would have stuck in my scrapbook. They took it away and I felt a little bad it was gone and that I should have kept it, but then realised that it didnn't really matter.

Then I was in Anjuna, a famous Goan beach I planned to be at soon. I paid for a room and started relaxing, but then other people arrived and I realised I was supposed to share the room. I got mad and checked out.

NOTE: When I had this dream I also vaguely recalled a dream I had years ago, but I could only recall the atmosphere and a very hazy scene. I got the very strong feeling that my mind was trying to send me a message.

Interpretation

The last part of this is saying again not to go to Goa. The first part refers to my new way of working. Since my bag was recently stolen I've kept alot less keepsakes than I used to, and I don't keep notebooks, everything goes straight on the computer. Sometimes I feel bad about it. I suppose the dream tells me not to.

18 December 1999

New Year Bliss

I was travelling away from Delhi on the train and got off too soon at the wrong stop. I walked up some stairs but was too embarrassed to reboard the train so I just watched it as it pulled out the station. I climbed up a wall but my legs were too weak to get myself over. A man pushed me from behind to help, when I turned to look at him he appeared annoyed that no one had helped me.

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It was New Years Eve and J had turned up alone to see me. I told her that since we parted there wasn't a day that I didn't think about ther (true). We went up to the roof to spend the midnight hour together. We looked at the moon but as the new millenium approached I told her I'd rather be looking into her eyes at midnight. I did, and as we entered 2000 I felt I was in paradise.

Interpretation

The first part shows my changed plans of not going straight to Goa, but waiting in Delhi, then going to Bodhgaya. I suppose it suggests the decision was also related to my health. The second part is pure wish–fiulfilling escapism!

11th Jan 2000

Marathon

I was in a car driving in some kind of marathon. I started off in the UK but was soon in Asia somehow. I was with someone and we had to stop on a tropical beach because some Canadian astronauts had been accused of rape.

We were soon on our way again and came to a wooden bridge with beautiful Oriental features. I was thrilled to be somewhere so exotic.

Then I was in a hotel, checking in. There was a polished wooden cabinet and someone asked me why I had brought it. I told them it was my brothers.

Interpretation

I think the marathon represents the seven year trip I've been on since I left England seven years ago, hence my car is suddenly in Asia. The Canadian rape part probably refers to J. who had studied in Canada and became negative concerning relationships there as she was badly cheated on. The rape part means how the experience of knowing her changed me.

Then I'm on an Oriental bridge that is beautiful, meaning since that time I've kind of lost the wonder of travelling that I had when I first began my 'marathon'.

Then in a hotel the large cabinet represents settled roots. It's my brothers rather than mine, which is teling me when I know deep down, though I have bad periods, I can never really settle and lead such a decorum life as it would kill me.

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NOTE: I'm changing the format the dreams are written in from this point as the paragraphs become to long sometimes. Now a complete change in the scenery of a dream will be indicated by full paragraph space. But a sentence that is indented on it's own line but touching the paragraph above will be included to indicate change without a scenic transition, to improve readability.

16th January 2000 (In Colva, South India)

Resting at a Crossroads

I was travelling along in a rickshaw and the driver noticed a woman he liked the look of, and so he started following her up a quiet road and out into the country. Then he said I'd have to get out and walk.

I walked following the woman but suddenly realised that the driver was on a different road. I went over to him and we met at a cross–roads. I started to get in but I got the intuition that he wanted to rest for a while. I asked him and he said he did, so we rested.

Interpretation

I think it means that when we're younger we structure much of what we do and how we act to impress people and find a mate. The dream leaves me to rest at a cross–roads while I ponder ideas of a future living with disregard to the opinions of others.

15 February 2000

Anarchy

I saw a child run over and get killed, though when I went over it had an unreal appearance, like a child's doll. I ran about directing traffic and felt people needed me to be doing this, it seemed important that I do it well. I looked about me and realised that there were people and cars all over the place pushing and shoving in a state of absolute chaos.

Interpretation

I think this refers to the work I'm doing on the web site at the minute. It's in a state of chaos as I rewrite and redesign the main parts and it feels chaotic because nothing's linked together yet and each day I work on a separate part. I carry on as I feel it's needed and may do some good.

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15 February 2000

An Answer

I was lying in a strange bed. I had my eyes closed and saw there was

a rotating spiral on the third eye on my forehead. I realised that I could push my consciousness through if I wanted. As soon as I tried the middle of the spiral show forward but the outer stayed where it was so the whole thing became a swirling tunnel, my soul shot through it. I looked down at my sleeping body, then went somewhere but I can't remember where.

Then I returned to my body.

NOTE: I had this dream on the third day after my left shoulder became paralysed and had fell asleep praying for a cure.

Interpretation

Considering the circumstances, I think that's self–explanatory.

24th February 2000 (The day after J's birthday, meaning I would have had the dream that evening)

Fortune Fisher

It was night time and I was fishing in a river. I looked up on a bridge and I saw man laughing at his friend. He said he was too fat and his ideas to catch fish wouldn't work. Then he (the one who was laughing) caught a fish. he pulled it out the water and it really glistened silver. He looked at its side and said there were 'divine numbers' on it. he added them up and was able to read his friend's fortune by them.

Then I was at a computer, I was writing about it. I stood up to get something scanned but when I went back to my seat there was someone it in. I was a little mad but I realised there was still an off–line computer I could use.

Interpretation

I'm fairly certain that this relates to my present practice of trying to reach the sub–conscious while falling asleep and the barrier is low. Being to fat probably means laziness on my part, than I don't focus enough or try hard enough. The bridge the men stand on is likely a symbol of the connection

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between the conscious and unconscious. The numbers on the fish I'm not sure, but it could be saying that if I can be less lazy and master the technique then my fortune would be changed. This is confirmed by the reference to off–line, as when I finish my current work on the site I'll write it up as a book–proposal, offline, so it might be saying I could be helped with that. Hope so!

11th March 2000

Never–Ending Loop

I was in 'Step–In' restaurant, a place in Goa run by Tibetans. There was a new, smaller Chinese food place actually opened within Step–In itself.

I stood up and realised I was naked, but it didn't bother me, though I was worried the Tibetan owner would be annoyed at me.

I looked at the sign for the Chinese place and was annoyed it was there and decided never to eat there.

Then I was at the computer centre. I asked if they could turn the music off as it had been the same song, over and over since morning.

Interpretation

I was in China a few years ago and never quite got over the experience, basically the rudeness and over–charging. I kind of left with a chip on my shoulder. I don't do it consciously, but I'm always tutting when I read of the various abuses of the Chinese government and I get annoyed, also here in Goa, my current locations, there are a lot of Tibetans, and they always remind my of the Chinese government as they don't fit in here and don't seem happy. So I spend some of my time just thinking bad thoughts, which is of course no good to anyone. The song is playing too many times. Change the tune. Yep, I get the message. Everyone is an individual; you can't judge people by race or gender. I shall remove the chip and move on!

13th March 2000

The Outside Foreigner

I was in a Caucasian country with someone who knew me. I was walking along a high street when I accidentally knocked down a board that was advertising a Chinese restaurant. It fell awkwardly under a parked car and it was too hard to retrieve it. I was annoyed and left it.

We went to a shop and the owner told me I had knocked down the sign. I said in an irritated voice that it was too difficult to replace it. My

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companion called and I looked to see that they had found a tube of toothpaste that had my name on, the owner and my friend laughed.

I left the shop and went back to the sign. The car had driven away so I was able to replace it. As I did the Chinese owner came out. He asked me to eat in the restaurant and recited a list of the dishes. I was non–committal, but inside I was thinking that I wouldn't go because I didn't like Chinese food.

I was looking at a shop my Aunt leases to Asians but couldn't see in. I walked onto the post office. There was an old Indian woman there and I was shocked as that place had always been run by someone white.

Then I was in a house that I used to live at in England. Even though it was in the same location with the same view of the English street, somehow that was India now (hey, this is a dream). I was on the Internet. I looked at a page all about Canada, then realised that the Indian woman from the post office had written it. I was confused as I couldn't see why she would write about Canada.

An Indian woman made a pass at me and the whole scene became incredibly vivid. The Indian neighbours looked at us unapprovingly. I went to the front door and saw sacred cows all over our neighbours' front garden. I fumbled for a camera but I was too late and they went away. The woman asked me why I wanted to take a picture and I told her you wouldn't see sacred cows roaming round like that in England. She laughed and jokingly hit me, saying there are always so many cows because they're sacred.

Interpretation

This is very obviously about racial identity. When I grew up as a Eurasian (half–Indian) in England I kind of identified with any Asian, even Arabs or Chinese. If anything more so South East Asians as there were more where I lived.

When I left the country I stopped feeling I was all Asians when I was in China and realised I was very unchinese. So since I've lived in India I'm more at home and feel 100% Indian. But I'm still not really accepted by Indian people.

Knocking over the Chinese sign shows my rude awakening – I am not all Asians. Getting angry in the shop shows that the fact bothers me. The toothpaste is about my name. I was given an Asian name at birth but changed it at 16 to a western name as I felt I'd be less affected by racism (passing). I gave myself the most mundane name I could think of.

But now I live in India and the name on my passport is just foreign to the person I now am. The Chinese man tries to get me to go and eat, but by now I know I'll only ever be Indian.

Not seeing the Indians shows I was brought up by Caucasians, with no link to Asian culture. The Asian in the post office is a reference to the

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racism around me as a child, various comments even from my family. I was expected to consider myself white.

The house is English in India meaning I'm not completely free of 'Europeaness'. The shocked Indian neighbours shows some of my attitudes are western, and not understanding the sacred cows shows trouble, 'seamlessly blending' into India.

Wednesday 15th March 2000

Silent Therapy

I was walking down some stairs and below a man had to step out the way to let me pass. As he did he made some sarcastic comment. I was so angry I walked back up to get to the shop another way.

I got to the beer/wine shop. The whiskey I wanted wasn't there so the owner went to get it. While he was gone I looked at the stationary he was selling and found a folder that would be perfect to send home a book proposal.

The owner returned with the whiskey but tried to over–charge. I went mad, screaming abuse and stomped off.

I went to another beer/wine shop and purchased my bottle. When I paid I kept getting the money wrong. I laughed with the owner and said it was because I had just had an argument and couldn't think straight. By then I could see the funny side.

I walked to where the computers were and sat down to use them. A man next to me kept trying to make conversation but I found him annoying.

Then I went to rest in the sitting area. By chance there were three people that I kind of knew around me. They were talking and revealing that they all concealed the fact that they had joint disease. They would each discuss experiences and feelings like mine; it was almost like therapy. I felt understood, especially when one comment was something like 'some people can sit and talk like this, and some are destined by nature to be quiet but will still be healed in their own way.

But then I saw a scheming individual I don't like. I realised it had all been set up for my benefit. She whispered to me that her friend could do private healing if I wanted. I was incensed, swore at her and stomped home.

I got home and was annoyed to find non–English speaking family had moved into my room; I considered complaining.

I went to sleep. Upon awakening there was a Jamaican woman cleaning the window of the private balcony. I was mad as I was sleeping naked. I sat up and realised the entire family were on the balcony staring at my nakedness.

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I went to the shower but someone was in there. One of the family members came to me and said they wanted to invite me to a restaurant. I wasn't sure but they seemed nice enough, so I said yes.

Interpretation

The first part shows I sometimes keep people away with my irritability. I get very annoyed by other peoples' dishonesty. Being annoyed when someone makes conversation is my usual reaction when people try to make conversation with me. The therapy part means... I'm not sure. Maybe I avoid people, but not speaking doesn't bother me so much.

I think the last part is just telling me to be more open to people.

UPDATE: SEPTEMBER 2000. Actually, this is the second time I've drempt of turning the web–site into a book proposal. There's a later dream which suggests that if it were published I wouldn't be able to be so private. It could also be advising me to write it from the point of view of my own struggle.

Monday 20th March 2000

Many Journeys

I was crossing the border to Bangladesh, where (as I write this) I'm thinking of going. I went to a little stall and wanted to buy food but couldn't as everyone was trying to over–charge me. Out of spite, I told them that I only ever eat plain rice anyway. I saw some cigarettes and was glad I don't smoke any more.

I left but outside I realised I didn't have my bag with me. I went back and someone had put it up on the letterbox. I looked inside and my camera was missing with all my New Year pictures. I was upset that I had never got round to 'vandalising' it.

I was in an open–air shop with tables selling things set in a spiral shape, so that you would visit each one sequentially and ends up in the middle which is where the tills were. I thought that life is like that, you have to go through various experiences and after that you end up cashing in those experiences. The name of the shop was: 'Journeys'.

Interpretation

This dream tells me not to run away from hard experiences. I don't buy anything in the shop and say I only eat plain rice, that's like the way I've given up tea, coffee, smoking etc. as it's easier to not need these things

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because of all the times I've been ripped off trying to buy them. Vandalising my camera means exactly that, since I was badly robbed so many times I am in the habit of vandalising everything I own, I get a knife, correction fluid, and in a few moments can render something usable to me but worthless to a thief. Since I was robbed of almost everything in November, all I own is a twenty–dollar camera. And I haven't got round to vandalising it yet.

But the next part tells me that life is a journey, we have to go through various experiences, some of them perhaps pre–ordained. As it is I have set my life up free of addictions, possessions etc. and am now rarely hurt, but I'm not on the journey I'm supposed to be on. I think it means, stop running and start living.

23rd March 2000

Universal Friend

I was in Panaji (the state capital of Goa) and won a bag of coins. Someone told me it was worth 100,000 dollars. I was blase as I knew it was Indian soft currency and was really worth a lot less.

Then I was in Delhi with an Australian man I once knew in the Philippines briefly, years ago. But in the dream we had stayed friends and met up a few times all around South East Asia. Now we were in a restaurant in Delhi. We talked then sat in silence and I felt incredibly close to him. I thought that if I had his e–mail address we could be friends forever and meet all over the world.

I walked on alone to the computer centre and realised I was naked. An old Chinese woman had a bow and arrow; a foreigner tried to buy it.

I went to a bank with my 100,000 dollars, they told me it was worth 30,000. I accepted that but saw them later outside and argued with them.

Interpretation

This ones a tad more difficult to understand. I think the first part reflects on my tendencies to be a recluse. As I travel all over, am likely always too – and the kind of person whom good–byes tear–up inside, I'm just in the habit of avoiding all kinds of friendship. I've barely spoken to anyone outside my family for six years. There's no one I've known longer than three days. Actually only one person comes to mind, an Israeli I knew for a couple of days about four years ago.

I think the first part says there's the chance of making an occasional long–term friend. We would travel apart but there's e–mail and anyone can always see what I'm up to via the web–page, then we could meet up again. The dream is telling me to avoid paranoically avoiding everyone.

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The money part I'm not sure. Nakedness often represents honesty in dreams, an arrow represents love. I think that part means be honest and accept that I don't wish to fall in love with someone the way I did when I was younger. But I'm really not sure about the money. It may just relate to how difficult it is to be a freelancer in India?

Undated

The Unneeded Fish

I was in an unspecified place with my mother and we had to cross a bridge. We tried but it was too high as the steps leading to it didn't reach. Then M. found a way to bend tree branches that could get her across. I was about to go but saw a fish in the river. I jumped in and swam round trying to catch it for some reason I seemed to believe I needed it before I could cross the bridge.

Interpretation

Again, fish here symbolise a relationship. Mother and I both had relationships break up (she's divorced). She got over it but the dream suggests that I (unconsciously) think I need a new relationship to be free.

NOTE: I then fell asleep for a few hours and had the following dream.

Just Dreaming

I was with J. She came to me and we decided to start a relationship. I told her about the time (in real life) that she was in some kind of trouble and I came out my body astrally and saw her, and the event was later verified by her letter (that's a true thing that actually happened). I told her I was so upset that she had never mentioned it again when it was so serious to me. She talked about the life she had lived with Kim (her true love at the time I knew her). Then we were on a boat and I told her there wasn't a day I hadn't thought about her and how much I love her (True).

Interpretation.

Probably this dream just clarifies the meaning of the earlier dream.

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Near the End of May 2000

No Insurance

I was in a car driving with mother. I asked if I was insured to drive it and she told me not to worry as I was unlikely to crash in the next five minutes.

Interpretation

Meaning, I can't aford to support myself yet, not helped by going crippled, and there's no reason to assume there's any long term provision for me.

Undated

Baby Jacket

I was on the shore of a river and had to get on a boat. I did but was really scared. I went down to the hold and my Aunt (who brought me up) was there. I was still scared and she said I could have a life–jacket. The first one she offered me was made out of Barbie dolls but I didn't like it, so she replaced it with one made out of plastic babies. I put it on. We were supposed to cross over to another boat which was safer as the one we were on was leaking. I was too frightened. I told her and she said it was OK then we would just stay where we were.

Interpretation

I think this means that my Aunt brought me up but in a protected way, always allowed to run away from things. For example, I remember once, it was the school holidays and she took me to a holiday camp. We arrived and I didn't know any of the kids there, so she said I could come home. I know that's a trite example, but I was always allowed to walk away from anything I didn't like. I don't feel bad or anything, it's just a karmic lesson I chose to learn in this lifetime.

I think the life jacket represents ways we make ourselves safe. Refusing the Barbies but taking the babies represents my celibacy, avoidal of connecting with anyone. It's not an act of spirituality but an act of fear/self–protection. I protect myself from the potential pain of life my not living it, of love by not feeling it. Yes, I'm both poetic and pathetic.

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28 June 2000

Lazy

I was at Amazone computer centre where I'm currently working (in Calcutta). In the bathroom I had an accident and the toilet caught fire. I felt really awful as the whole thing had melted. Apparently I had a job there. The owners didn't seem very pleased with me, so I lie down and felt guilty.

Interpretation

This refers to laziness. I am currently working in Amazone and was finishing work, but currently I started sleeping at abnormal times, staying awake most of the night, so I'm working less rather than finishing there. The toilet refers to waste, feeling guilty and letting everyone down is self–explanatory. Lying down is a direct reference to sleeping when I shouldn't. Also it's Thursday tomorrow as I write this and that's a half–day, so I'm unlikely to work tomorrow also.

8 July 2000

Difference

I was in a restaurant and the food was awful. I started shouting at the

waiter and we ended up at a police station., When we got there it turned into an olg rogue 'friend', Darren. I waited to see someone and spotted him planting drugs on me. I picked them out my bag and threw them away and some people saw me. I left in a van and waited somewhere quiet. I sat and wondered if maybe I just shouldn't forget about my bag and the police and leave because my bag was still there and he could be planting more stuff in there.

Then I was in a kind of communal living room, like you get in hostels. Junko was with me and the rest were Japanese people, mostly youngish but not–westernised or speaking English. In the dream J and I were only friends. Everybody was looking round sizing each other up. I think it was everybodys first night there. J was leaning against me, but someone suggested that everyone was looking round trying to guess who had coupled/slept with who the previous night. When she heard that she sat up to be a little further from me.

Then I was in the same room looking round for Junko (she was gone). Another Japanese woman saw me and when she realied whom I was looking for, she smiled.

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Interpretation

The first part possibly refers to being friendless in England. The second scene, I think, would mean that J was a very westernised person. As I dreamt this I was in Calcutta and I often see Japanese people around and get wistful/sad, but they are very different to her, in attitude, looks, everything. I think it means ... stop being an idiot.

27 July 2000

Derailed

I was watching some trains. One of them went over a bridge and de–railed.

I was coming down some stairs and I saw my moneybelt on the floor. I carried on going down and saw Anne. I was angry she could have dropped it. She said she was old and these things couldn't be helped. I was angry as she could have told me before she took the belt from me.

Interpretation

This first part says I have spent too long here in Calcutta where I currently am, and should get on, move, and start another writing project.

The second part is about financial dependency. I am currently dependent, I'm spoiled and have never wanted for anything. This was fine when I was younger, but it's not so much fun now as I have trouble making any kind of living. Maybe part one and two are related, meaning I should move on and work hard as I don't have forever to make it.

28 July 2000

Black Nazis

I was in gold regency in Delhi. The woman over–charged me and I was annoyed but didn't say anything. I heard a load of noise coming from outside. When I looked there was a Nazi demonstration by Caucasians in swastikas giving nazi salutes. Some Indians were joining in and I was shocked, A man told me they had joined the Caucasian nazi party.

I ran upstairs to get away from them. There was an English policeman there, he made me jump but I was glad that he wasn't one of the demonstrators.

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Interpretation

This is about racial identity (again, oh god, it's really an issue with me isn't it). I am overcharged by the Indian, so I come to India and am treated badly, like a walking moneybelt, by the locals sometimes, and I'm subject to racism in England. I run inside (of myself) and in a way, life is not so black and white and there's certain aspects of Europeaness that have done well for me.

11th August 2000

Lost Privacy

NOTE: This dream occurred in Ghorakpur, North India, just after I had left the Buddhist site in Kushingar where I had prayed for help to write a book proposal.

The book proposal I am writing had been published, but it had been put under the pen name of Marion. I was worried as I hadn't chosen the name marion and also I hadn't been paid yet. I worried if someone called Marion had pirated the work.

I went to a book shop and looked for my work but couldn't find it.

I went back to my flat (which I don't own in reality). There were two spys going through my stuff, one Indian, one Russian. The Russian one had reread a web essay I've actually written in real life Confessions which is basically a site I wrote to a friend after becoming severely depressed after giving up smoking in March 2000. It's a really intimate, truthful and gloomy ranting of self–doubt. In the dream the Russian spy thought he had found something really meaty, an big secret, but it's already published on the web, so I wasn't too upset.

I went to the bus station for a trip. When I got there the Russian was there and going to the same place. I went to the ticket window to check the time of the bus, the woman acted as though she was annoyed, like it was obvious that the bus would be on time and there was no need to check the time.

I arrived there and it was some kind of shopping centre. The Russian was there spying on me, using a cover that he was an assistant in one of the shops.

I settled into a hotel room, then went out. The Indian was there in a rickshaw ready to follow me. I found the whole thing rather humorous, and thought about jumping in with him and asking for a lift as a joke.

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Interpretation

The first part is either a warning of something literal that might happen, or saying that I don't like my present name (a western name I changed to in 1986 from my Asian name). Looking for the book shows my name doesn't match my identity and I want a new one (a pen name I mean).

The part about the bus obviously being on time might be saying the time has come for the work to be published (though that could be wishful thinking).

26 August 2000

Choices

I was sitting in a road saying goodbye to a friend. I saw a taxi driver who was going to the Nepalese border, which in the dream was also the border with Pakistan. I said I was interested in going and he introduced me to the foreigner who was his fare. He said I could come and we'd split the fare. We left but had to stop over in a house owned by a Chinese family.

Then it was time to go. His father arrived. Now it wasn't Nepal and Pakistan in the same place, it was only Pakistan. I explained to them that I needed a new passport and visa and so would have to stay there a long time, and so didn't want to go to Pakistan any more. His father said I'd miss out then as when they travel together they usually have a great and unique time, but OK, it was my choice.

Interpretation

Very hard to say. My current Indian visa expires on November 30th. I have to renew it in Nepal or Pakistan. neither places give them out again if you've already had one, so I'll have to renew my passport, but even then it's not guaranteed. Rather than suggest a choice, I think the dream just outlines my dilemma.

27 August 2000

Next Lesson

I was on a computer in a cybercafe. The person in charge upgraded me to a superior room. My sister was there with a friend. They wanted to go to the toilet but it was occupied. My sister couldn't wait and decided to go outside.

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Interpretation

Being upgraded possibly means moving onto another stage in life via working on the book proposal. My sister going outside means the next lesson in my life is to open up to people. I think this dream is related to the privacy dream earlier. They're both saying that if the proposal is accepted and does well, then I'd have to mingle in society more and have people know all about me.

31 August 2000

Neutered Desire

I was walking along my old town in England (Northampton, actually it was just past the war memorial on the Wellingborough Road), but somehow it was India at the same time. There were people everywhere and I tried to imagine if I was alone and the streets were empty. Then I realised that it was the people around me that made me like the place. I heard someone say hello as I passed and realised it was my brother, he was shocked that I didn't recoginse him. I acknowledged him and kept walking.

Then I was at my Aunts house. I had a photo of my Uncle (who died years ago of cancer of the spine). In it, all his eye was iritated and swolen. My Aunt said that he was ill at the time and they had taken the photo because if you don't have proof you were in pain then the insurance doesn't pay up.

Someone came to the front door. I realised it was Darren. That's someone I used to know ten years ago. He would always ask to borrow money, and also stole things from me – he was in prison for various things. I shouted at my brother not to let him in but it was too late. He came to me with a leaflet saying he was collecting donations for charity and would I give some. I marched him down the front gate, threw him out, bolted it and told him never to return.

I was in Goa, South India. There was a bitch on heat and three or four dogs fighting viciously over her. I realised she was my dog. I took her to the vet and we decided for her to be neutered to avoid the violence.

Interpretation

England is also India, so the dream obviously sets a contrast between the life I had there and the life I have here, or perhaps the person I am. I settled in India because of the people, which I never really considered before but I suppose is true.

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I saw my brother, but didn't recognise him, nor stop to speak. That means living in Asia has totally changed me and I'm fairly Asian, whereas my brother is very English in many ways (we're both first generation).

There are three more parts to the dream. One is throwing out a no good friend, the other is stopping violence by having a dog neutered. The first part shows my bruised uncle claiming insurance. This says, very clearly I think, that things hurt me in the past, like an false friend, relationships, and my insurance policy of not being hurt again is not to put up in life with things/situations/people that don't make me happy. In England I just endured people stealing from me or the like, now I would immediately leave them. I've learnt to be tough like that because I've been through the pain. Like my uncle, he had the pain and received the insurance. The dream essentially says that India had made me stronger like this. It again refers to my being single, not really negatively or positively, but just pointing out that it was to avoid pain.

13 September 2000

Avalanche Guilt

I was at Mother's house in England, leading a sacred cow around the living room and comparing it to my mother. I said that although the cow is here with me and Mother is not, Mother has a kind of redeeming, long–staying loyalty.

Then I was with a woman who was buried under snow in an avalanche. My body wasn't there, only my consciousness watching her. Even though she was trapped, there was enough air there for her to breath. Her mother had been flown in to be with her and she was talking to her from outside the snow.

Then there was another avalanche. I was calm, with this kind of inner–knowing that she would be OK, like when you know deep–down what is about to occur in a dream. I was shocked when the snow kept on coming and she was crushed to death.

With my consciousness now trapped in the snow I realised that mu consciousness will get the same kind of hallucinations, but if I recognise it as a projection of my own mind I'll be OK.

Interpretation

It basically says that Mother wasn't a saint, leaving me to grow up alone sometimes, but now the guilt of financial dependence is crushing me. The after–life part is likely literal. Perhaps saying not to get all cut up about it as everything is a lesson in life.

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18 September 2000

Dud TNT

I was in India watching someone do this kind of trick where they could get cows to lick each other. I walked by and saw they were aroused (sexually).

Then I was in Gilbert's house (A shopkeeper I know in Goa). Here he was playing with toys. I thought it was nice that he could have a decent childhood rather than having to work in the shop.

Then I was pillion on a motorbike, learning to ride it. I got the hang of it and was learning to ride it alone. I went to the wine shop and bought a bottle. I rode to a place in a forest. I saw a bomb with the fuse burning. I ran about like mad to get away but ended up doubling back near where I had been. I ran out to the path but the bomb turned out to be a dud. I continued walking on foot.

Interpretation

Possibly the cow part (Why am I dreaming of cows all the time now?) shows how much I dreamed of finding romance when I was a kid.

Gilbert means travelling round Asia and making up for my childhood.

The bike could mean speeding up writing the synopsis I'm now working on. The whiskey and dud bomb show the poor work I've put in so far, and drinking instead of working of late.

Late??? September 2000

Read, read, read

On a rooftop restaurant where I live, a boy was writing a book. She told him that if you want to write then you must read, read, read.

A few days later I dreamt I was reading 'The Bridge' by Iain banks.

Interpretation

This refers to the vow taken at the start of this year to not read fiction (after an unlucky spate of bad books), only to read something that can practically help me.

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But I want to write a novel after the synopsis and it's basically saying I've got to read fiction to be in touch with the craft

A few days later I'm suggested a book that actually exists. I didn't know it did but I only even remembered the dream when I was actually in the bookshop looking at it!

Note : Due to losing a notebook at Sunauli (Ah, I left it at the monmey–changer) five or six dreams are missing.

Date: Late September 2000

Writing Advice

I was on the roof–top restaurant of Anoop Hotel, New Delhi. A woman was telling a boy, If you want to learn to write, you have to read, read, read.

Interpretation

I took a vow against reading fiction anymore because I didn't see the good it did me, though evidently, my mind doesn't agree.

Date: 5 October 2000

Bad Egg

I was in charge of a really old bird that looked diseased. It laid an egg that was horrible deformed. I put in in the nest but in fell in a river. The water was cold and I reaslied it would die, but concluded that would be the best for it, but then I heard it tapping.

Interpretation

No Idea.

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Date: 6 December 2000 (In Pokhara, Nepal)

Two Down

I received two rejection letters from publishers concerning my book proposal Quantum Happiness. I said to myself, only Piatkus is left now.

Interpretation

Literal.

Date: 9 Dec 2000

Occupied

I was with Junko. She held me because I was sick and crippled. It was night time. Although I was in her arms, there wasn't really any passion.

Then I was travelling somewhere up a hill. Some people were saying that it might be occupied by soldiers but it should be OK.

Suddenly people started running down saying the army was definitely occupying it. I ran back down with some foreigners and when we were finally safe, we rested.

Interpretation

This explains that J's loyalty is out of sympathy. I was about to write her a load of letters thinking it would make her happy. It tells me she's occupied with her life.

Date: 16 December 2000

Beach

I was without a top in a beach restaurant.

Interpretation

When I first got to Pokhara people were mocking me in the street and it got to me. This is telling me to get over the fear of ridicule.

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Date: 18 December 2000

New Fields Required

I was outside the bank in New Delhi, lying on some steps. There was a bag like a sack beneath me. Each time I put my weight on it it made these little explosion sounds. Indian people looked at me curiously.

I opened the bag the there were these medicine type pill capsules. Each time one was dropped or stamped on there would be a little explosion. everyone started playing with them. I found a book in Hindi that explained that the pills were something to do with an ancient fighting system.

Then I was inside some kind of research room that looked a lot like a doctors reception. I had to fill in a form so I could find what i was looking for. I did so and then had to tell the woman my name. I realised that the fields I had to fill in didn't ask for enough information for me to find what I was looking for. I gave them the form and the computer came up with a print–out. Sure enough, it didn't have what i was looking for.

Interpretation

The bank in Delhi had small steps and is the first lace that i started using my crippled leg. I think the dream is maybe pointing out that homeopathy is of limited use. My health problems run a little deeper.

Date: 19 December 2000

Film Change

I was in East meets West restaurant and recognised someone from school. It turns out it was a class reunion. I met my class mates and we all agreed how stupid it was to hold a class reunion in a video restaurant. Outside it was day (suddenly) and there was a huge board saying what the next film change would be, the living dead.

Then I was a dog breeder trying to help two dogs mate and it seemed they didn't know what to do. I kept trying to help it but it kept biting me.

Interpretation

Celibacy don't cut no ice with the sub–conscious, son.

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Date: 22 December 2000

Hotel Hell

I was in a hotel lobby with John Travolta. we were going to go up in a lift but there was an attendant and we wanted to go up alone. We went to the toilet and went to sit on the seat but there was a woman already there defecating. We were embarrassed and we covered our faces with towels.

Then I was alone, on a higher floor of the hotel, looking at a selection of books. I picked up Jokes from the 1980's

Then I was out in a garden. There were broken benches and pots everywhere. Somebody important was about to arrive and so me and some other people were repairing everything the best we could. A man came past and complained that the government never bothered maintaining anything.

Then I was in a shopping centre. there were cows everywhere. They kept trying to ram me so I ran. I ducked into a shop which had hell as it's theme with a woman dressed in black as a theatrical torturer.

Interpretation

As above.

Date: 26 December 2000

Outsider OK

I was with Ronin Bilderbeek and a few of his friends i a type of lounge area of a hotel. His friend asked me what i was doing there in Asia. IU explained that my mission in life was to make people happy. He asked how I justified all the wasted money and years of my being here. I thought to myself 'I don't have to justify that to you.' but I just shrugged.

Then I was in bed in the same hotel. It was night and I realised that the room was revolving.

The next morning I watched people leaving from the window.

Interpretation

This was the day after Christmas when I'd felt quite alone and outside everything that was going on around me. It reassures me that I'm not a back–packer, I have a mission here and it's OK being an outsider.

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Date: 27 December 2000

Concerning Communication

Note: I woke up in extreme pain as had been the case for a long time.

Also, I had a lump sensation in my throat, on and off for two years, but it had been constant recently. I had the intuition that it would be gone now as I ad recently phoned my aunt. When I moved my neck, it had indeed gone.

Then I had an intuitive feeling that there was something wrong with junko in japan and that I should phone her. Then I thought why not phone all your friends.

Then I remembered the following dream:

I was with JF, a woman that I knew when I was with Junko. We were on a bus but it broke down and so I had to carry on alone, on a train. She seemed angry by the breakdown.

Then I was sitting depressed in a restaurant. The owner came up and asked me to tell him the complete truth about myself. I said i was a drunk who had wasted his life. Suddenly a really loud man came up and started talking like an evangelist. he had all the ideas from the Happiness Hike and my web–sites printed on cards and he said i should put my own ideas into practice.

Then I was walking along a street with two women. The evangaising man was telling the women about his philosophy, ut it was all the ideas from my site. I told him and he denied it.

Note 1: I woke up with a feeling that someone had stolen the ideas from my site.

Note 2 : I had the intuition to phone someone upon awakening

Note 3: I awoke with an especially good feeling.

Note 4: I remembered the dream very late in the day, which is rare.

Then i arrived at a shop. I saw a rough looking man outside haggling the price of a book about boxing, though I don't think he bought it. Inside the shop a man was examining a book about how to appreciate art by an artist who's name i don't recall

Date: 28 January 2001

Insufficient Orders

I was the owner of a house and had to collect the rent from my tennant. She kept refusing but eventually gave me a partial amount. I went to the toilet but accidentally dropped my wallet in the bowl.

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Interpretation

Not enough magick is performed upon falling asleep.

Date: 17 February 2001

Bull in a Shop

I was near As You Like supermarket at night. A woman asked me if I could recommend the hotel I was staying at and I said that I'd take her there. But then a bull attacked me, though I was only mildly scared considering.

Then it was the next day. I saw her in garden restaurant with her boyfriend and said hello.

Interpretation

Relax

Date: 20 February 2001

Reluctant Goddess

Junko returned to the UK and we were together. I was happy and my disability didn't seem to matter. then we had some petty argument and she wanted to leave but I wouldn't let her. She spoke to my brother and he helped her to leave. When she was gone I found a book about astrology that I ad planned to give her as a gift. It was a sequel to the actual book that I learned from. It made me feel bad to see it now she was gone, and I wasn't sure if i wanted to read it. Then I heard about a woman who had her genitals removed (I think against her will). I looked and she was there, pinned against the wall and painted as a goddess. Her clitoris was still attatched but spread out in front of her as a huge offering dish.

Interpretation

She never wanted this.

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Some time around Feb

Keep Going

NOTE: I was in Kathmandu when I had this dream. The night before I had been in Pizza Garden restaurant feeling awful, generally about my lack of accomplishment in life. There was some music playing and I thought to myself, if the next song is 'with or without you' then I'll be saved and it's a sign that I should carry on. It wasn't the next song but the one after.

Next day I awoke really early when someone, looking for their friend, came to my door by mistake. I went to the toilet and heard 'With or Without You' playing outside, in the suburbs at 9:00am! I was shocked and recalled a vague dream where someone was comparing me to a 'successful' person, and the person judging us judged us equally as there are different types of success and paths leading to it.

Some time in July

Noticing Me

I was with Junko living together and very happy. Her mother was there and we were like a great family. I had to go out to the shops and when I returned Junko was in the bedroom but the roof was missing and all the rain was coming in.

Then I was looking at her. She was in a huge crowd watching some kind of spectator sport. She was looking around and suddenly noticed me, then smiled and looked happy.

Interpretation

I had fell asleep the night before worrying and sad because she didn't write to me on my 30th birthday, the first time she had ever missed it since I've known her. I think being with her mother represents the time i knew her because her mother was there then. But when it rains means some kind of hard time she's having now (please no). So it might be saying that she suddenly notices me. Maybe she'll get past whatever trouble there might be. I send her energy daily. I think this complements the dream i had at the start of the year saying she was occupied.

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13 July 2001 (Friday 13th)

As the Case May Be

I was at M's old house in England. It was night becoming morning. Geoff phoned to say that my Aunt had died peacefully of unknown causes in her sleep. M. was nearby and I thought about telling her, but decided against it and went out. When I did so I don't think it was in UK, but a scene like a foreign Town/City square. Everything was wrecked and smoking, like there had just been a civil war or revolution or something. I went in a building where the old/previous generals who had been in charge before the trouble had been housed. I saw a room perfect to sit and reflect about things. I went in but a general followed me. He ordered me to make him tea and pointed to a dirty old mug. There was a clean, tall glass next to it. He didn't want that, so I thought fine, it's your problem. I squeezed his tea from a dirty sponge that had been used as a blackboard cleaner; it came out black. He was mad and started shouting, but I was angry by then and stood up for myself.

Interpretation

I've been meditative and reflective for some time now. I trace a lot of my 'weirdness', or shall we say 'moment–to–moment' and various hang–ups to my upbringing with my aunt (not that io blame her as none of us are perfect). Dying is hopefully not literal, but shows the influence of that upbringing waning due to my meditative practice. The civil war/wrecked square is my damaged mind, and the room I want to be reflective in is meditative practice. The general is the neurosis that pushes me around now, and it prefers worthless and distasteful things like the cup – though that doesn't have to be my problem. I can stand up for myself when I want to.

22 July 2001

Travel Unknown

Anne had died. I was then in a car with another man and a vague knowing there were other people present. I think I was travelling with him. Though I didn't want to, I kind of accepted it and it didn't bother me that much. We went to an office where they make guidebooks for travel. We wanted to go in but they wouldn't let us for some reason. They said we could come back another time. They gave us business cards that were really tiny.

NOTE: There was more that followed, which I've forgotten, i have the vague remembrance that it was essentially positive, or at least more positive than this scene, which was set at night.

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Interpretation

Oh cripes. another dream where Anne dies. There's no ominous feeling associated with them though. I think they're possible reassuring (or is that reassuring). Because I'm still unsuccessful career–wise, they possibly tell me that I'll be able to keep going... or do they, why was the business card so small?

27 July 2001

Tedious Game

In the UK, the packet containing the credit card which has recently been lost in Delhi was returned. Anne opened it. The credit card was inside, but the three letters from Junko were missing.

Then I was in Main bazaar, where I am currently living in Delhi. I had earlier left my watch at the bottom of a cliff amid a crowd of people. I recognised someone from there and asked if they had seen it, but they told me they hadn't. I went inside a shop to look at the watches on sale. Then I looked at the Japanese hand–held video–games. One had a screen and you were supposed to drive various vehicles in various ways, but it was a bit boring as nothing ever happened with the vehicles.

Interpretation

This refers to my current situation. Trapped in Delhi with the post containing my credit card and the last three letters from Junko, it just shows frustratuion. The watch refers to the time I was waiting, i.e. six weeks over, the same GPO lost my last post, which is why I haven't received anything for a year and a half, two years if you count for the fact there was nothing for my last birthday, maybe this is why, though an earlier dream said it was otherwise. The game of not going anywhere, I suppose, is literal.

28th July 2001

Paradise Postponed

Junko came here to Delhi and it was total paradise. We talked and I was joyous. She said she had been up to Himachal Pradesh, but it was 'cold on her skin'. Then she had to go and I was sad.

Then I was alone and going up an elevator. I arrived in a room and realised I was naked. I had to go back down for clothes. I came back and ordered very strong black coffee, as is my habit.

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Interpretation

The first part maybe tells me not to go to Dharamsala, as was my plan, well, it possibly tells me this. The other part I think is referring to the way I've become far more closed since actually being with her, once bitten I supposed, but I've grown colder myself in a way — I used to be naked and open, but now I'm 'drinking strong coffee' possibly to get me over the hangover!

Date: Around 10 Aug 2001

Blind Abuser

I was in Hare Rama guest house where I am now living. On the roof I heard a party had recently been held there.

Then I was watching TV. A blind boy was riding a donkey. A voice said directly to me, parents initiate our course in life and then guide us.

Interpretation

The party indicates, I don't know, just being unsure where to go next while I'm trapped here in New Delhi. The blind man is me, lost, and the donkey indicates how hard Mar works for the money I sqwander. I'm not sure what else all this means.

Saturday 8th. September 2001

Forever Dreaming

I was with Junko Imanishi at the school where I attended as a teenager. We got on really well and so she invited me back to Japan. I went and we lived there for a while. It was perfect and felt like paradise. Then I had to return to England. The school–teachers laughed at me because she hadn't stayed with me, but I showed them a ring on my finger and told them there would never be anyone else, and was happy.

Interpretation

Pretty literal and obvious.

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I should say that I've had a couple of unnoted dreams, in one again Anne had died, I was in Gold Regency, Delhi when my mother and brother told me she had had a heart attack. I can't remember the other one.

Date: Some time around 18 October 2001

Abandon Ship

I was at sea on a huge black iron ship in the dead of night. It was sinking. I was scared thinking I was going to drown. Then I saw a much smaller white ship, much newer too. I didn't want to jump on it because it was smaller.

Interpretation

This refers to the work I'm doing now, career wise and in my mind also. The writing projects are essentially about pursuing happiness, on a moment to moment basis. This is a two–pronged approach: firstly to inspire happiness, secondly, to identify the things that arise out in the world and inside the mind that prevent it, and then deal with them differently, a fresh approach that won't cause pain. Obviously this is very hard, as you have to really look at your life and mind and identify the obstacles to happiness. This means facing up to some strong attachments that you carried for so long and only caused pain but you always mistook it for pleasure. I've been working on this for a long time now, taking notes and drawing diagrams, really anything I can think of rather than facing up to these demons.

But last night this dream suddenly came back to me and I realised: it doesn't matter what colour your ship is or how big it is, it only matters if it floats or not!

Date: 30 October 2001

Haunted

Well, before I describe the dream I should first give the background of where I was living when it occurred. I was in Dharamsala, India, and checked into Hotel Himilayan Queen Annex. It was a lovely room, HAUNTED. I kid you not. The TV has a sliding control for the volume, some times I sit there and the volume goes up, I actually watch the sliding control moving before my very eyes. It's horizontal so it couldn't be gravity.

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Sometimes in the morning, just as I am waking up I can feel someone touching my face, I open my eyes, it stops and there's no one there.

Sometimes there was a tapping on the shelf, evenly spaced. There's only one room next door, I go and look and it's empty so it couldn't have come from there.

The place gets suddenly cold, very cold, but only for a short time and then goes back to normal.

Yesterday, I came back early to paint but was suddenly tiered, so I lay down and went to sleep. I woke up about an hour and a half later, and felt that there was someone behind me by the shrine which I have placed on a shelf. I tried to get up but something grabbed my arm. I tried to stand and it pushed me to the floor. But then I suddenly woke up again, I'd been dreaming. I tried to get up once more but it pushed me out of bed. I didn't look at it. This happened about four times, me waking up, being pushed to the floor, then waking up again. The last time it pushed me to the floor but let me crawl towards the door. I turned to see a man of about fifty. He had a rasping voice and hissed at me 'Get out, get out'. And I knew he wanted me to check out. I walked to the door to go up and ask the owner if I could change rooms.

When I got to the door I realised that I must be dreaming. I wanted to wake up but couldn't, so I prayed to my higher self and asked it to protect me.

I then thought that I could at least leave the room and be away from it until I woke up in the physical world, so I prayed that I could come and see my mother.

My ghost, or astral body or what ever, shot out through the window and I was going across the sea.

Then I arrived in a restaurant. Mother was with her man, but you were both sitting on the floor. I asked if we could walk together. Brian stayed there, but me and you walked. I thanked her for all her help and told her I loved her.

Then I wanted to see Anne. I started flying again. I arrived. She was in a strange house with a man. Don't forget, throughout all this I knew I was dreaming, was looking around and observing everything.

I thanked her for bringing me up and gave her some milk, but she complained that it was sour (What the hell does that mean?).

Then I decided to go and see Junko and tell her how much she always meant to me. (Maybe this is what happens when people die?). Anyway, I tried to fly, went a little way, then suddenly rushed through the air and woke up back in the room.

Now I actually was awake, but there was a spot on my hand that was freezing cold. I got up and it went away. I sat and relaxed in the chair but was still tiered, so I lay down again.

Suddenly the lights went out, there was a power cut and it was completely black. Now, I was damned scared. I prayed, then got up and found

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the torch. I opened the window to let the moon light in and thought about checking out. Suddenly I was really angry. I thought, why? I haven't done anything. I paid for the room, it's mine. I said 'I'm staying'.

The room went cold, very suddenly, and the tapping on the shelf started, evenly spaced, just to my left.

You bet you life I was out there sister! I just put clothes over my thermals, grabbed the money belt and was O.U.T!!!!

Pitch black, still a power cut. I went to a restaurant and ate in candle light and it was eerie. I calmed down a little (though noticed I was trembling while I ate). I reasoned it out a bit. I've been there, what, ten days and this is the worst. But what can it do to hurt me? Tapping ain't gonna kill me. My whole life's really been about spirituality. There's not a day I don't worship at the shrine. No, I can be safe. I bought a candle and went home.

I lit it and took my shoes off. It's still dark, thank God the moon was out. I walked around the room and visualised a circle of white flame around the whole room. Then I invoked the elements in each quarter, took the Buddhist refuge vow at the shrine, invited the Divine into the circle and asked it to dispel evil and protect me. I imagined light coming into the circle and suddenly felt confident. My torch then ran out, but the candle remained. I wanted to clap as it felt powerful, I did, it was strange as everything was silent due to the powercut, there was just my rhythmic clapping. I felt stronger and stronger, and then — THE LIGHTS CAME ON! Just like that it was over, everything lit up and the BBC news came on. It was over. I watched TV, went to bed and had a normal night.

SO WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THAT?

But I was thinking more about it. It's obviously something weird, but the face I caught a glimpse of in the dream was a Caucasian. What are the chances of a Caucasian having died there or something? I was thinking, I went to that room specifically to start the writing, then wrote this dialogue with my higher self. So we are discussing happiness, and facing up to inner–demons. Maybe it's something from myself. Don't forget that in the dream, I specifically prayed to my higher self?

11th November 2002

Forgotten Class

I was in a taxi going up to Mc Leod Ganj (I've already left) and was trying to get a taxi. Someone stopped but the price was too high. I wouldn't let go of the car even though it was moving. He got out of the car and we started fighting. I ended up on the floor. I thought maybe it's because I kicked his daughter, but then realised I had a dream telling me not to go up the mountain anyway because I didn't want to.

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Then I was walking round Dharamsala, though it was different in the dream. These strange woman kept saying hello to me. I was bemused and had this feeling that I had created them with my mind. I went in a room and it was a therapy room I'd been to before and was now returning. I said hello to the teacher.

Interpretation

No idea. Actually, I'm writing this three months later because I found this scrap of notepaper in my bag with the dream written on!

6th December 2002

Escaping

I was a prison guard in prison, watching over a traveller I know from Internet message boards. She was kept in a cell, but when we went down she had escaped. Then, in the same jail, I was the prisoner and another guard was trying to drown me. I got free and somehow was still a prison officer. I went down to the earlier cell and saw a hole where the traveller had escaped through the wall. She had left 1500 rupees in an envelope and directions for the next traveller to escape and follow her route. I took the money and told my colleague that I would give it to her.

The I was in a cafe and saw her. I went over and asked if she was the nickname I knew her by. She gave me her real name and her handle, I gave her the money and referred to her as a 'good bitch'. She took offence. I also took offense, saying that this is the way Asians speak sometimes, and if she couldn't take it then she shouldn't be on the road.

Interpretation

It's really strange, I'm typing this in the middle of Febuary, but that exact thing, of meeting someone and offending them, on Febuary 1st. The full story is here.

NOTE: I had the following dreams during a bout of severe depression, so bad maybe it was even a nervous breakdown, caused after my brother spoke to me on December 26th 2001 and was angry, telling me that my writing wasn't working out and to set a date for my return to England and try a different career as the work I'm writing now doesn't have a market. I spent a couple of days thinking about my options, what I could work in. There wasn't really anything I didn't consider. Then I started thinking about all the things I'd need to do, to become. Eventually my spinning head couldn't think any more and the thoughts were all too painful and I didn't lknow if I could

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cope. I phoned emergency psychiatry, they didn't speak English. I spent three weeks under the bedcovers weeping and unable to stand even the daylight. I managed to get out yesterday, went to the cinema, now I'm back at work. I had the following dreams between December 26th 2001 and Jan 15 (today) 2002.

The Hell and the Light

I was in bed, woke up and was excited to realise I was about to have a flying dream. I willed myself to rise. However, instead of going up, I sank down into total blackness and just waited there. I was so alone it was scary. I thought that maybe I was going to die and just stay there forever. I started praying, repeatedly and frantically: 'I choose the light'. After about thirty seconds I flew up in the air and was flying all around. I prayed to the light that I wanted to go and see Junko but that if it wasn't possiblle then it was OK, I'll just fly around like I'm doing. I didn't get to go there, but just kept flying around.

Sister

I was in Japan. Junko's sister told me that she wasn't really perfect. I saw her in a rickshaw and ran up to her but she was preoccupied with friends and drove off alone.

Interpretation

I always try and see J. in flying dreams but never get there, except the once when she seemed to invite me about a year after I knew her.

I'd been extremely down when I had the flying dream, and prayed alot, so maybe the dream confirms my faith.

New Path

It was night time. I saw Anne approaching and told her, in a joking way, that she looked familiar. She smiled but carried on walking into the distance. As she disappeared into the night someone started to pull me away. I told them she was going and wanted to follow her but they turned me away.

I was facing a new path that led off to a large tent with people dancing and acting eccentrically inside. He told me it was joy and I was to walk this path now.

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Interpretation

When Anne passed me I got the intuition that she was resigned and her soul was telling me that she came to the earth to meet me to get me to take myself less seriously. I often felt that she was laughing at me when I was a kid, though I'm a little over sensitive, but I suppose it shows that everything has a life–purpose and it's time to let go of any bitterness.

Caring

I thought I'd woken up and pretended to phone Anne to explain why I don't go home. But then she answered and I realised that I had actually phoned her. She started shouting at me that I don't care about her.

Interpretation

Maybe her soul let me know across the miles how she feels, though it's not true and I care deeply. I must phone and tell her.

Early Febuary 2002

False Alarm

I was with a female friend I'd met a couple of days before in Delhi and had spent a day with, a wonderful day, before upsetting her and never seeing her again. and Japanese woman. I had a sock with little wooden cats in. Someone thought it was a weapon. I took out the cats and gave them to the Japanese woman. Then we all went to a bar. It was dry, i.e. no beer. We met a friend. Then we went to another bar where there was beer being served, and we drank there. But then we all went to a classroom, like at school. The fire alarm went off and I ran out. A woman ran out two and was going to collide with me because it was so dark, so I had to call out so she would know I was there. Then I realised I was alone, no one had followed me. I went back in the classroom and they told me it was a false alarm.

Interpretation

I met this woman and spent a day with her, basically the first time I've done that for eight years. So this is the dry bar and then the one that has beer. The cats represent a gift I recently sent Junko. They were misconstrued

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as a weapon as it's the pain of the past makes me usually push people away. The false alarm thing I don't know. Maybe it means I was so happy to have found a friend after all these years, but it was a false alarm; or perhaps running away was a false alarm and she's still here in Delhi. I don't know.

24th Febuary 2002 — Day after Junko's birthday

Tumbling House

I was in a shop and bought sausages and meat, even though I'm a vegetarian, because I thought I might meet someone who would like them.

Then I was in a restaurant and had bought a rose for someone I might meet.

A waiter brought me a yellow rose and said it was from Fiona. I looked and she was nearby. He told me that she wanted to be with me again but I ignored her.

The building started shaking violently and falling to pieces. I pretended it was accidentally but really I was purposely knocking the ridgepoles with my body to try and make it fall down faster.

Then I came to a flat I owned and kind of just knew that Fiona was inside.

Interpretation

I dreamt this 22 days after I last saw her, so I suppose there was some remote chance that I'd see jher again. Looking back, I suppose deep dopwn it shows that I was kind of ready for a change.

8th March 2002

Dog Fun

I was walking along an Indian street at night. I saw a dog curled up in pain. I did hands on healing and it worked. I hailed a rickshaw and we both got in. I asked for a landmark nearby where I lived, but then changed my mind and asked for the Annupam cinema is Saket, South Delhi.

Interpretation

Fiona loved dogs, it either refers to the day I had and the troubled past she once lived, or refers top something in the future.

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Sunday 17??th March 2002

Dealine

I was in a stationary car on a road with Mar. She said I should really be making money by Febuary.

Interpretation

I think maybe my mind is making a deadline now. This is what my brother asked to to do when we fought, ar rather he verbally assulted me, on boxing day. It's strange as I received a wall planner as a gift a couple of days ago. It runs from March 2002 to Febuary 2003, so maybe I should be thiniking like that; it scares me though.

Some time late March

Angry Gee

I was at my brothers house. He was out and I was really bored. He came back but was exceptionally cold. I asked what was wrong. He snarled at me that Anne was gone, on the very day I'd returned to England.

Interpretation

Don't ask.

Some time late March

Rash

I was with a friend from school, watching TV and wiping hand–cream over my hands. My friend went but then I went to use the handcream, he's spilt a load of garlicy–type tomato sauce in there.

Interpretation

I use hand cream because of dry skin. It's saying my diet is the problem.

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3rd April (Day before Nainital)

Tiered

It was night time and I was walking along KPG, away from Anne as I was mad at her for some unspecified reason. She turned and told Carly, my neice, not to bother with me as I'm stupid and smell of urine. She didn't know I'd heard her and I wasn't sure if I should go home and tell her I did.

Interpretation

Simply reiterating that she's given up on me.

4th April 2002 (Nainital)

Needing

I was lying stomach down on a small path that was on the side of a mountain. There was a long line of people before me, each one taking a turn to throw a projectile right over me. I was good natured when the last one, who was dressed in Indian clothes, threw something that hit me, but then was sympathetic when he told me he'd just tried to kill himself.

Then we were getting on a bus going to the beach

Interpretation

The path on the cliff is my perilous situation. The projectiles going over me mean that most people just don't get me, but it's OK because I came to this life to help the ones that do. It could be specific, as I returned to Delhi that day, so maybe there's going to be somebody here that needs my help.

Thursday 11th April 2002

Quality Control

I published my book with an Indian publisher, but it came back and was an awful job, with spelling mistakes and all the pages stuck together.

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Interpretation

Probably a literal warning.

Wednesday 17th April 2002

New Ghost Ending

I was watching the film Ghost starring Demi Morre and Patrick Swa..., nope, I'm not even going to try.

But when the film finished then I kind of went inside the film, it turns out there was another ending that no one ever saw, and I was playing it. I was under the sea and a bad woman was kind of under my kinetic control. I brought about her demise with the power of my mind.

The next scene was me happy, looking out the window, alone.

Interpretation

Very strange dream. I think it's saying that I always kind of hoped in the back of my mind that I'd find a partner, and it's saying that I'd be happier if I gave up the ghost.

12 July 2002

Stuff

It's been a hard time since I last updated this. I haven't actually written any dreams down, I rarely need to as they stay in my head for ages, though for as long as this I don't know, I'll have to make this a retrospective, because I've had the weirdest dreams I've ever had recently.

I've had to travel about a bit too, which doesn't help. Once I was on a train, I think returning north. I lay down on the bunk and slept. I dreamt I was in a restaurant. It was dark in a tent. Then I realised I was dreaming. I was shocked at how sure I was. I just looked around me, stunned at how real this was. After a while I lost lucidity, and started wondering if my body was actually asleep on the train or if I was awake and supposed to get a bus.

I went outside and there was a bus there. I got in and it looked comfortable so I decided to ride on the bus instead of the train.

Then I realised this was nuts. I'm dreaming now, this bus can't get me anywhere! My body was on a train. I decided the only way to know what to do was to wake up on the train, and if I couldn't then I wasn't dreaming and

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should take this bus. But I decided if this was a dream it was fun and I should return to it.

I willed myself to wake up, and I did indeed become conscious in the train, in the waking world. I didn't open my eyes but heard the Muslim man opposite me clearing his throat. I went straight back to sleep as planned.

I dreamt I was where I was, on the train, but it stopped at a station so I got off. I decided I didn't like the train, I would just sit in the station. I watched the train pull away. I had no book to read and wasn't enjoying the journey.

Then I panicked a little, but realised I was dreaming, it was OK. It was very lucid, and I just walked round examining the station. But it was as boring as the train. I decided to change the scene.

I was in someone's flat. I looked at my hands and decided they were too dark and I'd like them to be fairer, and as I was dreaming, I would change them. When they were as white as I liked, I went over and sat on a bed. An Asian woman with a baby came in and told me about her marriage. I was still bored. I forgot I was dreaming for a while, but then remembered again and decided to wake up.

That was the end of this dream. But around that period, there were a few lucid dreams which were very intense. It's hard to describe. I'd be say, just sitting on a bench or something, suddenly realise I was dreaming, but it was so incredibly lucid; I can't begin to describe it. All I can think to say is that I was more aware in those dreams than I usually am when I am awake in this world. I just walked round marveling at the dream–world, with total clarity. Very weird, but beautiful.

They were beautiful until I got sick here in Kathmandu. I started thinking that perhaps my soul was slipping away from this world, spending more time in the next and becoming more lucid because my body wouldn't live much longer

I decided to go to the doctor. I went over to make an appointment but it was too expensive, so I didn't.

That night, it was the night Korea had their big surprise win in the world cup. Well I dreamt I was in a holiday resort. It was sunny but then it started snowing. I looked and realised how pretty it was. But then suddenly it was night and the resort had somehow become a huge ship. There was a storm and we were in trouble. Everyone was running around panicking. I looked up and there was a small plane in real trouble. No one noticed except me. I ran about like mad from place to place, but not really sure what to do.

I suddenly thought that there must be some emergency flares somewhere. I ran into an office but there was this really arrogant Korean man there with his family. I left without the flares.

I went back and asked a waiter what had happened with the plane. He said it had crashed one hundred meters away.

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Well, I woke up, but I was still dreaming. I went downstairs. When I came back all my room had been trashed. I thought it was the owners, but then felt this 'force' come near me which had done all the damage. It pulled me up in the air but I felt arrogant, kind of 'yeah, come on then.'

I realised I was dreaming and night turned to day. It was so, so lucid again, just like being awake but more awareness. I looked at the easy chair and marveled that it was existing in a dream. I decided to meditate, so I sat down and focused my concentration on the breath, and remained meditating until I woke up.

This was worrying. I decided it meant that I didn't go to the doctor, not really because of the money but because I had all these mental pictures of having someone arrogant.

In the real world, I made an appointment the next day and went the day after. He was really nice. What I thought was ear and tongue cancer are cysts and can't do any damage, but my liver's messing up, I drank too much. When I think of all the pain–killers I've taken over the years because of my hip, I shudder to think.

Now the weird part. I broke down and told him all my problems, how hard it's getting, how weird I'm going. He prescribed specific seretonin uptake inhibitors.

So what? Nope, it's the synchronicity. Somewhere in this diary I've written about a dream where I was a prison inmate but I got out because some other traveller had dug a tunnel and left a map.

The only traveller I've met, for eight years actually, is Fiona, and this is the drug she was taking.

Anyway, there were other minor dreams I've now lost. It really has been a hard time and everything's fell apart. I'll try and keep this more up to date.

14 July 2002

OK For Now

I was at the doctors. He looked in my throat and said that the lump I feel isn't serious now, but it might become serious sometime in the future.

I was in the cybercafe where I'm working. It has a no smoking policy but people were smoking anyway. The owners didn't seem to mind. I saw a tassel on a woman's neck. I pulled it and they were mala beads. She was a monk. I asked her what it was like.

I opened a letter. It was from a publishing company; they were rejecting my work because there were mistakes in it and it had 'case problems', i.e. capital letters in the middle of words.

But I looked at the letter and it itself was full of mistakes.

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Interpretation

I think it's telling me about the throat lump. I've had it for years, but maybe I'm supposed to stop smoking. I think the rest says not to worry if my project is rejected by people who don't understand it.

18 July 2002

Very Disturbing Dream

Note: I'm having real trouble coming up with a domain name for my web–site and a new pen name that I can live with forever. So, the day of this dream I went up to the Buddhist temple in Swambunath to pray before the statue and to be sent a dream telling me what my name should be.

I was in my Aunts house, with my mother, aunt and brother. My brother tried to move my bed so it was next to his. When I objected he started bad–mouthing me and mother stood up for me. My aunt attacked my mother and it was really venomous, mother fought venomously to defend me.

Then I was alone with mother in a dark restaurant. She was eating soup but it had all cigarettes floating in it. She laughed and jokingly said that I could have a new job of cleaning the bar in her place.

Then I was at a beach. I was trying to work on a computer but the connection was so bad I gave up. I walked away and thought to myself as I strolled alone the sand that I really don't have much time to waste and I should have tried harder to get some work done.

Then it was nighttime. Mother arrived with my whole family. She said I should work faster but that's just something I have to find out for myself. She said she wanted to speak to me. I said that I knew there was bad news. She said she had smoked too much and had cancer. She would be leaving soon. I started crying and felt despair while she held me. I thought to myself, it might be best to go with her.

Interpretation

Not the dream I prayed for. Very depressing.

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19 July 2002

Sober European

I was on a rooftop restaurant in Kathmandu. I ordered a vodka and the waiter poured a tiny drop and said it was a double. I threw the glass on the floor and demanded another one. He left and an American woman started critisising me. I shouted that I would throw the glass in her face. Everyone ignored me. The waiter returned with a glass. It had a small amount of Russian (drink) in it but I could taste there was hardly any vodka.

Then I was at a train station buying a ticket. I queued up but when I got to the counter I'd forgotten to fill in a reservation slip. I got one but realised I didn't really know where I was going so I left the station. Outside, everyone was dressed in only their underwear. I realised I'd forgotten my shoes and had left them by the booking counter.

Somehow I was next in England, walking round thinking how much I hated it and wished I'd never come back.

Then I was in my Aunt's house. My sister arrived and I told her she hadn't aged at all. We hugged and I told her I would be going back to Asia very soon.

Interpretation

I don't like England (don't ask about the vodka).

Date: Sometime in September

Artistic Identity

An Indian man recommended me a CD. I later saw it in a music store and the cover was alive and kept changing.

Interpretation

Hard to say. Maybe the struggle to find artistic identity.

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Date: Sometime in September

I Hate England

I went back to England and HATED it; and told everyone I'm not staying — and would go back as soon as possible. It was such a mistake to be there that the feeling of regret was almost tangible.

Interpretation

Literal.

Date: Friday 27th September 2002

Just in Case

I used a razor to open an artery in my arm. I let it bleed into a bottle for a while, then allowed the wound to clot; but I was pleased to have found a safe and painless way out should I ever need it.

Interpretation

Literal.

Date: Sep/Oct 2002

I was in a hotel. I looked out the window and saw Mother. She had come over to see me but didn't know where I lived. I called and she came over. In the room I was ashamed at my dirty clothes and of having no drink to give her.

We went out. She was looking for a specific restaurant where she had business. We went up a mountain. I was thrilled because we were somewhere I recognised. I took her to a hotel where I had earlier been working. The woman there was from the cybercafe where I actually work. Mother ordered place but was given cod. They called her a liar when she complained. I stuck up for her and there was a really horrible argument.

Interpretation

Concerning the very bad connection at this particular cybercafe?

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Date: 1st October 2002

Isolation

I woke up in a resort type place. There were people outside. As I got dressed I realised two women who were lazing about seemed to be looking at me.

Then I was in a cafe. I bumped into Simon Hamilton, a boy I knew at school. We were walking along a beach but it was boring, with Indians just paddling in the sea. We were joined by the two women who lived opposite me at the resort. One of them was Simon's girlfriend. The other kept looking at me.

Back at the cafe, I had the intuition that Simon's girlfriend was a teetotaler and felt kind of envious.

He decided to buy ice–creams and returned to the counter, but seemed really self–conscious and unsure of himself. He ended up buying one for all of us; mine was really tasteless.

He said they were all going off to an island and invited me. It would be really peaceful and quiet. I said it depends on if my leg can take the bus. He reassured me that it was only two and a half hours away. I wrote down the name and said I'd think about it.

Then I woke up, but heard a voice that said 'Alf's gone then'. Alf is the name of my Aunt's late husband.

Interpretation

Very hard to say. The first part seems to be saying that I like drinking because of the fact that I don't derive pleasure from human contact; yet conversely need to drink in the isolation.

The Alf part I don't know. I was worried it was warning me about my aunt at the time, but when I went to the computer, she was fine... the last I heard.

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Date 2nd October 2002

Ghandi's birthday and one year exactly since I bumped into Robin in Dharamsala and met the Australian woman.

Culture Shock

I was in India and met Gary Waring, I kid I knew at school until he emigrated to Canada and I recently met again on the Internet. In the dream, he was going to San Francisco and invited me. I accepted.

We had to do a stop–over in London. At the airport I looked at the tiles on the floor and was impressed that they were all in place. I walked round noticing things and commenting on them, like polished windows and computers that worked; basically noticing the difference to India where I live.

I thought about going to see Anne, but I was there at most one day and there wouldn't be time. I decided to go to San Francisco and then return and see her on the way back.

I went towards customs, then asked someone how long the flight would be. They replied eight hours and I said this would be too long, is there any way I can get a refund? They weren't sure, so I decided to check in and ask about a refund. If I could get it I'd cancel; if not, I'd fly.

At customs, the officer was really thorough and took ages with my stuff and a queue formed behind me.

Interpretation

Basically procrastination about going to see my Aunt in England.

Date: 7th October

School's Out

I was on my way to the cybercafe. Someone told me that my shoes weren't polished for school. I shouted that I wasn't going to school but to work.

Interpretation

Studying has finished and now I try and work for monetary compensation.

Date 8th October 2002

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Bored with Me

I saw an Indian woman being beheaded. I tried to take a photograph but someone told me it was rude.

Junko came from Japan to marry me. Her family was with her and I messed up the room reservations and had to leave them alone while I went to work it out. They all arrived and settled in and went to eat, but she seemed really distant.

Interpretation

It's easy to get bored of me.

Date: ?20 October 2002?

NOTE: This dream occoured in Chitwan after I woke early and was very tiered.

Another Self

I had to go to England. I had to go to Anne's house. I went to my old bedroom and was messing about trying to get organised. I realised the light–bulb had blown, so I started to change it but realised that Anne was in bed there. Then I saw Alf, her late husband, and my brother was there. I lay down on the floor to go to sleep but my brother started shouting humiliating insults at me. I got really angry and told him I never wanted to speak to him again.

Then it was day and we were all in the garden. It was really busy, with people everywhere. The new neighbours came and said hello, but I answered them in Hindi. A Tibetan man came over to me with two women and spoke to me in Hindi. I didn't understand all of it but was pretty sure he was saying that he used to be in Delhi. He said he recognised me from photographs. I didn't understand what he meant. He explained that he had met someone in a pub and had been shown photographs of me — and had been told that I was a man who 'had another self'.

Then the Tibetans and I were in some place that was a composite of Pokhara and Kathmandu. It was Northfield cafe. The owner took us upstairs for some kind of a special initiation. I realised that I had been in the same place four years previously, and remarked on that fact. A man came out of a room to perform some unstated duty. He seemed slightly irritated, but was told it would be worth it.

I quizzed the Tibetan man about the photo and realised it was Jason Pike who had shown them to him.

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We went downstairs to the restaurant. The Tibetans were sitting away from me. I was with someone familiar. I ordered a cheese spinach quich, but it didn't arrive, so I went looking for it, then left the restaurant.

Then I climbed up the rooftops and looked down and realised that the streets had flooded. I considered going back to my room, but remembered I'd ordered the food, so I started to return to the restaurant. I was having trouble getting to the ground, then realised my shoelace was undone, and so stopped to do it up in a cybercafe.

Then I was in the Kettring road, Northampton, England, reflecting on what Jason had said when he said I 'had another self'.

Interpretation

Wow. Again, it's all about the issues of being away for so long. The fight with my brother is literal. Speaking in Hindi and having another self mean I'm just not the same person now... but also I'm excited by the theory that humans have more than one self, like in cases of multiple personality, there might be a way to consciously utilise this. Maybe the initiation is achieving this? Up on the roofs, the place floods, representing the hard times right now, but I stay where I am working in cybercafes.

Date: Monday 21st October — at Ghorakpur.

Attack?

In waking life, I awoke about four in the morning and felt something rubbing my thumb.

I fell asleep and kept having symptoms, like I was about to project out my body. Then a bottle was knocked off the table and something attacked me from behind, trying to dislocate my arm while pushing me out my body. I shouted that I would come out and it allowed me to wake up. I turned the light on and fell asleep, but recall no further dream.

Interpretation

Simple attack?

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Date: Saturday 2nd November 2002

I was lying in bed with an Asian woman who was trying really hard to fall in love with me. But then her friends turned up expecting a party. I was really mad and shouted while I threw them out. She was mildly disappointed but seemed to accept this, and continued to try and get along with me.

Then I was in an aeroplane. The stewardess said that all the air had been used up so they would have to use the emergency air package, which 'should be good for a laugh'.

A square package shot down the aisle and then used a plunger–type mechanism to expel new air.

Then we got off and went towards customs. I looked at my bag and decided to clean it before I went through. I looked and it was covered in ants, then found bugs I couldn't kill, so I decided I'd have to transfer the whole thing to another bag.

Interpretation

Let go of Mian.

Date: Sunday 3rd November 2002

Safety in the Sea

I was at the beach in a restaurant overlooking the ocean. All of a sudden a storm approached and everyone watched in awe as thousands of cows ran into the ocean; as though it would be safe there.

I received a rejection letter from Penguin. The envelope was empty and the rejection was simply a rubber stamp saying rejected and some handwriting which said the person rejecting me had been tiered and rejected me when they had the time. But then I found another document sellotaped on the back of the envelope, which was a checklist explaining how to be published.

Interpretation

It's definitely telling me to get onto Kerela, though hopefully there's no storm coming.

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Date: November 5th 2002

(Annevarsary of being with Junko)

Driverless... and a Chance

I was staying in a hotel. A roomboy came in and asked if the room was clean. I said it was but he looked at me suspiciously.

Then I went to the toilet, but my urine was pure blood.

I was leaving for somewhere on a train. I went downstairs and met one man and two women who were also leaving and so we decided to share a taxi to the station.

The three of us got in and started the journey, but there was no driver, the car was driving itself. We went for ages and didn't know if we should stop it. Eventually it stopped by itself in a new town. I told them it was fate that we were there and so we went exploring.

It was really boring. We ended up on a hill, examining the ware of two girls who were selling beads and crystal jewelry.

Interpretation

The dirty room is the way I always get stuck in Delhi, where I am now, and stay too long.

The blood is my current concern that I started coughing up blood in the morning.

The driverless car is being directionless. The jewelry represents a new spiritual practice I am developing, which I see as my last way forward.

Date: 6th November 2002

Always Worrying

I was in a horrible room with vomit all over the floor and the decapitated head and body of a woman who had killed herself. I went outside and my Mother and brother were there. Somebody tried to steal the corpse and I learnt that it was my Aunt.

Interpretation

Commenting on the way I'm avoiding the mail in case there's bad news.

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Date: November 7th 2002

Future Binoculars

I was somewhere going down a mountain. I looked in my bag and realised I'd accidentally packed a pair of binoculars; and wondered if they might have belonged to my late uncle.

I went to this new place and Anne was there. I told her I wanted to talk to her. I told her I had accidentally packed the binoculars, but she told me that she'd put them in my bag, together with another smaller pair which I hadn't noticed.

Then we were in the kitchen. I asked if I could leave the binoculars with her when I left. She went a really weird red colour, and started acting strange and uncomfortable, like she was hiding something or had something difficult to say.

She told me she was really sick and would go to Liverpool in March. The disease caused her to have wild mood swings and that it would get much worse towards then. She seemed so abnormally angry, like the disease was doing this to her. I said that I had received many warnings of her death, and asked her how long she had but she wouldn't say. I also asked her what was in Liverpool and she wouldn't answer that either.

We were then in the lounge. M. was there. She was really tanned. I thought I should thank her for supporting me all these years, but then realised she wasn't sick.

Then we were upstairs and Anne was even angrier.

Interpretation

The binoculars represent trying to tell the future, and specifically my Aunt's health and how long I have to get some kind of professional success and financial independence so I can see here, rather than die here alone or return a failure.

The angry part, I suppose could be some kind of telepathic transfer of emotion from her, as she's angry I don't return. I had a similar false awakening dream during the depression of the start of the year.

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?14 November 2002?

Whatever is Best

Same experience as recently. I awoke and could see through my eyelids. I tried to see JI., then had strong vibration in my feet. I came out my body and tried to fly to J, and concluded I would only go there if it was for the best. I couldn't. I decided to go and see M. to project energy to her — but couldn't get there either. I stayed by the body the whole time and couldn't fly or go anywhere.

There was a dream later but I can't recall it now.

Interpretation

Standard projection. Deciding to do what was best for me is also referring to my surrendering dream of 'I choose the light' dream at the depression at the start of the year.

Monday ?22nd November 2002?

Unqualified Policing

I was in a shady district buying 'herbs'.

I returned home to Mother's old place and hid it in a drawer in my bedroom. My brother came in and said he had just got a great deal on his own 'herbs'. I wanted to show him how he'd got ripped off and that I'd got the best deal, but we both had different types and so there was no way to judge it.

He went out and I lay a spread of tarot cards over the floor.

Then I was in an office type building. Mother was there. A woman had just asked if she could date me and I was telling M. about this.

Then I was in a car with some people, about to go somewhere. We only went a couple of meters and were stopped by the police. We couldn't go any further because the bonnet was covered with junk.

Then the police said there would have to be some kind of inspection of the building. It was my job to go down to the basement and take a load of books up to a back display area. While doing this, I and other people were harassed by a large wasp. This scene ended as I was about to walk up a large, streaming fountain.

Then it was night and I was on the roof of the building. There was a woman there about to leave and travel on. A policeman offered to give her psychoanalysis and she seemed excited by this and decided to stay. I

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questioned the police officer as to how exactly he was qualified to give psychoanalysis, and he sarcastically asked me what I knew about firearms.

Interpretation

The first part is resentment at my brother, who sees nothing worthwhile in my achievements at all.

The tarot cards are current worries about the future and the desire to know the future.

Not sure about the date. I recall in the dream I was really surprised and telling M. about it in disbelieving terms. Perhaps it refers to the fact I choose to be consciously alone.

The car is my situation here in Delhi. There's all sorts of packing and rubbish to get rid of so I can go south for the winter, but this is the last stint so it's really hard to get everything done as we're heading towards make or break time, and as usual, my whole life is a long–shot, and so I'm getting scared.

The building inspection is the way I'm likely to evaluate my life soon at the coming deadline. I'm trying to distribute my book and start a publishing company, but the wasp is all the irritations and I have to traipse up the large fountain.

The last part is very hard to say. I'm tentatively guessing that the police man is my brother as he's the only person who judges me like this. Maybe it's saying he's not qualified to make these judgements... actually, he isn't come to think about it.

NOTE: I lost a near full notebook on a train in Kerela a while ago, I think I lost about thirty dreams. All I recall vaguely is a dream about a man dying in my Mother's old living room because he travelled from life to life trying to write his book, but it contained the secrets of the universe so he was killed by fate each time he tried to begin work.

Date: some time in February 2003

Hidden Hindi Meaning

It was a strange dream. In real, waking life I was leaving the Sacred Heart Cathedral where I had prayed concerning my trip to Europe. Outside the church I read the word Maria in Hindi over a shrine to the virgin. Then I suddenly, for the first time, remembered my dream from the night before. In it I was reading Hindi from a book, possibly in a train. I came across a styalised form like they use in advertising and I couldn't read it. A man told me each letter of the Hindi alphabet has a mundane meaning, as well as an archetypal, inner meaning that I don't understand yet.

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Interpretation

I was at the church because life has manifested in a way that I might have to make a much hated trip to Europe for the first time in ten years. I think perhaps one of the things this says is that there are as yet unseen beneficial things conspiring begind the surface that will answer my prayers... at least that's what I'd very much like to think it means.

15th March 2003

Various African Transit Fears

Various dreams since being in Africa. In one, I accidentally killed Anne and tried to hide the body, then confessed to my family. In another I was in England and Carly told me 20,000 pounds was missing from my account. In one more Junko had written to me.

Interpretation

The first is just worry that the stress of me taking me so long to travel won't do Anne's health any good. The second is because I was worried about using my card here in Africa. The last that I wanted to be away for my birthday when I might receive a card from Junko, and I wanted to read this anywhere except England.

11th April 2003 — Jordan.

Wasting Brother

Junko wrote to me and told me she had married someone called Mustaffa.

Then I was with M & A in A's place. They asked me why I had come back and I answered that I want to be a sanyasa. Anne said that Geoff has a genetic muscle wasting disease and I would need a blood test to see if I have it also.

Interpretation

Don't know the first part. Perhaps because Junko always loved the Middle East?

The second part means my brother is the one who just takes the easy option and pretends it's out of a sense of duty rather than fear, then whines

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because his life isn't fun. My subconscious is just checking I won't end up the same by going to Europe.

19th April 2003

Receiving Grace

I was in a house and a doctor was giving a testimony to a tribunal against the man I met who helped me with the bus coming to Gorme. The doctor was saying that this man had requested to be genetically engineered as a football, and because he was requesting something impossible, it was an indication of insanity. Then I knew I was dreaming and was somehow in danger. I held my arms up and said to myself that the light will protect me. I went flying up and into it and was safe. Then I was in a liquor shop, buying booze.

Interpretation

The first part shows that it's not good for me to base so much of my life and happiness on escapist fantasy. The last two paragraphs are obvious.

### End of Interlude

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New Diary Log One Sunday 29th July 2001

New Delhi

Nothing really. I just didn't like the empty look of this new page. It turns out my Brother's gone to Spain now for a couple of weeks. He's back, well, in a couple of weeks. He cancelled the card before he left, but refused to get a balance, for some unspecified reason. Now I don't know if it's been stolen and a load of money missing or what. M never answers my questions when I ask them, I might even phone this evening.

I spend all my time obsessing about three things. One, the mail from Japan. I think about it all the time. Actually, I've thought about, this situation, all that happened all those years ago, pretty every day for seven years. I now obsess as I didn't read the last three letters from two years ago. It's all I could talk about to Main. I had an argument with her as I couldn't stop talking about it. Now, I think, our friendship has ceased. Secondly I think about the money possibly being stolen. I spend the rest of my time hating me for my career failure.

Well, I'll say nothing else as the page isn't empty now, and that's really the only reason I was writing.

Tuesday 7th August 2001

Well I'll try and make this entry a bit better than that rubbish above. The whole visa card situation came to a head, everyone was procrastinating. I think M. was about to send it by fedex, but I put her off with various reasons, because I didn't want to ask for the Japanese post, this is how weird I've gone, it's even painful to mention it. But then I'd convinced her it was a bad idea to use the courier, so I could request the post another day. Well one day I thought, hell, I'll just phone Anne and say send it by fedex.

I did this, and it was all worse, she was completely convinced it would be a bad idea, plus there was all sorts of mis–information. I was paying for the call from my end and so I said, hell, I'll phone M. I e–mailed her and

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said, I only need to speak to you for ten minutes, just say a time you'll be by the phone, anytime. She e–mailed back saying phone Anne's place at 3pm. but she got the date wrong.

Well, to cut a long story short, it's coming by fedex, was hopefully sent yesterday, and will be here Thursday or Friday. I asked for the Japanese post, they said it's the second time it's been lost and so it might be cursed. Come to think of it maybe I sent bad psychic energy to this because I know it will be so painful to read. Anne said something about it only being cards, and that would be even more upsetting, no letters, like I was being weaned off contact.

Anyway, I suppose there's some good news, well, kind of. Firstly, the bank statement came and there are no monies stolen. Secondly, I'm seeing some lovely art stuff. I'm going to be writing up all this non–fiction soon. I'm thinking of a seris of pictures linked to the ideas in it. Also, I've decided against Dharamsala now, it'll be too cold. I think I might to west to Dui, a beach. It'll be best there. I've hardly any time on my visa, it expires early nov. and I'm not allowed into Nepal until 2002, and I just found out nowhere in India except Delhi is extending Indian visas, and even then, only in exceptioinal circumstances. So even when this visa situation is sorted out, I'll still have to worry about something new.

But hey, it's a beautiful world. I was on the rooftop at 3:00am. this morning, looking at the nearly full moon with a huge ring around it, it was so strange. I lie on this lounger staring straight up. Even in the middle of all this, I do find these sweet moments alone.

Saturday 6th October 2001

I’m writing this a long time later, in Dharamsala, and how I got here is a long story. Basically, the card business sorted itself out. Yes, the card arrived by FedEx. I was staying in hare rama guest house, and although it’s OK, all the staff work on shifts and I didn’t want it to be received there, so M. told FedEx to make sure it was picked up from the office. I phoned the office and it was there three days later, but there was no instruction about office pick up, it would have been delivered to the hotel and I could have lost it anyhow. Oh, whatever, I had it and then I was free. I was pretty much broke the day I picked it up from the office, so I went straight to the bank. I stood on the steps of the Bank of Baroda in Parliament Street. I didn’t want to look at the Japanese post; it was too painful, so I slowly and delicately opened it up there on the steps to extract the card. I recalled I had a dream about that place, being on the steps once. I think it’s at this link, but perhaps the next file. The envelope was very thin for a year and a half post. Maybe she’s tired of me, which is OK as I know I am too. It makes me wonder if Anne keeps everything. I recall that in the whole of my life I only ever got two Valentines cards, I think I mentioned it somewhere. I was fifteen and it was all anonymous puppy crush rubbish, but nice. Yet she threw them away pretty

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much as soon as she saw them. Another thing I was thinking about this morning funnily enough is about Christmas cards.

She used to have this newsagents shop and so used to receive a lot of cards every year. I think she loved it. She didn’t throw any away, and every year she would put up all the ones she ever received throughout all the years as a kind of decoration. Well this is culture, like a handed down tradition. I was at school and from the age of five all the kids would give out cards and I kept my own little collection, the kind of thing that’s nice, and just like her I kept them every year, and each year they mounted and I had my own little decoration, like hers. It was nice as I changed schools twice, kids moved away, one died of a rare heart condition – but I had this sense of continuity. But then one year she retired. I was about twelve so I had harvested about seven years worth of ‘decorations’ in my short life. But she knew that leaving the shop she wouldn’t receive as many and so just closed the door on that part of her life. While we were moving, we were in the new house, I went to the bin and saw all her cards ripped up in there, a bag full of ripped up cards. But when I looked, every single one of my cards was ripped up as well. I got upset and brought it up and she just laughed, I mean she didn't understand it at all. OK, so we could say that she has the ability to let go, but I don't think it's based on that. It's based on repression; anything negative just doesn't exist. Mar was telling me about the time where one Christmas she sent a load of presents to Anne via Geoff, and she just returned them unopened in a taxi. Now, they were not on speaking terms at the time, but years later, after I'd left the country, they made up – and this incident is never mentioned and never happened. Another thing, after her husband, Alfred, died, she ripped up all photos, removed all traces etc.

Why am I whining on like this? Because it means so much to me. In the whole of my life only one person (not related to me) has ever liked me, and still likes me years later. I have one friend in the world, and all the post used to come via M's house, she moves so I give her Anne's address, and suddenly the post dries up. Nothing means anything to her.

Like the time, a wonderful surprise, some unexpected post arrives mid–year, and she doesn't mention it, so I don't answer it, so it never happens again. It hurts me, so much — yet I have the compensation that I got away, I left, and as promised, I never returned. Everything is fated, and as it is meant to be.

Anyway, on with the story. Oh, one thing. I was coming down from Gold Regency and saw this man I knew in Katmandu, at least I think it was there. I don't recall anything, other than I cold shouldered him – which I do everyone.

Well, I was having to wait in Delhi to replace all the travelers' cheques I used. In Nepal where I bought then it takes just minutes. But in India, you have to get the money from the state bank, then get a certificate (not free), then got to Amex. Now there's a new daily limit on the credit card, so it took, including the weekend, seven days of doing this every day. It was alot of rupees, each time I went there was a wad full of 100's, and then I had

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to go around to other banks looking for someone who could change them to 500's.

Well one day I was picking up a batch of cheques at Amex. I gave them a massive wad of 500's. The man at the window next to me started shouting. He was a card holder and was taking a large amount of money, I mean alot – and they would only give him 50's!!!!!! These bricks of money were just being piled up at the window and he was pleading for 500's. I asked the teller why he didn't give him the 500's I'd just paid, but they flat refused. This poor man had no bag even, he had to walk out in the street with his arms laden with these wads.

Anyway, while I was doing all this something significant happened. Back in Katmandu I was writing me new theories, with a view to new practice, initially as mind–maps, but they've evolved as flow chart type diagram's; they're what I intend to write from next. Well I saw this book in pilgrims' and it was so strange as it was based on the Abhidharma, a scripture of Buddhist psychology, and the diagram's looked just like what I was doing. It was so horribly expensive, but the ideas in the text excited me and were so relevant to my own work. I didn't buy it, it cost just too much, but I thought to myself, if I'm meant to have this and it will help my mission, it will come back to me.

Four months later in Delhi, I see this rare title in Full circle bookshop in Khan market. Only a little bit cheaper, but I'm collecting these wads of rupees to buy travelers' cheques and so it was meant to be after all. I'm still taking notes from it now after all this time. I had a lucky day then, I found all the things I would need to do acrylic painting, plus I finally found a pair of shoes. There was some glue inside I must have been allergic to as by merely touching it, spots of blood and pus would start gushing out, but I cleaned all that out and they're fine now; I wear them all the time.

I had a nice room, with a TV and everything, but I was sleeping at bad times. I drank too much. One night at about 11pm. I went out feeling down to the restaurant at Anoops, and there was this man playing guitar. Not the rubbish you usually hear travelers' playing, I mean it was Spanish guitar and he was great, world class, and sang is Spanish too. No one paid attention accept me, but it lifted my mood straight up, it inspired me and I was desperate to be painting.

I finally moved. After much deliberation I went down to Udaipur in Rajistan. It was nice, for a change. I did one nice painting and took notes from my new book. There wasn't really anywhere to work. It's such a noisy place, and every single restaurant plays music. It's annoying, there's this big peaceful, beautiful lake to look over but they just blare noise! I decided, no matter how cold, Dharamsala would be better after all. After a week I came back up. I checked in a new place that was nice, for two days, then took the train up to Panthankot.

At Delhi station I left my bags for just a second, and two kids were about to grab them when I got back. I managed to keep then, and felt apprehension as I traveled up here. We arrived about 6am. I sat, then went out

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for a taxi. This really pushy man said he would take me, for 700. I went, but then in a petrol station he wanted half advance for petrol. He made a huge deal about he's been a driver for 20 years and then got the assistant pump boy to come over and say what a nice man he was and he was his best friend. I said he's really your best friend, you'd do anything for him? Oh yes, yes. Can you give him credit on this petrol? ....... Oh no sir, it's my personal policy never to do this. I was thrown out and had to go with someone else.

I got up here and checked into OM guesthouse. There were rules everywhere, no this, no that, there's a list of about 15 rules up on the door, the last one is 'don't forget what wonderful time you having in Dharamsala.' Anyway, I didn't like the staff so I moved over to Bagsu — a big room but very damp. Plus I realised I couldn't secure the door or any windows and so I was Basically leaving the place wide open. I decided to move.

I went to Green Cybercafe once to work. I saw someone who looked familiar, and it was Robin Bilderbeek! The man I knew in Bangladesh! He's been here months. Unbelievable. We went and drank tea. He's got a motorbike now, got a one year visa from a Nepalese travel agent, a business visa that is.

We talked, he'd met this Thai woman who was going to cook for him that night, it's strange, to see him again. It made me think, I knew him about 14 months ago, and apart from one phone call to my family, that's the only conversation I'd had; not that it hugely bothers me.

I moved into a room that's much nicer. I did a painting of my writing case that I like, and one that I don't of my shirt.

A few days later I ate breakfast in India House, they kept messing about with the radio and it always winds me up, so I went for a quiet walk over by Himalayan Queen to try and change my mood. I passed Robin, he cooks for himself and so was at the vegetable market. We went for tea again. The funny thing was I was planning to buy an apple to paint, and he gave me one. He will stay here in India until May 2001, then work in New Zeeland fruit picking, and then south America. We talked a long time, it was nice. It didn't work out with the Thai woman, and Yoga people don't know what they're talking about, and the Vipassana people and the Reiki people — ah he grows on me.

Well we went to drink more tea somewhere else. There was some kind of demonstration or something. He wanted to know what it was so he asked a shop–keeper and an Australian woman ran up and said it was a mass clean–up, everyone was going to pick litter up. Well funnily enough I recalled this woman from two months ago in Delhi. At 3am. She was on the roof–top at Anoops with a British kid who originated from Pakistan, he was talking about his experiences in returning there. I'm really sensitive to British Asians, homogenous? Plus, she'd eaten next to me the night before. Anyway, she was interesting, was working here in Dharamsala teaching English to the newly arrived refugees. Robin had left so I went looking, he was gone. I drank tea, returned to the cybercafe and he was there. I typed, he was planning to leave around the next new moon, but now his father is sending him some gouda cheese! So it might take longer.

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And,... that's what I'm doing really. Painting and working, actually, it's becoming quite a significant time but I've typed far too much to talk about it now. I'll have to do it another time, while I describe how beautiful the mountains are!

Next Day

Well I'm back, sitting at the same computer as yesterday actually. I'm going to whine, then be positive. Let me say something about Dharamsala. It's really beautiful. It's on a mountainside, 1500 meters up. The clouds look so low. Sometimes they descend so it looks like they're just fifty meters away and you can see the base, not static like you would imagine, but all swirling round. Sometimes the weather behind you is different to the weather in front of you. You look up and there are rain clouds and white clouds and storm clouds and holes in the clouds with say rays coming through and you look down into the valley and it's dark with random circles of sunlight over the grass, spaced at what must be kilometers apart, and green birds of an unbelievable lightness in colour, like the light reflected behind a emerald in the sunlight, a colour so gentle you imagine the sight of it could dissolve sadness just by seeing enough of it.

Well that was a nice description, can I start whining now? OK, I was thinking about Anne some more. I realise that my mind is all on this now for some, ultimately, positive purpose. I was just recalling before her husband, my uncle, died. I thought about it in the morning, this morning, while I paced up and down. I do that. J. used to call me the Tasmanian Devil! I over–heard Anne mention it to my brother once, saying I'd gone mad as I lived alone as a child, she blamed my mother, saying ‘He paces up and down like a wild animal’. Anyway, I'm off the point now. Before my uncle died, he had spinal cancer. He was getting worse every day, to start with it was hard to carry stuff, then he couldn't stand, then he couldn't sit up. Then he started screaming in pain. They moved the bed to the living room. She never told anyone what was wrong. She just kept on saying that we'll do this when he gets better and we'll do that when he gets better. No one was allowed to suggest otherwise. It was all repression. That's what I realise about her, her whole life was based on repression.

So what's that got to do with now? I think, really, it started back in Pokhara when I was writing the fourth novel. I got in the habit if meditating every day in the morning before I started writing. I did it for in inspiration, but often slipped into these periods of incredible peace. But I'd have these times where I would go down. Really down too. Since that time I've been mindful most of the time in the day. I watch all my thought processes. I have come up here to dharamsala with my notes and maps and am going to devise a new 'practice' to deal with, everything. What's everything? I see now, all the time on a moment–to–monument basis throughout the day, the obstacles to happiness in my mind, and they're often repeating variations of the same

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thing, and I can trace it all back to the way Anne's life, or strategy of dealing with it, based on repression.

But there's no point whinnying (even though I obviously love it so much!', because we are born with a karma and we have to live it. We have to transcend it. We have to look into our minds, see exactly what it is that stops us being unhappy at any given time, and decide what we are going to do about it. I am doing this now, I shall devise a new strategy and I might even keep a day to day diary specifically detailing how I am implementing the strategy, the problems and the solutions. It will be an inner–diary, section one = The problems, section two, the solutions, section 3, problems in implementing the solutions. Actually, that just came to me and I like it, it could be included as an appendix to what I want to write next.

Did I end on a positive note?

About four days later

I saw Robin three days ago. I was just entering the cyber cafe and there he was, so I went over. Yes, he's got to have his gas cylinder filled, so I'll come as it's in Jogibara Road where I live. We walk down. He has to go back at four, three hours time. He buys some vegetables and we go and drink coffee in Mayur cafe.

I took my watch out and put it on the table as the straps gone funny. He says, as he says every time he sees me, that the Gregorian calendar is insane because there are thirteen moons in a year, whereas the sun doesn't naturally have cycles. He suggested that time is a vibration rather than linear, then just became angrier and angrier with me, I don't know why as I was hardly speaking, as usual. It ended with him snapping at me because when he used the word trishule I didn't know what it was (it's Hindi for trident).

I don't know, it was just one of those days where I said the wrong thing all the time. I asked why his Belgian friend has a scar on his face (politely) and he took offence. When he told me he made his own shirt from raw silk, I stupidly mentioned that when they make silk they boil the worms out to rid the cloth of glue – well of course he's a vegetarian and took offence once more.

I keep seeing the Australian women about. We pass and hesitate, say hello and shuffle off as we can't think of anything else to say. Actually, she said last time ‘Hello again’, so I got an extra word.

______________________________________________________________

Earlier, the owner came to the door with a Tibetan monk and a French woman of fiftyish. They wanted to see the room because the woman wants it ‘when ever it's free.’ Which is pretty rude really as I wasn't planning

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to go anywhere. Well, all this paper is spread out stretching so I said no and ended up looking weird. But the owner looked at me funny when I checked in. The room boy was alone when I arrived, so I got the room but he didn't have change, so I went back and the owner gave me it. This was about ten days ago, but he just looked me up and down funny. Ah whatever, I ain't moving for now; it's to steep to get my stuff up, but before I leave there's a village nearby, really quiet. Someone came on the Internet, a writer who wanted a quiet place to be inspired, and this place was recommended. Well Robin stayed there and said it was nice, so maybe I'll do a week before I go.

I considered something M said about me leading a lonely life. We're all existentially alone. Sometimes, I think maybe I won't speak at all, people are so funny, like the time I upset Robin, but even people less touchy, it can be tedious trying to connect with them. I think concerning the actual feeling, on a basic level, of loneliness, is really being around people too much. Very rarely do people speak on a true 'soulic' level, so you're alone when you're with them. And we live in sterile cities and forget what and where we are and we feel ... alone. But if you sit on the side of a mountain and realise they were formed because the earth was a fire–ball that still is cooling. Or you look at the blue sky and realise that the space beyond it stretches to infinity, or see the night sky and realise the specs of lights are stars big enough to put all the worlds people on. Or look into some densely packed green trees, with worms and mammals beneath then and birds above them and reflect on the underlying perfection that is the world when we leave it alone — and maybe it's all there just for us.

Oh I don't know, maybe I write too much sometimes.

Date: Thursday 17th January 2002

Wow, I'd forgotten how long it is since I've written. I can only summerise the whole time since the last entry and now as since then, so much has happened and I fell apart. Eventually I moved to Himilaya Queen Annex. In Ekant, a French group turned up and sang until 2am. outside my room. This was the last straw, though the man at Ekant was very friendly when I left, said he loved me staying and that I was his kind of guest. This new hotel was absolutely beautiful, the best I ever stayed in in my life. I started writing a dialogue between myself and my higher self. It starts with, 'what's wrong?', and I answer, 'I'm sad all the time', and we take it from there. The idea is, we sort out the obstacles to happiness, find solutions, come up with conclusions to a happy life, and I write it as a non–fiction project — as well as live it as a new life. Soon after I started, the room turned out to be haunted. Truely. Like I say, Its been so long and so much has happened that I can't go into it now. Its stored in e–mails somewhere.

November 5th came. It was the anniversary of getting together with Junko, I always do something on that day. I had her mail with me, unopened, so I went up to Dhal lake, then I went to St. Johns church in the wilderness. It's lovely. I sat in the graveyard first. It sounds morbid but is nice, all these

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British Victorian graves set on a sloping hillside. I basically meditated there. Then I approached the church.

I haven't been in church for eight years, since I was in Perth. We went together. She's bought me a ring and we dipped it in the holy water and went to light a candle and she put it on my finger. I'm not sure if I should be proud or ashamed to admit that it was the highpoint of my life, though I haven't finished living it yet.

Now, eight years later, I was alone in the mountains and I went in. There was taped church music playing. I sat down and prayed for her happiness. Then I opened her post. She said she wasn't working now, was interested in Sai Baba and sent me a poem by William Blake. It was so nice. I sat and prayed a while longer.

Next I went up to the temple at the Dalai Lama's residence. It's nice there. I bought her some mala beads. I found a lovely little Dhamapada also. I went to the main temple and walked round three times with an old man I turned every single prayer wheel. It really was so peaceful and beautiful.

My visa was expiring so I left the next day. In Delhi, the British embassy assured me that I could get a new passport in time to then get to Bangladesh. I applied. When I went back they were rude and it was really delayed. I ended up at the border one day late. A horrible man shouted at me and sent me back to Calcutta to extend it. Going home I was scared as hell. I had overstayed. On the train I sat feeling so alone and praying. Right in the middle of my prayer a man introduced himself as Ronnie, a Catholic English teacher. I explained the whole thing to him. He said if I phoned him the next day he would help me.

I did so. What happened to us that day is... I don't know. It defies description. You wouldn't believe it if I even told you. Suffice to say, it took all day, I was fined 5000 rupees and forced to fly out of the airport. I think Ronnie was an angel though.

During the flying time I carried on the dialogue on the topic of fear. Then I landed in Bangladesh. What can I say about my month there? Well, Sonargoan hotel in Dhaka is beautiful. Everywhere else was a tad boring. The people are very friendly and helpful though. Like one time I was lost and a packed bus made a huge detour to drop me at my hotel door, then the conductor helped me check in.

There was a big problem with my Indian visa, which I also won't go into — it sorted itself in the end. I had a big week long adventure crossing at the little used Chilahati border in the north. I ended up arriving in Delhi around 22 December.

On Christmas day I phoned my family. My Aunt was out. I phoned around and found her at my brothers. I spoke to him also. They both said they wanted to phone me the next day, boxing day actually. I said Id look forward to it. It was then, when they phoned, that the whole thing started to fall apart.

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I have to go and eat now, plus sort out a load of papers. Ill have some beans and a cutlet in my favourite place, Metropolis Restaurant in Paharganj. I'll write all about it when I get back.

Two Hours Later

I think I had some kind of a breakdown over New Year. I almost went to the hospital. I think it started before I even went to Bangladesh, I had this dream that my Aunt, who brought me up, had died of a second heart attack, and my brother phoned me and said I'd have to change the whole course of my life.

Well, in the real world, I spoke to him on Christmas day, just quickly because I was paying, but he said he'd phone back the next day. So on Boxing Day, first of all my Aunt phoned for half an hour. She sounded really tiered with me. She asked me what I was working on, and was not that impressed when I told her.

After that my brother phoned from his bar/restaurant. He said hello, asked me what I was working on, when I told him he snapped 'And you think there's a market for that?' I mean he said it before I'd even said the title, he had obviously wanted to have this conversation for a long time.

He was so mad with me. He said I can't write and that I'm too eccentric and before my time. He kept asking me what I'm doing in India. Then he said that he knows I'm weird. That I go about from place to place, don't speak to anyone, and it's an abnormal life. Mother is old now and wants to retire, so to set a date when I'll give up the writing and do something else. I asked him what and he said he couldn't say because I've always done whatever I want anyway. He's never sounded as mad as that before.

Well I went back to the room and started thinking. I did nothing but think about it for three days. There wasn't one possible option that I didn’t think of. I thought, go to Paris this week and just work at anything. I thought, go and study computers. I thought, go and join a monastery and stay there forever, I thought, set up a new age shop or a book shop, I thought join a meditation group and become a teacher there, I thought, and thought — I just kept thinking like this for three days.

But I started thinking about all the problems as well, like my leg. I go to the monastery but I still can't get up and down off the floor so how would I sit and meditate? I could become a shop owner, but what about when I'm in pain and need to sit down? With any option that I could think of, my health would affect me.

But then I thought about my mind, just the way I am. I mean, he's got a point, I don’t speak to anyone. I'm clearly insane. Like at Christmas in Delhi there were these characters dressed up like Charlie Chaplin or Father Christmas and I found myself avoiding them so much I could hardly go out. Then there were fireworks and I got scared of those and I don’t know what the

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hell has always been wrong with me but I'm not the same as anyone else and can't face anything in life.

But seeing this was the case I started thinking about all the things that could happen top me that I couldn't cope with. Like the time when I first got so sick that I couldn't stand up for over a day, but I can't have anyone come and help me. What if it gets that bad for a week and I cant even reach water and I die somewhere? What if I get hit by a car and just lie dying. What if I just end up with nothing, wandering about? What if I end up in a wheel chair and just can't live this alone anymore. How will I cope?

I couldn't take it anymore. I went to bed and thought of all the people dying on September 11, normal people that lived normal lives that I can't live but had the rug just pulled out from under them. I kept seeing pictures of people leaping out of the building. By New Years Eve, I just couldn't take any more. I was uncontrollably weeping. I thought about phoning my family but what could they do? I thought, phone Main in Indonesia but, I don't have a number, she barely knows me.

I managed to get out about eight that evening. I couldn’t think what to do. I'd wept so much my eyes were stuck together. I went to the Sacred Heart Cathedral. On the way there a leper was begging. I gave him ten rupees. Usually they get one. I was in a rickshaw at traffic lights. He came back a while later as the jam was awful. He told me his name and said that he knows lots of beggars and they all sleep out and none of them have blankets. I wanted to give him my shirt but I had nothing on underneath it.

At the church there was some service going on. I sat in a pew and knelt down and prayed. At one point everyone got up and took communion and stared at me because I just sat there.

Back near home I bought a beggar child a glass of milk. All his friends came and I did the same. It made me feel a bit better. I went home but an hour later all the agony seeped back.

I was completely unwashed and unshaven. I went to the telephone office where they have booths and directories. I phoned emergency psychiatry. A woman answered. She spoke good English, asked me what was the problem. I kept trying to say but my voice was breaking and I couldn’t get it out. She said, its OK if you need to open up and waited. I still couldn't speak. Eventually I said that I wanted to go to the hospital. She said do you need to be admitted now or can you come tomorrow?

Well it was New Years Eve. I couldn't go, the streets were packed, I'd never get transport by that time. She said come down tomorrow at 10am.

That night it got worse and worse, all the pictures of the horrors in the world. The awful back feeling inside of me. I decided I couldn’t wait; I'd have to go in. I phoned back from the room but she was gone. I phoned other places but no one spoke English. I phoned the embassy but they just said get sleeping pills.

I drank.

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I woke up at midday the next day and just couldn’t get up. It was a hell I was trapped in. How could I go to a hospital when I don't even speak to people if I'm relatively well? I stayed under the covers all day weeping. I kept turning the same things over and over in my mind, exactly what is wrong with me, all that could ever happen that I couldn't cope with. Everything went wrong at the same time. My web–site ran out of space completely just before this. There was a load of mail concerning it that I just couldn’t face. Main suddenly e–mailed to say she was in Holland. Junko mailed with a web site I can't face because Ill realize she lives a normal life opposed to my insanity. There was rubbish strewn all over the floor that I couldn't even manage to pick up. Basically I lie there for ten days. I made it to the nearby shop and moneychanger, got provisions. It was hell. It's been so long I've been doing this that I'm not going to make it. What could I ever write now that would sell, it's just too late?

But there were dreams too. In one my Aunt was walking away from me over a hill into the darkness. She wouldn't talk to me. I tried to follow her but some one pulled my away and tried to push me down a path going in the opposite direction.

In another I thought I'd woken up and phoned her, she started screaming at me, that I don't care.

In another I was lying in bed and suddenly realized I was dreaming. Then I sank down into total blackness where I was trapped completely alone and couldn't move or do anything except pray.

Actually, It was about ten days later that it hit bottom. Under the covers in the day, I lie there, feeling blackness, and kept seeing the people in America jumping from the buildings. It hurt so much that I just couldn’t take it any more. I prayed. Every time I saw a picture like this in my mind I imagined a light above me that it rose up into so that I wouldn't have to think it any more. I did this all day, trying to think nothing because any thought was just too painful. Eventually I fell asleep.

It started to get a bit better from there. I started going out a bit, but only at night. Waiters looked at me shocked and asked if I was OK. The staff in the hotel avoided me because of the way I was looking by then. People kept staring at me in restaurants and I realized I was crying. One night a Japanese man came up and asked if I was OK. We drank some and I told him everything, well, some of it. He told me to live in the now, but then made a pass at me. Another night I met two men from London, they told me to just keep writing until I'm broke and don't worry. One night I was out and a stranger in a turban came up and told me everything would get better for me very soon, then walked off.

Doing the thing where I imagine the light above me seemed to help. I kept doing this even as it got a bit better. I woke up one day cleaned the floor, then put the rubbish out. Just one thing and then the next thing. I didn't eat this time, and to start with I'd be sick with even the smallest amount. But eventually my stomach became OK. I shaved and washed. A couple of days ago I went to the cinema, the first time in two years. I always seem to do that

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when I'm recovering. Next day I finally went to a computer. I couldn't face personal mail, but I did make a massive effort and cleared all the professional correspondence that had been waiting. It made me feel a bit better, to have done something, so I went home, cleaned up even more, and sorted out some papers. Bit by bit, little by little, I've got back on the path. It felt nice, to actually be typing again. I'm still lost, but even now I'm looking at monasteries as I multitask and type this. I've prayed in temples and churches a few times as well, sometimes it's bad, sometimes I feel guided. In the post I got from Japan, Junko told me that she looks at the stars on my birthday. I remember I used to tell her as we looked at them, that we all have a star to follow and have to, no matter what.

I still believe it.

Sunday February 10th 2001 New Delhi

What the hell is going on with me right now; you wouldn’t believe the time I’ve had.

January 31st I went to Gold Regency to eat. The man next to me asked where I was from. We got talking. He’s an American, left his job and is now travelling around. I told him about my book and ideas to sell it. Yeah, we chatted and that was nice.

Then this woman comes up, Caucasian, 30’s, and says to him, ‘Wow, you’re still here’.

So we sit and talk. She had just returned from the airport where she saw off her boyfriend of eleven years and now is going to be here for six months looking into Indian art because she’s an art therapist. We all talk for a while.

Well then it’s chucking out time. We all go but Joe is drunk and falls down the stairs. We see that he gets home safely.

She asked if I had any drink and said she wanted to come and get it. So we went to my place, then took it to her place.

And we basically talked ALL night, until daylight, about everything.

I can’t remember if she’s called Fiona Roberts or Fiona Robertson. She’s had all sorts of problems, anorexia, suicide attempts etc. This is past now as she takes Prozac and is healed and I think OK.

Of course, I talk too, about all the recent problems, and everything, my vision, just everything.

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Then she said, rather than go home, why don’t you sleep here, in my bed, just as mates though.

OK, she made the bed, I lie in it. She toys with my feet a bit, smiles, asks if I’m OK, then we sleep.

Next day, she said let’s pub–crawl all day. Errrr, OK. So we went to Connaught Place. The first place, Rodeo, was Mexican. I had potato skins; she had nachos. We talked there for about three hours. I think there’s very little about the inner–me, my past that I didn’t say, and I found a hell of a lot out about her. I told her how awful it’s been and how much I needed this and she said it means as much to her, she enjoys it as much. I said I’d been praying for it and she said she is an angel sent to me by the Light.

Then we went to Volga, a Russian place, and talked more. Then another, Zen. Then Gola. Then I said some stupid thing and upset her. We made–up a bit in the rickshaw and went to two more places. Then I did it again! She was angry. Joe was there. She was tired. We went alone to her room but I said I wanted Joe to come. We went back and she bought a load more beer, but Joe fell asleep sitting there, she fell asleep lying there. I tried to apologise again but I just watched her saying it’s OK and falling asleep.

I went to the door, cried a bit, watched her sleeping for a long time, and thanked The Light for an answered prayer, then went home.

Next day wasn’t so good. I sat outside Volga looking at the front door. An Indian man came and sat with me. He said he’d just retired and gets lonely, shall we go and eat. Do I want to go to his house. He’s worried that he hasn’t married his daughter off yet, then keeps asking if I’m married. I’m not hungry so he leaves alone.

I slept, then was ill for a few days. I had to launder my sheets and clothes, messy.

I went back to church and sat where I’d been weeping New Years Eve praying for a friend, and knelt down and gave thanks for … an absolutely stunning day.

Oh, But two weird things. I had two dreams. I remembered that before I met her I dreamt I was talking to a Caucasian female and praying, thanking the universe for an answered prayer. Then, in another, I was with Fiona and Japanese woman. I had a sock with little wooden cats in. Someone thought it was a weapon. I took out the cats and gave them to the Japanese woman. Then we all went to a bar. It was dry, i.e. no beer. We met a friend. Then we went to another bar where there was beer being served, and we drank there. But then we all went to a classroom, like at school. The fire alarm went off and I ran out. A woman ran out two and was going to collide with me because it was so dark, so I had to call out so she would know I was there. Then I realised I was alone, no one had followed me. I went back in the classroom and they told me it was a false alarm.

I hated being around Paharganj so I started eating elsewhere. A few days later I was in United Coffee House. There was an Indian man of about fifty. He spontaneously started talking to me. He started by saying something

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like ‘You’re a philosopher, you’ve always been quiet by nature, didn’t want people to talk to you, but recently you’ve been in pain and started to open up.’

Then he carried on, stating pretty much the make up of my past and personality while I sat there in stunned silence. I needed to sleep, so the last thing he said was ‘You’re really only looking for one thing in life – and you’ll find it’.

Today, they asked for rent. I had to check the calendar, I realised I was with her ten days ago now, and I wonder where it went and what I did.

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New Diary Log Two

Sunday 17??th March 2002

New Delhi

I feel weird. So, so weird. A couple of days ago I was walking along main bazaar at night and suddenly had an intensly dizzy spell and by the time I'd realised what had happened I'd walked into a car.

But I've felt ill since then. In my mind it feels slowed and unreal, constantly dizzy but to a lesser degree. The veins in my arms and around my eyes keep on shuddering, going into a type of spasm. My hands constantly tremble.

I feel scared, but I don't know of what. I feel so, so alone, like a floating speck of nothing is a storm. If the light still watches over me, I pray it heals me, places me somewhere. I feel so unreal. I dont think I can take it anymore. Heal me.

3rd July 2002, can't remember the day.

Kathmandu, Nepal

I think I'm going mad. Long story but I'd better explain what happened since the last entry. It was a while ago, but life is speeding up, the clock is ticking, I haven't had time. It's weird, updating this diary when there's no chance it's ever going to pay anything. I feel better, writing the whole mess down though. I write the words, they're converted to binary code and I click send and out goes all the ones and zeros, like a message in a bottle. Does anybody find it?

I needed to work. I have to finish and sell something. There's hardly any time. I wasn't getting anything done in Delhi, so I went North to Nainital, in the Himilaya. I stood in that room on Delhi, room 205, with my bags packed and reflected on how close I came to dying there. Yes, I just looked into the empty room and thought for a while.

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Hated Nainital though. Accommodation's really tight so I ended up with something horrible. There wasn't really anywhere suitable to write. I only went there because I thought it was pedestrianised, but it wasn't and I didn't like the noise. I stayed one night, then came back to Delhi. I checked in a different place, by seven pm. the place was an oven, I was roasting. I got packed up, back to the old hotel. That's it. I'm back in room 205!

But I'm not going to have another experience like ‘The New Year’ session. I stayed a few days, then went south to Kerela by the sea. I met mother there a few years ago

Just what the doctor ordered. Loved it, felt much better, most importantly, I worked. Yep, absolutely wrote my guts out. A sample chapter for a book proposal got out of hand and ended up as a 40,000 word e–book. I wrote the whole thing there, well, apart from the last part.

My ear got worse, it popped and the hearing went a little, but the sensation of it being popped never went away, it was constant. One day, staring at the sea I found a lump in my tongue. Two hours of intense worry, then furious writing, did about 3000 straight up, one of my best days ever, ironically.

The computer was too expensive to use for a long time, and I needed to type, so I went on to Bangalore. I thought it's the tech capital, so the computers should be cheap. They weren't. Plus I got badly cheated by a horrible hotel. Didn't work out. I went on to Hampi, nearby, a historical place, ruins, all that jazz.

Loved it. Actually, I stayed in Hospet nearby. It was a lovely hotel, very beautiful. Computers not to expensive, but the restaurant I found to work in really was first class, and I actually finished the draft there.

Mian, my friend in Indonesia wanted me to phone her. She was in Holland recently, is going back there, she says to study. I know she's met someone but doesn't say anything. Isn't this just typical of me? I woman I knew for less than two hours, platonically, six years ago, and it bothers me if she marries. I can't believe I'm admitting that. Yes, I AM the height of patheticness. It's just the continuety of knowing someone for so long, even if it's only e–mail. I mean, like this lump, who else could I tell I was worried? I'm just alone.

Well I had a day off in Hampi, went sight–seeing. This was the day I had to phone. A woman answered and told me she was ill. That's it. I was relieved in a way. I had these mental pictures of opening up on the phone and weeping.

Hampi was very peaceful though, silent. I was alone as far as the eye can see as I clambered all over the ruins. I meditated. Thought about my health. Prayed. Felt scared. Felt alone. Felt confident. Felt lost. felt guided. Got tiered of feeling so stopped my mind, lie on my back and stared at the beautiful sky through the leaves.

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Paradise couldn't last. My visa was expiring, so I had to rush through Delhi. Yep, room 205. I got a Nepalese visa. Train to Ghorakpur. Taxi to Sunauli. Ate. Taxi to Chitwan, a national park in the south of Nepal.

It's late though. Nepal is in a state of emergency. I have to be off the streets by 10pm. Soldiers are blocking the road so I end up there alone. (Why am I suddenly writing in the present tense?) I walk around, pitch black, the streets are completely deserted. All the hotels are closed. I knock doors, ring bells and just don't see a human being. Weird. Frightening actually. I found a garden and sat there and realised if clouds went over the moon I'm in big trouble.

A pack of dogs saw me from the distance. Oh my God. I get up and walk towards the river. Then I saw a light to my right, a garage door is slightly ajar and there's a boy sleeping there. I woke him, asked if there was a hotel open. He took me to a place I'd stayed before and starts shouting. Another garage door opened and there was this friendly kid who remembered me from my last visit. Oh, that was a relief. I'm actually in a room, with a light and a bed and, just to be out from the night.

Chitwan's a ghost town. The Maoist violence has actually touched there, plus it's about ten US to get in. I stayed a couple of nights. Then a nice bus to Pokhara.

Strange about Pokhara. Last time I loved it. Apart from, you know when, it really was the most peaceful, relaxing time I ever had. But the computers are all under a price–fixing cartel, which makes them too expensive, no one uses them and so I can't stay. Shame, 'cos I love Fewa lake; I think it's one of the most beautiful places in the world.

But I have to work, there just isn't time to enjoy the view. I came on to Kathmandu. Stayed in Holy Lodge; very nice, clean, cosy. The computers are cheap and I started slogging away, five hour stretches.

My ear got worse and I started to go insane. I kept having nightmares, like in Delhi, I knew I was dreaming, it was so clear and intense, more real than the real world, really. My right ear started constantly ringing. About the dreams, I got the idea that my soul was already starting to slip into the next world. I had some awful episodes at night, so quiet except for the ringing, I wanted to pull my skull open, take my brain and just throw it away so I don't have it anymore (You want it? I'll give you a great price, though it's not mint–condition and might be damaged beyond repair.) I shouldn't make jokes because it's not even possible for me to explain the way I'm feeling right now.

I had a bad night. I had a really awful night where I thought I might not get through it. I had to see a doctor.

The next day I changed my mind, changed my mind, changed my mind, changed my mind, changed my mind, eventually I walked over to the CIWEC clinic, supposed to be the best place. The receptionist was Scottish.

‘Can I help you?’

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‘Yes, how much is a consultation?’

‘Well, we give very good recepits for your insurance.’

‘Oh, I see... but how much is it?’

‘...Do you have insurance?’

‘No.’

‘Fifty american dollars, basic consultation, more if it goes on longer, any drugs or further tests are extra. Would you like to make an appointment?’

‘No.’

Fifty US! No. Is my life even worth that? I've never got any decent result from a quack, and what would I even say to then anyway? No, I'll get through it myself.

Bad night. Even worse. I had to do something. Next day, to hell with it. I made an appointment by phone.

Nervous. I took two Valium; I never take them usually. I put on crisp and perfect ash coloured chinos from the dry–cleaners, took a rickshaw there, then dropped a can of orange–juice straight over my crotch minutes before I have to go in. Oh, fabulous. Lucky I'd taken the Valium or I would have punched myself.

Went in. He's BriTish. Told him everything. Told him about my health. Told him about my mind. Told him about the ‘New Year Session’. Broke down. Made a fool of myself. He asked if I've ever been diagnosed as psychotic.

That sounds bad, no? Actually I think he was just trying to work out what's wrong. He looks at me, pressed me gently and I double up in pain. It's my liver. He asks me how much I drink, for how long, he grimmaces, says it might not look good there. He doesn't pursue this further as I'm trembling and obviously can't take bad news, but he tell me I'm jaundiced and it would be much better to take sleeping pills than drink.

That's worrying; I'm scared.

You want the good news (for a change)?

IT'S A CYST!!!!

Harmless. Might get a bit bigger, but can be safely ignored. He's not sure about my toungue, probably nothing. Can't find anything in my throat.

Prozac.

He gave me 30, said I can buy it locally.

That's is; it's over, I can't believe I'm out. I go to a restaurant. Take one. Eat some tofu salad. Start trembling and have this absurd feeling that the world is closing in, ran home, shot vomit all over the carpet and excrement over the bathroom floor.

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I got on my hands and knees and cleaned up, violently trembling now and very scared.

Stopped taking it.

Nightmares.

Bad nights

The days aren't that good.

I've packed my bags and moved out today. I have them with me and am going to look for somewhere new to live. I'm going to try and take them again. To be honest, I have to. I don't think I'm going to survive.

13th July 2002, I think it's Sunday.

Kathmandu, Nepal

I finished the e–book yesterday. Kind of sad as I was doing something I could do but now I have to sell it, which is hard.

It's got to the point that there's no more I can do until I get a web–domain. So, go get a web–domain, right? Not as simple as that. It's got to be something I can live with. It's very hard to change this once it get's indexed and people start to know it. Plus I need a pen–name.

I know that doesn't seem like much of a problem, but it's so symbolic to me. I can think back four or five years ago, buying a book of Hindi names and writing down all the meanings, trying to decide on a pen–name. I mean, the name should have meaning, reflect who I am and what I came here to do. It's like when someone enters a spiritual tradition, they are given a new name at initiation. It's like this, this is why it's so important to me. I'll try and incubate a dream this evening, if not then I'll have to go to the temple and pray for a dream.

I've taken the medicine for about twelve days now, so I should feel an effect soon.

Since seeing the doctor, I worry about my liver. Why did it hurt so much. At the height pf my joint problem, I used to take pain–killers, maybe 20 a day it was so bad. Add this to how much I've always liked a drink, and

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it's worrying. I started getting strange sensations there, though I only notice them now.

The ringing in my ear gets on my nerves though. I put drops in but nothing happens.

I feel really stuck. I can't go forward until I'm 'initiated' with new names.

The only good thing at the minute is that my dreams are positive.

??Weddesday 3rd September 2002

Kathmandu

I'm not sure what the hell is going on with me at the moment. It was ages ago, but I went up to the monkey temple to pray for a dream telling me what my domain and pen name should be. I did indeed dream the following night, it was an awful, dark nightmare that mother was dying and telling me to work harder

But I thought about it. Why not take mother's maiden name? J. Lowet. The numerology is good. The vowels and consonants both add up to 11, which is my birth number, the whole name adds up to 22. I mean, I do what I do because of mother.

So I found a company to register the domain and store the pages. It was so satisfying, after all this time, all my work together in one place. I decided to start a publishing company on–line plus resell web–space.

But everything went wrong. I got everything ready, but wasted weeks because the hosting company are no good. It's a long story.

Mian kept wanting to chat, Internet chat. I signed up for messenger. After a couple of weeks, we were on–line at the same time. But it was horrible. She wanted me to say I'd go over. She insisted I phoned. I did. She sounded really tiered and said it's OK if I want to finish it, because it looks as though I'm never going back.

The Internet's been down for a week. I'm trying to still set up the publishing company at a free site, but there's so much advertising, it's going to look weird. I'll have to give up for now though as it's simply impossible to work with connections as slow as this. Every wasted day is so frustrating as I had the dream telling me to speed up.

When I told M. about the trouble, in conversation, by e–mail, she mentioned Junko... and said something like ‘Did you ever hear from her again?’... so it might be the think I've dreaded for eight years has happened.

The only positive thing is that I found some reasonable art software that allows me to make a nice e–cover. I'll enclose a picture called ‘A Road Ahead’ here.

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Also, my books been on sale for a week, no sales. I went marketing it on the Internet and everybody flamed me.

When am I going to have some good news to report?

4th October 2002

Still in Kathmandu

I'm still here, though shall be leaving in a few days. An awful lot has happened actually, I'm not sure where to begin.

Well I wrote above, when will there be some good news, and actually, there is some good news for a change. It was back on September 11th. I logged into my paypal account and there's 4.95 there. Somebody bought the ebook which is now available online. I couldn't quite believe it; the first genuine sale in fifteen years. I went to celebrate with a nice bit of mozzarella aubergine at Rum Doodle restaurant, then lie on my back and realised I was looking up at all these pictures of Shiva and the Buddha; it was indeed an answered prayer.

It wasn't to last. I went back to the computer, there were for separate e–mails complaining about the download failure. The connection there was atrocious but I managed to send it as an attachment with a promise of a refund if he can't open it. He wrote two days later saying it opened OK, he's already halfway through and loves it.

But I can't claim the money as I don't have a bank account. I have a few days to sort this out, then it will be refunded.

But there's more good news. After everything going wrong, like the publishing idea etc. I have actually finished a book proposal I'm reasonably happy with. It's all copied and ready to be sent out on Monday. The quality of the Xerox is not so good, but the thing reads OK.

I'm so tiered though; I can barely keep my eyes open. God knows what's wrong. Anyway, I have to move on. I'll be leaving here within a week. No plan whatsoever. I'll just end up somewhere.

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29th October 2002

Gold Regency Cybercafe, New Delhi

Personality Disorder

Another long time.

I've decided I have a personality disorder. It's the avoidance one. It's true, I I spend the whole of my life avoiding everything. I haven't looked in a mirror for fifteen years. I put off opening the post from Japan for years at a time to the point of perhaps never getting any again.

So what am I putting off now? Well, the last days in Kathmandu went really well. I managed to finish the book proposal, then get it sent. The Indian embassy gave me a visa with no problem whatsoever, and that's a first. I went on down to Pokhara, and there bumped into Vishal, a waiter I knew from over a year ago in Leema restuarant in Delhi. I put my VISA number in PayPal and successfully claimed the money. I learned to touch–type, started learning to read Hindi and got thousands of dollars in travelers' cheques.

So what's the problem? Well, I've not logged into any bank, or paypal for over a month as I worry there's going to be money missing. I avoid mail in case someone tried to download the book and there was trouble and they asked for a refund and I wasn't there to deal with the complaint. Also Mian wants to finish everything now that she's abroad and it feels weird after seven years as there's really no one else to talk to. Plus a month is a long time and there could be bad news that ruins, or at least changes, my whole life.

All I can think to do is have a rum punch and face up to these things one by one. If I do that while I write this then you can follow my progress. Yeah, right, like anyone reads this. Whatever, people talk to their diaries like they're friends, so we'll treat it like that.

First stop is to log in and check the PayPal balance to see if there were any downloads, or complaints or whatever. I'll log in in another window and then come back and report as soon as I discover what's going on there.

Back. Painless. Not sure if it's good or not, but there are absolutely no new downloads and the balance stands at 4.51. So at least no one had any problems.

Job two, go to Barclaycard and see what the balance is after I withdrew the travelers cheques. I'm hoping it's a bit as there are two massive rips in the front of my jeans, my shoes have fell apart and I can't afford to get my bags out of storage. Incidentally, the bank refunded my money from 123Reg.co.uk, but said they're still looking into it and it might not be permanent. But their deadline had passed so they at least allowed for the fact I live abroad. Right, enough whining, I'll log on and see what the situation is.

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Back. I didn't look into the details, but as far as I can work out there's some credit and there's been no incoming payment, and the next amount due is sometime in November.

OK, so it's not too bad so far. Now I have to log on to my personal mail for news from home... and see if my world can hold together a little longer.

I'm back. Everyone is fine, though I think mother has domestic trouble. It's late now and I have to go. I'll enclose the e–mail I just sent her.

Dear M,

How are you. Very sorry indeed not to write and worry you like that; it's been an... eventful time.

I did say I was going off–line for a time because of the price–fixing cartel in Pokhara. You obviously got that because you mentioned Pokhara.

Well I was there a while; the Lumbini bus is cancelled because there wasn't enough interest. Apparently there's a lot of Buddhist tourists that go there, from rich countries like Japan, and I couldn't believe they would use a local bus, so I spent time asking round. But then realised that they must fly.

One day I saw Vishal, the waiter from Leema restaurant in New Delhi. It turns out he's Nepalese and this is where he lives, which is one hell of a coincidence.

Anyway, I took the bus down to Chitwan. I was still holding out for a tourist bus for Lumbini, but there's absolutely nothing. The boy remembered me from last year and so got me a special deal on a car. Oh, and I went deaf for a couple of weeks with a pussy (as in foul yellow liquid rather than an infant feline) growth, same ear as the cyst; plus woke up spitting blood with a painful cough... but all this has gone now, completely. I'm concluding that my body was just clearing out the Kathmandu pollution.

Anyway, I drove onto the border. I'd planned to stay a night but it's so horrible I changed into nice clothes in the bathroom and crossed the border. What you were saying about the Indians having a politeness drive might be right as they even offered me chewing tobacco.

Well, then I had a horrible car. The co–passenger was drunk and aggressive. Also we picked up a rude policeman who didn't speak English. Because of all the problems in Nepal there are roadblocks all over the place to stop guns coming in.

When we arrived the driver and drunk passenger want double the money. I say no. The policeman had left and they drove me to the middle of nowhere and became aggressive and basically threatened me. I got out the car with a plan to throw a stone through the next passing car's. I managed to make a joke of it and they drove me to where I was going. They again asked for a 'tip', but this was somewhere crowded so I just walked off and they left it.

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So this was Ghorakpur. I checked in a nice place. My wallchart said the next day was a holiday, and the receptionist confirmed this. So I waited until the day after as I didn't have enough money for the ticket. It turns out the bank had been open after all.

Anyway, the train station has advance booking only. Luckily the friendly man knew about the tourist quota and let me have that, even then, there was only one place.

Finally I could use the computer there, there's none in Chitwan or the border, but I got paranoid about log in into the mail account. One, there will be something from Mian, my Indonesian friend. She's been in Holland for a few months, living with her brother in law. We chatted, via a chat program, in Kathmandu, and although we didn't actually fight, she kept saying how is this going to work out between us as she wants to settle there. She asked if SI'd come. She said apart from a German penpal, she waited, so when am I coming. Well it's nuts. She wants to go, so I have to go to Hotmail, face up to all these mails, and then say no, OK, you're right; I shall never be in Holland, so you are a free agent — then I press the block sender button. It's mad as it never could have been. But it's a little sad I suppose. It's been seven years. We e–mailed at least weekly. She made me laugh at me sometimes. The times I've completely lost my mind, I actually gave her the details. When I thought my cyst was cancer, I told her before the test when I wasn't sure... and it was nice to have someone to say that to and be told to relax and not worry.

But it just isn't to be. I'm a pretty eccentric guy. I shall learn to be happy just as me and I'll share any worries with a higher power.

Other stuff. One. I got all the travelers cheques, thank you. I got some in Kathmandu, some in Pokhara. I went on–line to check the balance and as far as I can understand, there's enough to use the card tomorrow, which is great for three reasons. One, it's Divali on the fourth, the biggest festival in the Hindu calendar and I'm not sure how much everything closes down, and so I need to advance buy. Two, hopefully a few publishers will ask to see the complete work and I'll need the special envelopes. Three, due to over–zealous cleaning, there are two massive rips in the front of my jeans. I got them in Shimla three years ago. I have to buy new, even near naked beggars do a double–take when I pass. Also, I might get shoes. If you recall I got these square things before I went to Dharamsala, so they're at least a year old. Actually, the top looks OK, but the flaps that hold the laces snapped a couple of months ago, which makes them look a bit trampish. I did try gluing it but it's an unusual material.

Let me think of some good things to say. Well, I'm staying in the same place here, Prince Palace. I stayed for ages before as I always seem to get stuck here. The manager is Ranjit, and he calls me Lipton. The place has gone upmarket, with air–con, TV with remote... 450. I frowned as that's far to much, so he smiled, shook my hand and said I can have it the same price as before, 250, which means I must have one of the best value rooms in Delhi.

Also, my touch–typing has progressed to the point of being faster than two fingers when I look at the keyboard.

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I came across some pretty mind blowing books which have completely changed the course of my thinking and I've been taking a mass of notes and have card for new mind maps... I can just tell a new piece of work is going to result from this. It's a bit detailed to go into now, I'll explain it all tomorrow. But whole new windows open up.

Oh, and back in Kathmandu, I though to hell with it, and joined PayPal; they have my number. This was another reason I avoided mail. You see, I have an avoidant personality disorder... that means CHICKEN in plain English. I just logged on and the balance is 4.45, this is after their fees... so I ain't exactly got Murdoch worried yet, but I stopped marketing the book while there was the uncertainty I would be able to get the money, all three quid of it.

It's clever the way they do it. There's a 1.95 membership fee, but when this shows up on your visa statement, there's a code. You enter this code and they refund it to your PayPal balance. Ostensibly this is to prove you are in receipt of those statements, but it means they get two dollars. OK. It's two dollars and if I ever get a bank account I get it back. But they have 11,000,000 members. That's a good business.

So I've had new ideas about the publishing idea. Again, it's a bit much to go into, but if I went ahead, I'd have to get over this stupidness of running away from things which might be negative.

It's good to hear you managed to get away, but not so good to hear that the moods and atmospheres continue. Now this is worrying as before I left Nepal you considered moving out, and now this atmosphere is continuing... which must be serious as you've never really mentioned something like this before. Then again you still were on good enough terms to go away together, so hopefully it isn't constant.

I'll have to continue about this tomorrow, after I hopefully complete the shopping. I trust this e–mail has relieved your worry. I'll let you also know about the new direction and publishing idea.

Love,

John.

27th November 2002

Looming and Poorly

I've done it again. Basically worrying myself literally sick about what's going on with the computer. I managed to let Mian go the last time I was on–line and blocked sender, but she sent something to my other e–mail address and I couldn't face it. Time got longer and longer, then I started worrying about if there have been any more problems at PayPal and if

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everything's alright at home or if the e–mail that ends my life is waiting for me.

For the last three days, my arm has been completely locked and I've been sleeping sitting up as I can't lie on it. It's the same as the thing that nearly killed me in Goa a few years ago.

But finally, I'm here. Now I have to face up to everything. To find out what's going on. Just get it all sorted out so I can know once and for all and then get on and go south or find out it's all bad and die. I always get stuck in Delhi like this. It's so hard to get going as the deadline is looming and I find out if my life has worked out. Also now I find out if there's any publisher interest on this latest and last project. I don't have the resources or time to do another one, so everything rides on this. God knows what I'll do if a miracle doesn't materialise. So, we'll do it like the last time I was being this pathetic and I'll write this as I go. First stop, PayPal, any more sales, any more problems, any complaints about me, can I complete my application? Be rooting for me...

Just back from PayPal. No sales whatsoever. Now to the mail accounts to find out the news...

... Well, there's no disasters... but Mian phoned both Anne and M. to say she still wants to be friends. This is madness, M. sounded irritated. I'm going to eat. I'll write when I return.

28th November 2002 I couldn't come back to the computer yesterday. It was an awful day

shopping, and I walked too far and was in agony. I'm still finishing everything off. It's getting cold here and I've hardly any money on me. I'll have to go south soon.

Date: Thursday 11th December 2002

Arrived in Cochin

Well, I'm here. It was a nice trip down actually. I left Delhi after asking Metropolis restaurant to make a take out pack for me. The first destination was Pune. The train was OK, I was in with a couple of friendly Israelis who complained about everything. I arrived there early evening. I only had one little page of notes about the place I'd taken from the Internet, but I found a hotel within ten minutes. The receptionist was strange, I kept speaking to me but he was so focused on all the paperwork of checking–in that he was unaware of my presence. It was an expensive small room, but that's because it was so close to Bombay.

Next day, I went and had a quick look around, then got on the train in the afternoon. This was easy enough, and I arrived in Margao the next day. I went to Colva and stayed in the same place. Last time the water was always going off, so I asked if it was fixed now, and everyone said yes. It wasn't.

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When I checked out the next day everyone was phoning reception complaining that there was no water. Imagine running some business like that, having a fundamental problem and just choosing to live with it your whole life rather than do something about it.

Next day I spent seven hours straight writing in a restaurant, then left for the station. The train was delayed and I was befriended by about fifteen Muslim teenagers going to Calicut. I was quite flattered as they only spoke some Hindi, and when they heard mine, they assumed I was a native speaker.

I got on that train, went to sleep, then the next day, arrived at Ernakulam. I crippled myself for two days by walking all over the place until I was limping, but then realised there's nothing there, it's all here on the island.

You have to take a ten minute ferry, and then you're in a really quiet place that has somewhat the atmosphere of a quiet English village, though actually is used to be a Dutch enclave. There are leafy streets, a little beach with Chinese style fishing nets everywhere. It's really pleasant.

Of course, now I've got to catch up with everything on the Internet. Has anyone had download problems and now thinks I'm ignoring them. While I was still in Delhi, a literary agent said I had slandered them on my web site and were even threatening to sue me. I was worried and even wrote to Angela at www.writersweekly.com. Bless her, she answered right away and reassured me. Did I say Mian phoned England when I said I wouldn't write anymore, so now I have to face this. Mother didn't write for like ten days and so there's the worry if everything is OK there. Oh, the worry. I'm checking the mail now as I write this.

Date: 13th February 2003

New Delhi

I can't believe it's been as long as this. I also can't believe how much has happened

What happened in Ernakulam. Well I found out the book didn't download properly and sorted that out. Things got more and more stressful towards New Year as it was so close to the deadline of making it. Christmas day, nothing special. I had a bad migraine, but was also dreading phoning home considering what I'd gone through the last time I'd phoned.

Actually, it was nice. I went out really late, when my head was a bit better. I phoned Anne. She was at home and hadn't gone to my brother's this year. We had a good chat. I told her about my book sales and how I was trying to sell digital art. There was the usual ‘When are you coming ‘home’’? routine. We talked a lot about my brother. I told her I wanted my money, I don't trust him. She said he's a bu*****tter, but completely trustworthy, which isn't the case, and with the deadline looming, I hinted about being back, like where will I sleep etc.

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That night I dropped a whiskey bottle on the floor. The next day I trod on a shard of glass. It was small but deep and left a pool of congealed blood on the floor. I wasn't sure if it was a sign.

I took the ferry over to the island. It's a container port, lots of ships but all old and rusty. That day there was a brand new turquoise ship there. All little balconies and white people in sun hats and playing about on waterski's. It was so unusual, even the locals were taking photos of it. I noticed it was called ‘Europa’.

I moved to the island. With the download problems sorted out, I made an online bookstore. I worked and worked and worked.

Still no massive success by New Years Eve. I had been slipping, remembering my tearful mental breakdown in the Sacred Heart Cathedral the previous year. Also, out of the twenty five of so proposals and query letters I had sent from Nepal, not ONE business was interested. There was no time to make it now, even if I sent more. It was failure. I got upset. I started weeping, worrying about my health.

Now the nuts and insane part. I phoned Anne. I cried. I said I was sick and would be back in England before March. I can still hardly believe it myself.

Then I phoned Mother, we both broke down. I told her about the incident at the doctors in Nepal, letting her know I've... drank some, and shall be back before March. It was horrible. We both broke down and she offered to come and get me. I hated myself for doing that to her, but it's not wholly my fault, if you know what I mean.

I phoned the next day and tried to be positive. It was a bit better.

That was it. I was committed. I bought three tickets up to Delhi. Then went down to Kovolam for the last writing. It was a lovely, sentimental break, though I worked like mad, I relished the last of my peace.

I came back up, lost a notebook with a load of dreams in.

Here, I've finished the writing. I want to go overland to UK via Europe and the Middle East, but Iran refused my visa. India just expelled the diplomats of Pakistan after a row about spying. I have to go tomorrow, don't know if I'll be allowed in, I hope so very much as there's a chance of a boat to Turkey, meaning I wouldn't have to fly at all.

So that's it. I'm done. Ten years. I don't know what my conclusion to the whole affair is, or what will happen when I get there. Where I will live. I have some vague plan to put the writing on CD and properly compile it, sell it like this, advertise, ask the arts council for a grant to exhibit visual art. I don't know? I'll have to write another time, when I've more time.

Who would have thought that it would come to this?

Opps! Nearly forgot, one piece of good news. Someone called Ken donated twenty dollars towards my work. I don't mean he bought something, I

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mean a total stranger gave twenty dollars as a gift to support what I do. The most sincere compliment I ever received, I'm hoping it a sign concerning the things I now have to face.

Date: I think it's somewhere about the 28th February 2003

Location: Ajay Cybercafe, New Delhi

Kind of ironic really, as this is where Fiona came to write an email during that insane day over a year ago.

I promised my family I'd be back by March, so I'm cutting it a little fine. The Iranian embassy refused my visa, so I was on the Internet to see what the options were. The message boards told me that I could sail from Karachi in Pakistan. I went to the embassy one morning. Just before this India had just thrown out all the Pakistani diplomats for spying. They said there is no visa for British now. Thus flying became the only possibility.

It's really early morning. I came out thinking I'd sit here in Delhi spilling my feelings, but I'm tiered now. I want to lie down. I've been avoiding my mailboxes again.

5th March 2003

New Delhi

OK, I've said some of this before, I'll repeat myself briefly, just about the visas.

I wanted to go overland all the way from Delhi to London by land. But Pakistan refused the visa, as did Iran. I spent a few days looking at other ways that didn't involve flying, and there's only one, go back through Nepal and China, then the trans–siberian via Russia, so it would basically mean going in the opposite direction from my destination, and then half way round the world.

So I slowly accepted that there would be a flight involved. I looked into all places. Uzbekistan would let my fly in, but the onward journey would be via Russia and I can't get that visa here. In the Middle East, there are countries that will let me in, but their land borders are closed, meaning there would be another flight out.

So the only options were Israel, Egypt or Turkey. The flight costs are pretty much identical, so I decided on the shortest one, i.e. Egypt.

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I went round a lot of travel agents, and found their prices for the same flight differ by as much as eight dollars. A couple of days ago I went to a place called Tripsout as it was recommended off the Internet. Actually, this was last Friday. The owner, called Sunny, said that the cheapest flight was by Kuwait Air, but the last time he sold a ticket to a Canadian woman, they wouldn't let her on the plane because the airline said she needed a visa and onward ticket. Of course, this was Friday, so there was no way we could check anything.

On Monday, I went there. They phoned the Egyptian embassy. They said I can enter without a visa, leave by land and I don't need an onward ticket. OK. So the boy walked with my to Kuwait Airlines, and the booking clerk told him they wouldn't issue a ticket because I'd need a visa. So then I got involved, there was a long conversation and in the end he said I could have it.

So the boy and me went back to the office. They tried to book it for Tuesday morning, but it was full, but there might be a cancellation. So I left my number and went home. There was no call so I went back the next day. Sunny told me that he had confirmed my flight on the plane that just left. He tried to phone but there was no answer.

I said try for Wednesday then. He phoned and it was full, but there might be a cancellation. He kept saying ten minutes, ten minutes. I went to eat, came back, and still it was going to be in ten minutes, ten minutes. So I gave him five hundred rupees and said book it for Thursday and issue it. He said he might not be able to confirm it until Wednesday evening. As I left I accidentally shut the leg of Sunny's black dog in the door. It was trapped and screaming and I worried it was a bad omen for the flight.

I went home and the manager, Ranjit, told me the telephone line had fallen down yesterday, but now it was OK.

I went to bed. Then there was a phonecall, he said it's confirmed for Thursday, which is tomorrow. I have to go later and pay for it.

It leaves about four in the morning, six hours in the air, and six hours stopover in Kuwait, of all places. I still don't have any guidebook, am not sure if I'll be able to find one, and will probably land with no idea of where I'm going, how to leave the country, where to sleep.

I phoned my Aunt a while ago as I'd promised to be there for March, but she understood the delay and said it was OK as I had all this stuff to arrange. I'll likely phone her again later and let her know I have a definite plan now.

I stayed away from the computer for a long time. I logged on the computer today and there was a message from Mother, the news was... a surprise.

One, my brother got married a couple of weeks ago. No one said anything to me. He's already got two kids by this British woman. They went to America for a honeymoon, and that's that.

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But now my sister's getting married also. She's much older than me, by ten years, and she met someone fourteen years younger than her. This is the story. She had a house which she's been paying for over the years. She finished paying and sold it, so now has a lot of money. Then she met this Australian man who works all around Europe. They travelled down to Spain for a bit, then decided to go to Australia for a while. But the embassy would only give her three months there and she wants longer so she thought if she got married she could stay a long time. I've no idea if she'll still be there when I get back, but there you go. It will be strange, if just as I get back she goes. I'm happy for her though. She always wanted to travel and it's better to spend money while you have it because you don't know what happens tomorrow.

Anyway, I'm off to get my ticket in a minute. I really am scared of the flight, and it's a long time to be in the air. I'm not sure if I'm more scared of the flight, or actually getting back. On one hand, I'm always ill, with the poor diet, pollution etc. and it will be easier to sell my work in England. It will be legal and I'll earn pounds. It's still so hard to imagine though. There will be nowhere to go all day. My Aunt's turned a room into an office for me and they're putting a computer in there, but that's all I'll have, that and a lot of painful memories. A brother who hates me. A sister who's leaving. The restaurants are too expensive to work all day in. I really am regretting telling my Aunt I'd go back.

Things might be a little easier if I get my money off my brother first. That way I can stay for just a month to begin with and then leave for a break on the mainland.

I might even get drastic. Say, from Egypt, I could go as far as Paris, then just phone my Aunt and say I won't go any further until the money is sent to me. I know for a fact if I go back without getting it first, I'll never see it.

Saturday 8th March 2003

Nile Hilton, Central Cairo, Egypt.

AFRICA

Everything went wrong the day before leaving Delhi. I went to the travel agent and the ticket was there. He said I would have to go to another place to get my credit card debited, and this place was a different travel agent with a different name, but the ticket itself had yet another travel agent name. I went to Kuwait Air Office to check it was all OK. She checked everything and said the ticket was OK but because I'd been in India more than four months, I'd need a tax clearance certificate, which was OK because the tax office was just nearby.

I walked around and couldn't find any driver to take me, but then Gupta, the driver I use most days happened to go by. He took me to the tax office which happened to be on the other side of Delhi. I was directed to five or six different offices in two separate buildings. Eventually I was in the right

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place. It was a completely empty room except for four women sitting round a bare table eating and talking. When I asked for a tax clearance certificate, they all burst out laughing and told me they had been abolished four years ago.

I did get to The Sacred Heart Cathedral one last time. I prayed not to end up in a wreck of twisted metal. Remember, this is the church I ended up weeping for my life in the New Year before last, and my prayer for someone to open to was answered in the guise of Fiona. Also I had the dream about Maria. A few days before I had been there, as I left a woman gave me a candle and told me to ‘go and stand over there’ and I realised I was part of an anti–war rally. There were journalists and news crews. I still have the candle. I haven't lit one in a church since I was with Junko Imanishi in Perth. I'm not sure what I'll do with it. I thought it was symbolic, maybe I received it because there is some other purpose awaiting me.

I had about three hours sleep and then woke and asked for the airport vehicle. There was a lot of security, but everyone was friendly. I took three tranqilisers and we took of and were in Kuwiat five hours later, a long flight because they had to go a longer direction due to the pending war.

Everything was going OK on the flight. A man came past with tea. He went a little too fast so I touched his arm to get his attention. He came back and snapped at me, asking why I touched his arm. I said to get your attention. He suddenly looked like he wanted to kill me and screamed, ‘DON'T YOU EVER TOUCH ME AGAIN!’.

Another man ran in uniform ran over, apologised, told me the steward would be dismissed and would I like to go up and complain to the captain. I said no but the angry man stared at me for the rest of the flight. I noticed I was the only foreigner on the flight, so maybe he had some issue about upcoming war. Either way, I think I'll avoid Kuwait Air in the future.

Anyway, I arrived OK. I had to buy a ‘visa’ from Thomas Cook. Fifteen American dollars and it looks like a little postage stamp. The immigration official made me stick it in my own passport and then gave me a stamp which is really just smudged ink and can't be read, but hopefully this is normal.

The first day my leg was really bad and I couldn't really get out, plus it was Friday, which in an Islamic country means everything closes. But today I went down to the Christian quarters, saw a lovely graveyard, a church where Jesus and family stopped after fleeing king Herod, and the place where Moses was found on the Nile. Very interesting.

Plus I'm trying to find out how to get to Europe. It's not so simple. Either a but to Israel, then boat to Greece... or a boat to Jordan and another boat to Turkey. I can't work out about visas though, not where the bus leaves from, and no embassies are open until Monday. Overall, it's nice here. I thought the culture shock would be much worse and I'd really miss India, but it's not so different and it's nice to be somewhere new.

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Thursday 13th March 2003

Cairo, Egypt. I think I've worked out the route back, although it's been a lot of

research.

The boat that used to go from Israel is definitely ceased, since the escalation of trouble in the West Bank.

Yesterday I went kilometers down the other side of Cairo to a recommended travel agent to see what my options are. They didn't know anything about land routes. It's mad though as they quoted my an air fare at just over three hundred dollars, that's to Heathrow via Greece. But it cost me three fifty to get here from Delhi, about a fourth the distance. The guidebook said direct tickets into here are expensive, but that's nuts.

I wore myself out. The day before yesterday I was looking to get a picture done, for ID, and got lost. It took forever to find the metro. I miss the abundance of rickshaws in Delhi more than anything because it's such a walk from one place to the next. When I get in each night, I sit down for three hours before I'm recovered.

There are a lot of benches though. There are benches in Delhi, but they're broken or people sleep on them or come and bother you while you rest. Here, they're empty.

But if you sit anywhere else there can be trouble. Yesterday I was sitting on the wall near the metro to recover and the police came and asked me to move on, because I was facing a government building. I said ‘disabled’ and he was really nice... but still insisted I move on. Also, coming off a metro I was really limping, so I sat on the platform for ten minutes. There's a policeman on every platform. He moved me on. When he realised I was foreign, he smiled, and said ‘sorry and good luck’, but still moved me on. Funnily enough, I saw him today at another station and he came and shook my hand. They're all polite enough, unlike Delhi, they just have strict orders to be suspicious of everyone and stop loitering.

I went over to the tourist board today, the woman there was friendly, but knew less than me.

There's a foreign university here with a really good bookshop, great travel section. I stood for a couple of hours over two days reading there. I worked out the destination is definitely Turkey because it's completely linked to Europe, and a trip to London, if you want to push it, could be as short as three trains, which is pretty impressive considering that technically Turkey is part of Asia Minor.

Anyway, the only viable way is via Jordan and Sryia. I went to the Jordan embassy today and got a visa for twenty american. The route is to go South, to Sinai, then there's a short ferry to Jordan from there. You have to pay foreign money cash, and I should just have enough, and it's OK as I'll be back in the land of hard currency very soon.

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I think the Syrian visa is a lot though, maybe sixty US. Also, I really have to buy that middle east guidebook I've spent so much time looking at. On the last day in India I walked all about looking for a guidebook, eventually I got a stripped Egypt book for a fiver. Stripped means the bookseller ripped the cover off and reported the book unsold and destroyed to the publisher, as they're sale or return. So I got a 1999 edition cheap.

But I'm really glad I got it. Landing here with maps, hotel names, approx taxi fares, embassy addresses, it's necessary. The only place I ever went to without any book whatsoever, was the first visit to Pakistan. That initial night in Lahore I walked around, everywhere was full and I ended up in the middle of no where at a twenty five dollar place, more than the cost of the book. This Middle East book is only a tad less than thirty dollars, but it covers Jordan, Sryia and Turkey, there I can part exchange it for a Europe book, or send it UK by bookpost and sell it via online auction sight, along with the rest of my book collection if it's still existing.

15th March 2003

Cairo

I'm just back from the bus station. I flagged down a taxi and luckily he spoke some English, because no one at the bus station did. If I want to go to Jordan direct from here, then the government regulations say that all payment has to be in dollars. I suppose the logic is that if someone is going abroad, including Egyptians, then they must already have changed a load of dollars, so they may as well get a cut.

As far as I understand, if I go to the border, I can pay local currency. I hope so as Thomas Cook won't give me any foreign currency.

So I was going to get a ticket to leave tomorrow right though. But I think tomorrow maybe I should get a Syrian visa here rather than Amman in Jordan. Already the British have started bombing in the no–fly zone, even the taxi–driver here wanted to talk about it. I tell everyone I'm Indian. I can't tell the Syrian Embassy that. It's sixty US, but once I have it I have it and if the situation deteriorates, then I'm covered. Plus I'll have a day to get the new guidebook and study it.

18th March 2003

Cairo

All this messing about, now I've finally worked out a route.

I picked up my Syrian visa yesterday. Sixty dollars and no receipt, and this is for just two weeks. I went to the two main bus stations to look at the buses. Yesterday, I went to get the guidebook. I was really hesitant. It was

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a lovely looking book, but was nearly 30 US and had very large sections on Saudi Arabia and Kuwait, which I don't need, plus even an Iraq section, which I definitely don't need. The Jordan section was really small.

So I looked for one by a different company. There was a ‘Let's Go — Route’, Istanbul to Cairo, with only the countries I need in, but it wasn't much cheaper and I didn't like the layout. But then I found out from the bookseller that the company I like do exactly the same route book, 10 US cheaper.

I go tomorrow to Luxor, which is south, on the train for ten hours. Then a five hour trip to the coast of the Red Sea, three hour boat to Sinai, One hour to Dahab, two hours to Nueweba, and a three hour boat to Jordan — and I'm through Egypt.

Of course, today, the British Embassy just issued a travel advisory to leave Jordan, and be vigilant in Syria. I'm not sure if this chaos follows me or happens in spite of me.

21st March 2003

Luxor, Egypt.

The trip down was far easier than I ever could have imagined. First of all I was looking into this bus and that bus, worried as I've never traveled here and once I'm on I'm stuck on. Then I had a good look at the map and read the whole guidebook. I realised there's a way to avoid a huge long bus journey on standard buses.

First of all, the train to Luxor. It's one of only three that foreigners are allowed to use. This is technically heading away from Europe, but it's better because I can take just about any train journey as I can walk when I need to, walk about the carriage that is. Then it's a three hour TOURIST bus to this other place by the sea, so that should be easy. Then a five hour boat, again, easy because I can walk about. Then two one and a half hour buses, so it's easier.

The first stage was finding the train station. Easy, but then I realised it has it's own metro stop, so I needn't have walked at all. I went to the tourist board, the easy tourist train is eighty US for overnight ‘wagon's lit’. Just twelve US for first class, so I got first class.

Next day, I got up really early, realised with all the visas, new guidebook etc, I had not one penny on me, so changed ten US cash at the desk, got a car for one dollar. At the station, even though it's a train I was still nervous how it would be... the third class looked atrocious.

I learned to read Arabic numerals the day before, finding my carriage was effortless. Everything was easier than India, when I found my seat I could hardly believe it. It was huge, padded, half a meter of space before it, the carriage half full only, Venetian blinds over the window, reclining seat with headrest so it's nearly like a bed, more foreigners than locals, easy–peasy.

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Well we traveled for an hour, I was bored. I walked down a carriage, and it's a buffet car, there's something I haven't seen for years.

Ugggh. I met this South African (white). We sat in that place and spoke for over five hours straight. Only about him. It started when we passed a huge stretch of wasteland covered in rubbish, and he said that there are black townships in South Africa that are just like that. Then he said that the government has stopped making school mandatory for everyone. Blah, blah, blah.

He worked in computers, in a place that manufactures steel. I am now an expert on the gaseous process used to turn iron ore into stainless steel. Then he went on about how blacks don't have a work ethic, they strike, for every 10,000 blacks that strike there's one white.

Then he told me his work ethic. He works overtime for free, never strikes, comes in early. Once he had to stay in for six weeks with hepatitis, so he logged online and did how job over the Internet, but when the company found out how long he was working, they blocked his access.

Then he told me about all the affirmative action, whites are being fired to give jobs to uneducated blacks.

This for five hours. He looked about forty, forty–five, but this was his first time out his own country.

Then he started on about Indians, they don't mix with anyone, they have huge houses and three families living in them. I made a big deal about being Indian and that was the end of a five hour stint that for the first four made me feel guilty I haven't given years to a big company, and the last trying to imagine him in bed jaundiced with the company blocking his access to a computer and him becoming depressed because, he doesn't know what else to do.

Anyway, I arrived here. Found a place I didn't like. Moved the next day somewhere really nice. Now I'm finding out about the next onward bus. It's OK here, but not great. Very few tourists, expensive, I'm not so interested in the sights. The Nile's pretty though.

26th March 2003

Sigala, Hurghada, by the Red Sea, Egypt.

I made it to Hurghada. Leaving Luxor was easy enough. First I was sick. There's an awful lot more walking involved here. at one point I was taking step by step by step. It took me forever to get upstairs then I was in real agony for ages. It was the first time since I don't know when that I've had to just stop and stand in the street to wait until I've recovered, and later actually take painkillers. The difference is, as soon as there's pain in India, I used to just stick my hand out for an auto. Here, either there are no cars, or a driver can't understand where I'm going, plus I can't speak Arabic, so am considered

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an outsider and am charged accordingly. At the same time my leg was worst, I got my first cold in a couple of years. I had two days of rest, then was ready to move on.

So in the morning I went to eat. India were playing in the cricket finals so I even put my India flag badge on. The man at the restaurant told me there were four buses a day to Hurghada, on the Red Sea, but only standard buses. I went to the computer, logged on the Times of India to read Australia had won the world cup, apparently India collapsed right from the start.

I also had a look at the message boards. People are all saying that all Syrian embassies have stopped issuing visas for the next sixty days, but you'll still be allowed in if you've already got one. Also, an American who had left within the last two days said it was fine there and they're the friendliest people in the world. Maybe if I keep wearing this Indian flag I'll be OK.

I went for a soda. I asked a different waiter the best way to get to the Red Sea. He told me the state bus is awful. It's full of thieves, it's so cramped you can't move blah blah blah. It sounded hellish, but then he said he had a brother that worked in this restaurant where all the five star day tourists have lunch, and he can get me on an air–con thing for fifty dollars. He had letters and business cards from all the foreigners he's helped in the past. Of course, I've lived in Delhi so long I recognise this straight away as a commission scam. Why do these people always say it's their ‘brother’?

I traipsed up to the state bus and bought a ticket for four American dollars. I said I want a nice seat, so I was at the front. There were about eight other foreigners and the same number of Egyptians. My seat was fine, my legs went straight out, the seat next to me was empty. We drove for about an hour, then loads more people got on, but for the whole trip I had both seats and it was an effortless journey.

We arrived at Hurghada. The other foreigners got off and I found out they're going onto Dahab, my final destination, the direct bus has been restarted. But it's OK as this would be a fifteen hour trip, so I likely would have broken it anyhow.

In the bus park all these touts started bothering me, where are you going, which hotel ect. Then they saw my badge and said, ‘Are you from India?’ ‘Yep, New Delhi?’ They shook their heads dolefully, ‘No money, no honey.’ and all walked off and left me alone. So actually, I might wear my Indian badge all the time.

The next day was Tuesday. I went out. It's mad. Since I arrived, I keep seeing all these things I haven't seen in years and had forgotten exist. It started once out in the street. I was walking alone and smelt this odour that took me back in my mind and made me think of Wellingborough Road in Northampton town. I looked to it's source and for just a moment couldn't register what I was seeing or what had suddenly caused this memory to surface. The smell is hair wet with shampoo. The source is a bright shop with people sitting in front of mirrors having their hair cut. There are shelves full of hair gel and brushes for sale. It's a standard hair dressing salon; a place where men pay other men to cut their hair into various styles in exchange for

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legal tender, rather than sitting on a street corner and paying a unwashed man in a loincloth to hack off the longest parts for two rupees.

But there are other things also. I did a double take when I first arrived here and saw women in long coats carrying handbags. People just don't do that in India. On the way here, there was one of those lorry things that takes new cars six at a time to the car showroom, but when I first saw it my brain couldn't work out what it was. For a moment all I could see was three cars racing along, with three cars in the air above them. Last night, I went to a shop and saw a can of Pledge wood polish, I couldn't help it, I kept pressing the nozzle and smelling it and thinking of the wooden display cabinet in Anne's living room. The shopkeeper must have thought I was mad.

Yesterday, I found out that the boat doesn't go on a Wednesday. Also, there doesn't seem to be cars at all here. The whole of Hurghada is made up of just resorts. There are huge roads without potholes and cars that go really fast, and rubbish bins that aren't full and public drinking fountains that work and you can drink the water.

So I checked–out this morning, ate at an Egyptian place and asked the owner to find a way to get to the port; it's only four kilometers away, but it would be too hard to find a vehicle early in the morning. There was no public car, so the sweet love, bless him, stood there in the street for me stopping private cars and asking them where they are going. Eventually someone said they'd go, but for two dollars fifty. I thought, OK, because if this Arabic speaking local is having trouble getting transport, it'll definitely cost more if I try and do it alone.

Now I've checked in a place about a kilometer from the port. All the signs are in Russian; Egypt is very popular with Eastern Europeans. What happens tomorrow I'm not really sure as I still didn't find where to buy a ticket and it's early evening now. If the worst comes to the worst, I'll just go to the ship tomorrow and act like a dumb foreigner and get on some way or another.

It's 150 kilometers across the Red Sea to Sharm El Sheik at the southern–most point in the Sinai, five hours and the sea might be choppy. Apparently the boat is small and the guidebook says it helps to ignore the people vomiting around you. Once I get to this place it's just another resort place, but a two hour bus ride and I'll rest in Dahab, which sounds much better.

Friday 28th March 2003

Sigala, Red Sea, Egypt.

I'm leaving tomorrow. The whole thing wasn't very easy to work out. Most people don't speak English, and I find myself trying to speak Hindi to them.

Yesterday, I walked all the way over to the port itself. There are two, with only shipmen working with welding equipment who speak no English.

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There were some police who sent me to a restaurant to buy a ticket. There are two boats, one for twenty US and one for thirty–five. The latter is supposed to be quicker, but no one knows about the former, possibly it isn't running anymore.

I went to a proper travel agent, it's insane because either the people there are Egyptian who don't speak English, or Russian speaking Russians. They couldn't do it.

Last night I saw an Indian restaurant called Agra. I would kill for Indian food, so I tried it. The waiter was Polish and asked me why my hair isn't blonde and why's it all shaved off? I explained it's brown and I shaved it. I ordered food. It came and tasted as bland as everything in Egypt. This waiter kept coming over and repeatedly asked me why my hair isn't blonde. Then he asked me about my home in Norway. I realised he must think I'm someone else, so I tried to explain that I've never been to this restaurant before — and this imbecile can't accept this. He thinks I'm joking, and keeps saying that my hair looked better when it was blonde, before I shaved it. I don't need conversations generally, I certainly don't need stupid episodes like this, so I showed him my passport...

‘Why you not Norway anymore?’

I tried for just a little while longer, but he concluded I shaved my head to look more British, so I could get a different passport, and move to London from Norway. I just asked for the bill and that was the end of the evening.

Today, I asked the receptionist about the boat, he said, 180 Egyptian pounds, thirty five US say, but I couldn't make myself understood when I asked about the cheap boat and how would I get to the port early morning. I went out to this place in the middle of nowhere to eat, right on the sea, miles away but so beautiful, the Red Sea is turqoise. Then I went to Thomas Cook for money and to ask them about the boat, but the people at the travel desk had decided to have a day off. So I went back to the hotel, and said I wanted the other faster boat for tomorrow. He said OK, went and got it, then wanted another twenty for the expenses of getting it, so the manager came and I at least won that and only had to pay the agreed amount. I then got stuck in a lift with a friendly Russian man, came to the computer to find out that I've sold another book, to someone Chinese by the sounds of it, YES!, and am now going to eat in a place where I shall likely spend the night pretending to be Norwegian, as it's an easier conversation.

I keep thinking about the dream I had where Anne died in March. I'm taking much longer than I thought to get back, though M. says take as long as I want. It isn't just procrastination, sometimes my leg is bad and I can hardly walk, other times, it's just difficult working out how to get from one place for another. I'm assuming the dream was a general instruction to start heading back, illustrating the fear that I might leave it to late. I have a feeling that if I was supposed to speed it up, I would get an intuitive warning, either as a phychic/clairvoyant experience, a dream or something. It's like when I go to bed and never set my alarm, even if I'm shattered and only have an hours

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sleep, as I just know I have to get up and am woken. Once I went back to sleep and had a dream that someone was trying to break the door down, so I jumped up, there was no one there, but I was wide awake in time for the flight or train or whatever it was. Actually, nothing of especial significance has ever happened to me without there being a foreshadow, and I just live in this confidence. Let's hope it's well–placed.

Thursday 3rd March 2003

Dahab, Sinai, Egypt.

I'm in Dahab now, and shall very likely leave tomorrow.

The last night in Hurghada was insane. I wanted to take it really easy so I'd be walking OK the next day. In the evening I went back to that Indian restaurant. The Polish man was very, very upset. The Norwegian man had been there and just left half an hour previously. As soon as I walked in he ran up and said ‘There are two of you’, and seemed really confused. During the course of eating there, I discovered this Norwegian man wears glasses and has long, blonde hair — so it sounds like an easy mistake.

Anyway, next day I was up in time. I went out and the only transport was this mini–bus with other people in. I had to pay an extortionate rate because it was so early. I climbed in the back and he sped off while I was still getting in, so I went flying on my back, landed on my green case and it split all down the side. It turned out the port was within walking distance.

I was the first one there. There were checks and X–rays. Inside the boat it was very impressive, comfy chairs and only half full. So we set off, and it was a tad rough, everyone sat with wastepaper bins on their laps; I felt really sick myself.

We arrived in this really deserted place. More X–rays. There was a mini–bus going straight to Dahab for ten US dollars, but it looked too cramped, I don't think I could have made it. So, I went to the bus station. Most of the buses are cancelled, but there was one going at three in the afternoon, so I had to wait five hours. I learned to read Arabic numbers back in Cairo and noticed all foreigners pay an extra pound over the printed price of the bus tickets. The bus was a bit rougher, rubbish all over the floor and an unwatchable video, but there were only a few people and it was pain free.

So then we arrived and a pick up truck brought me to the main, cheap area. I went to eat for the first time that day. It was a little Italian place, a room really, and the couple running it were actually Italian, caucasians of about fifty, speaking Italian, as Italians would be expected to do I suppose. I asked for a hot drink first, and then the food. His wife went to the kitchen, and sent the food first, then a hot drink. OK, no big deal. But her partner saw this and started effing and beeing, I mean he was screaming F*** this and F**** that, and F**** you and F*** everything. Then there was a scream and

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smashing sound coming from the kitchen, and his wife stormed out, through the restaurant, into the street — and was gone.

So the man shut up, appeared confused for a moment, then looked really scared. I started eating while he paced up and down, and kept going to the door and out into the street to see if she was coming back. Then he started stopping every single passing car and I think was asking people to bring her back if they should see her.

When it was time for me to pay, he was looking lost and sheepish, like a child who just got a telling off. I left to look for somewhere to live and don't know if she ever turned up.

All the places in my book were closed. One of the touts got aggressive when I wouldn't speak to him, I mean like he wanted to fight; an Indian would never do that. I ended up going to use the computer. While I was there, I saw a hotel next door called Mohammed Ali. I looked in the guidebook, it said it's noisy and the staff makes unwelcome advances to women on their own. I was really tiered by then, so thought what the hell. If someone trys to take advantage of me, I'll consider it a compliment.

The man on reception was about twenty five and aggressive, speaking in clipped tones, he seemed really bothered that I ‘look like an Egyptian’. He couldn't understand the concept of a Eurasian with a British passport. He had a kind of angry air about him. But the room was passable, so I paid six dollars, but if I stay longer than three days then the daily rate would be two dollars less. Fair enough. I went to bed.

I think Dahab was just what I needed. Since leaving Kerela really, I've been in noisy, difficult places, trying to sort this and that out, then get from A to B all the time. This place is quiet. There aren't really resorts, so it's just long–term people travelling about. The sea has about three meters of sand before it, then a nice paved promenade with Victorian style street lamps. There are little businesses all along it, and mostly people don't hassle as you pass. The sea is crystal clear, you can see right to the bottom. When the sun goes down the water looks like it's light yellow and orange, and all these divers appear and walk into the restaurants, it's surreal really.

But the quiet and ease of everything here was conductive to thinking. I fished out the 20,000 words from Kerela and pretty much did a total rewrite. I essentially did this for three days, all day, in this restaurant which, like most places, is packed full of cats. When they bring food, they also bring a home made water–squirter to keep them away. The poor things are so hungry that they eat anything, vegetables, tahina, bits of fruit. I've got a photo of one of them finishing my dinner. The foods a bit better here, there are so many foreigners. I'll tell you a good tip with Middle Eastern food. What's described as a salad on the menu is actually a dip. It took me a while to get that, but say you order Tahina, that's a plate of sesame seeds made into a paste, and that's all it is, if you order, say, vegetables as well, they come cut in strips to dip in the salad. The foods still bland, but better now I know that.

My visas out in two days, so I thought I better start thinking about moving. When I went to pay, the aggressive one was there, and completely

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denied any knowledge of a deal for twenty if I stay longer than three days. There was an argument and he shouted. In the end he said twenty five a day, but no refund on the thirty I paid on the first day (I'm talking Egyptian pounds now). He was getting really agitated and I thought it's an extra six American dollars, four English pounds, and it isn't worth getting punched over. It's his karma, and the guidebook says his place is bad, he harasses women, I'm the only person living there, so let's pray he buys himself something nice and enjoys it.

The bank is far away inland. There aren't taxis at all here, to get about you have to find someone with a private car and ask if they'll take you. They always say yes, but want stupid amounts of money. So I changed a one hundred dollar cheque. Now I want to go tomorrow, and realised tomorrow is the holy day, so the main bank will be shut anyway, so I'll have to change anther cheque. I leave to Nuiweba, the last stop in Egypt. I think it's about an hour away, and is where the boat to Jordan leaves from. I have no idea how that works, the guidebook says you can only pay in foreign currency cash, of which I have hardly any, but there might be a way around it. It's not to bad really as now it's Friday tomorrow, there's no point rushing there, I can have a day here, then get the evening bus there, and ask about the ferry. This will be the fifth March, the absolute last day of my visa, so it's cutting it short a little, but the guidebook says there's a two week grace period, so a one month visa is really six weeks. I'd better not risk it though, and shall push on. From Nueweba, I land at Aqaba, so then I'm in Jordan and will have to work out how that place works. At least I have a guidebook for it and have some idea of where I'll sleep the first night.

One thing, there was an e–mail from M, on the 1st, so hopefully my dream about Anne was a general warning.

One last thing, when I was in the Indian restaurant the first night I started writing this little bit of fiction. The next day I went to a place with a great view of the Red Sea, and it inspired me to carry on with it. The walk back was long and I had to keep resting, so some of it was written on the roadside. It's kind of like art therapy, if you have read this far, then you'll likely notice what it's really about. It's rubbish, uncorrected, first draft. Just in case you want to see it, it's called The Broken Oyster and can be viewed by clicking on the link.

Next Day

Neiwba, Egypt.

I am in a mad situation as I write this. I left Dahab this morning, the owner was there, not the younger one and he was surprisingly friendly. I went and ate. I'd fell asleep really early and so ended up sitting on the beach for the

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morning with all my stuff unpacked while I glued my bags up; I must have looked mad.

Well I went to the bus station and they said I can only buy a ticket on the bus, and according to the guidebook this means that it's a hard one. When it came the ticket said eight Egyptian pounds, the conductor had been speaking English, then asked for eleven, and started shouting in Arabic when I said no, as though he couldn't speak English, even though he just had been. This is an Upper Egypt bus, and I think it's a state run company.

So I was overcharged, again, but was absolutely the only person on the bus. We went through a kind of desert, with huge stone hills that were partially covered in sand, and there were wild goats on them, and loose camels at the bottom.

Then I arrived at the bus stop. It was absolutely desolate. Seven buses, not one human being in site, total silence. It was so quiet that I was startled when an empty can blew across the gravel. The hotel was deserted, all locked up, no one at the ticket office. I stopped the odd car but kept asking for Dahab by mistake. Then I found someone that brought me to the city proper. Even now it's quiet, just one street. I ate, but the driver is still following me. He wanted me to change money, and tried to say one hundred American will be 140 Egyptian pounds, when it's actually 560. He stared at me the whole time I was sitting in the food place. Then curb crawled when I left. I wasn't planning to use the Internet, I'm here to wait until he goes.

Anyway, I know the boat leaves at 11am. I think it's foreign cash only, but I'll have to go and argue with them tomorrow. Now, I have to traipse about, lose this driver and find somewhere to sleep.

Date: About the 10th April 2003

Aman, Jordan.

Arrived in Jordan!

I did indeed get rid of the taxi driver. I came out the cybercafe an and he was gone. So I went down this lane where there was supposed to be a right turn towards a hotel. The road was completely silent and it was very dark. I passed a skip. You know what I mean when I say a skip? I mean one of those large metal containers that a lorry drops off for everyone to put their rubbish in, then comes and picks up. You see them everywhere. This one was different in that not only was it in the middle of nowhere, but there were wild camels eating from it. It was such a strange thing to see that I stood there staring. But then they looked up and started jogging towards me. I'd been in real pain and was about to sit down, but I raced off the path, across the sand and burst into this kitchen with three shocked youths sitting at a table eating. They were understandably shocked. Rather than admit the pathetic truth, I got scared by some camels, I asked directions for my hotel, and it turns out they

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owned a hotel, so I stayed there for five dollars in a little prefabricated hut that rattled in the wind all night and didn't have a toilet.

Next day I was up really late, but decided I was OK and there was still time to go for it, so I raced out and was lucky to get a car straight away.

At the ticket office, the man absolutely insisted on thirty two American dollars cash and nothing else. If someone doesn't have that then I don't know what happened. I went in my money–belt and it turns out I had it exactly. It was money Anne gave me a few years ago. I only have about thirty in cash now, so let's hope I don't need any more between here and Europe! I saw on the message boards that Turkey asks 100 US cash at the border from Americans, no idea what they'll want from me.

So I got the ticket and was dropped off at this large hanger. Inside I went through immigration and my passport was stamped without even being looked at. Then I went to the door, there was a New Zeland couple, a Chinese family, and the rest locals. There were two security checks, an X–ray and then on a bus. We went to the boat where the tickets were checked.

I had bought the cheapest ‘deck class’ ticket, and had no idea what to expect, but I thought it was sensible to go to the deck. I went there and sat on a bench and it was nice. It was quite a big boat, didn't sway at all, the sea was turqiose as I assume all the Red Sea must look like. I got bored sitting there so I went to this inside area where there was an expensive cafe. Then someone came and took my passport. I practiced my Hindi and three hours later we were there.

Being a sensitive person who doesn't push and shove, I was the last person off the boat. No one had given me my passport back so a policeman told me to follow him. We went to his car but I couldn't get my legs in, some of the other passengers had to get out. Then we drove off. He didn't speak English and I was worried I was in trouble for some reason.

It turns out that he was just giving me a lift to the immigration building. I had to sit and wait, but then was given my passport and it has a stamp marked TWO WEEKS. Fair enough.

While I queued up to get out, a driver came and asked where I was going. I told him the mosque and he said five dinar, about two dollars fifty. I had changed the last of my Egyptian Pounds and only had two dinars, which is what my book says the fare should be. I haggled him down to two, but then realised for this price that I would have to be packed in with the New Zealanders.

I found generally, that drivers that come and meet you off a train or boat or whatever, are the ones that specialise in cheating people who have just arrived, don't know the prices, don't understand the currency etc. So I told him to go.

I went outside and there was no one there, so I walked up a ramp onto the main highway. There were no vehicles whatsoever. I sat there and just meditated because it was ten kilometers to town. After fifteen minutes a

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minibus came, but the driver couldn't speak English and drove off. There was nothing for it but to put my bag on and start walking.

The road was empty and dusty. I chanted a mantra, then sung a little. Then a taxi with one person drew up after just ten minutes. I asked for ‘Sharif Al Hussain Mosque’, and he said two dinars straight up.

It was afternoon and I had no money, so I changed another twenty, then checked into Petra Hotel, which was the cheapest there, but was about ten American dollars, far too much. I went to eat, that was only a dinar, but was just some pastes and pitta.

Next day I went out. I used the Internet in the only place that's there, but it wouldn't connect, I could barely load anything. I hadn't eaten and there was just no restaurant I could see, so I bought a tin of beans, baked beans, but they were weird, like disinfectant, I couldn't eat them — so basically went without food that day. I ended up in this park which had tables and chairs for public use. I thought to myself how that would be impossible in India, they would be broken and people would sleep on them. I also realised that everyone here has a car with both headlights working, and no one uses motorbikes or scooters. It's unusual.

There was nothing to do, I think maybe it was one of the most boring days ever. I bought a ticket and went home.

I checked out and went to the bus. It was a double–decker, with peacock blue felt interior. My seat had a table before me, a Japanese man before me and a kid who wouldn't sit still next to me. I practiced with my Hindi book, then was in Amman four hours later. Again, I used a mosque as a landmark and got a car straight there, right price on asking also. I went to look at hotel Venicia. I found it, the cheapest place in town, but it was a DIIIIVVVVEEE. Ugh. It was falling apart, like from a horror film. There was absolutely no one there, the book said a tatty room was nine American, so I left.

I went to the next cheapest place, which the book said would be fifteen US, like a tenner English, but a clean room was about ten US. There's no toilet, it's a communal squat one I can't use. Then again, not eating maybe I won't need to. The owner told me there are no tourists, only journalists now.

I walked all over looking for food and got so tiered and hungry I decided to walk into the next place I saw no matter what. It was called Jerusalam Restaurant. The waiter didn't speak English but the manager did and fully understood what vegetarianism is, and brought very tasty rice and vegetables, and a little plate of about twenty–five olives. The latter a real treat as they're not native to India so you don't see them. Here they're so common as to be a free side plate!

People turned round and looked at me when I spoke English. While I ate, the TV was showing British soldiers invading the country next door, and demonstrations earlier in Amman right near where I was after a US tank killed a Jordanian journalist.

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That was yesterday. Today I went out looking for this famed cybercafe/bookshop /restaurant, where I was planning to finish the correcting, Books@Cafe. But it was useless, a few computers, the cheapest food is a salad for four dollars, and the small selection of books isn't priced. Not only that, but it's halfway up a mountain.

So Amman isn't quite what I thought. Really, I'm better leaving straight away because if the cheapest room is ten American, I can pay less in Turkey, have a toilet and it's probably safer. I only really was here for the computers.

I think now if I ride to the bus station, buy a ticket to Damascus in Syria and leave either tomorrow or the day after. Syria will be a problem I think, visa has no base there so I'll have to use my cheques all the way, I'm pretty certain the Internet doens't exist there, and that total idiot Tony Blair just threatened their government, telling them to see Iraq as a warning, so perhaps I'll shoot straight through in a day or less?

It's late afternoon and I still haven't eaten. I'm determined to eat, even if it means driving somewhere else in the city.

12th April 2003

Amman, Jordan

I didn't get to eat yesterday. It was too late to go anywhere in the city so I just walked in any old place. They found someone who spoke English for me and I said bring anything vegetarian, but there was only some cold spinach and two pieces of pastry. That was all I ate yesterday.

I really was determined to eat as well as leave today. I went to the bank and of course, it's Friday, everything is closed. I walked past the King Hussein Mosque and there was a massive crowd shouting ‘IRAQ, IRAQ, IRAQ’ and riot police everywhere. It was scary so I walked back upwards and managed to hail a taxi.

The driver was really friendly, spoke great English, used the meter without me asking. I went to the bus station and bought a ticket to Damascus for tomorrow.

I was determined, really, to eat properly today. So I hailed another car to go to this other place where there's supposed to be good Internet and good food. The driver got lost and the fare was a dollar and a half. We passed a police station with police in riot gear filing out. Rather than speed away he stopped in the middle of them and asked directions.

But there was nothing in this place, not even a computer. I ended up in one place but all it sold was coffee. I got an espresso that was like an egg cup and it was a dollar and a half.

So I took another car to Abdoun circle, which is supposed to be the very best eating place. There are all these places set around a circle. I went to

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a recommended place where pizza is four US, expensive, but OK if I'm likely to only eat once. When I found it the place was packed, with people queuing into the street.

So I walked about, it was madness, there was nothing there. I ended up in a Macdonald's, believe it or not. Off course, there's nothing vegetarian. I had small fries and that's it.

But I thought, no, I won't give up. There's got to be another place. I took another car to 1st circle. The driver didn't speak English at all, but I managed to make myself understood. We went for a little way, but then the meter stopped working, of course, there was an argument on arrival and it was a dollar and a half.

The place was called Diplomat Restaurant. It was all meat except vegetarian pizza. I had that. The seal on the water was broken, then they brought an OK pizza, but they put on all these false percentages and this single dish that should have been five US absolute tops was twelve! Well he knocked off a dollar without even arguing, but then he wouldn't bring the menu to check, so I was stung.

I got another car, asked for the mosque, apparently the king was there when I passed this morning. On the way I recognised a street and so stopped because I saw a cyber cafe.

It turns out to be the best place I ever worked in. Lightening fast, I downloaded everything I need, including the art program, in five minutes. The keyboard is brand new, there's a toilet and refreshments, it's only half a dollar a minute. I find this the day I get a ticket out!

13th April 2003

Amman, Jordan

I'm leaving for Damascus in an hour. It turns out the banks are closed on Saturday in Jordan too, so that was another cheque and now I'm on–line checking currency rates for when I get there.

According to the guidebook, the Internet is ‘effectively banned in Syria’, so I'll shoot through and write again in Turkey.

Date: Thursday 17th April 2003 Gorme, Cappadocia, TURKEY.

Here I am in Turkey, made it. I'm trying to think where I last wrote from and recall the good cybercafe I found. I left that place and went down for a car. The one who pulled up didn't speak any English, and this insane man

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came up to help me. He could speak English but was incoherent and kept waving his arms about.

Eventually the car pulled away with me in it. The driver was gruff and had the radio on full blast, Iraq, Iraq, Iraq. I was really uncomfortable and he kept snapping at me that he didn't speak any English. When we got there absolutely no one else spoke English. I managed to find the bus though, and like all of them so far in the Middle East, it was comfortable. Everyone spent the journey in total silence, but again the radio was on the whole trip and although I can't speak Arabic, I could tell it was war, war, war.

So the first hurdle was leaving Jordan. When I entered they gave me a card I was supposed to retain and I'd lost it. I had to pay about eight dollars departure tax. As it turned out, the immigration official who stamped me out was the friendliest person I'd met in Jordan. Perhaps it was because he manned the foreigner window and I was the only person he's seen in a long time. I was stamped out without problem.

We got back on the bus. Another check before no–man's land. No problems. So then we drove over to the Sryian side. There was no problem at all there either, they just stamped me in for two weeks without fuss.

All that was left was the drive to Damascus. I think we left the dessert region. The grass became really lush and there was no sand visible. It shocked me when we went through a green field and there were daisies within the grass. You never see it in India as it's all over–grazed by sacred cows.

Damascus looked nice approaching. It's surrounded by mountains and is attractive. The clouds were flat in the sky, like pancakes. The moon was already out. We stopped in a bus station and a driver came up and said he'd take me to the money changer for one diner, so I went there and changed my Jordanian Dinars. He charged me another dinar to go to Martyr's square, which was probably too much.

I was a bit lost there. I realise that often I don't know which way to either face or to hold the map up, I'm really feeling the need for a compass and shall buy the next one I see. Touts started coming up to me so I dived into an upstairs restaurant. As I entered the strap on my bag broke and the owner put it in the back for me as it had gone flying across the floor.

Upstairs, the menu was all meat, including ‘lamb's testicles’ (honestly), but there were fries, so I had those. It was only a little plate, but really lovely, superb, my only food of the day but they came with a huge scoop of sour–cream.

I went downstairs, fixed my bag and went to look at a hotel opposite. It was a flea pit. There were no light bulbs on the floor they showed me and they had to lead me round and show me the room by the flame from a lighter. Even though I was tired I said no and went to the next place.

I got a little bit lost but then found it. The owner was friendly and spoke perfect English. It was full of foreigners. They showed me a clean room without bath for ten American, which is a lot, but at least I could sleep.

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I went out again to eat, I think at Ali Baba. There was no vegetarian, but for five US I got a vegetable soup thing, bread and rice. Bad and expensive but I finished it as I didn't know when I'd get anything else. I went straight home to sleep after that.

The next day I woke up. The toilet was clean and OK, but outside the sink was a tap over a slab and not really good to shave over, so I thought, I'll leave then. Not just the hotel, but Sryia, because I can't send e–mails and people will worry, and this was only ever supposed to be transit anyway.

I packed up and went to the VISA representative, but they don't do cash advances anymore, it might not even be possible in Sryia full stop. I walked back to the money changer and had a good think about it. There would be no point changing much because all I needed was the bus fare, so I changed a precious ten American dollars cash and took a taxi with a very friendly driver to the bus station.

Again there was a language problem, but I managed to work out that the bus to the Turkey border wouldn't go until ten at night. Then it was only one. I went and sat on these benches, and it wasn't really nice. I only had just enough money for the bus fare, no water, and there was a cassette seller playing music full–blast, so loud there was no escape from him. But if I went back to the city I'd have to change more money, if I sat where I was I'd have to be dehydrated and without food. I decided to walk about with my map and just go anywhere that is North and leaves immediately.

Even this plan wasn't easy as it was a chaotic place with drivers and conductors shouting destinations, but the way they're pronounced isn't the way they're written.

Then some kid of twenty came up and took me under his wing. Fair hair, rosy cheeks, white as snow and not a word of English, but a concerned look about him and gentle willingness to help. I pointed my route along the map and worked out the bus he was going on would go to Hamma, which is about half way to the border. Fine.

Another comfortable bus without problems. We stopped after two hours in a place called Homs and I went to the toilet. There were all these stands selling kebabs. A boy came out laughing and grabbed me and physically pulled me into one of them, but I came out and went back to the bus.

We went on for about another hour. Then they stopped on a highway and the conductor pointed to me. I followed him off the bus to find him unloading my stuff. He said ‘Hamma’, got back on the bus and left me there.

I sat on a crash barrier and surveyed the situation. It was a big highway through fields. I was on a fly–over that led down to another road. Nothing was visible except a distant cemetery. I scrambled down to the other road and found there were a couple of cars under the bridge. The drivers were really friendly and said Hamma wasn't so far and I could go there for just a dollar, i.e. fifty Syrian pounds.

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The car was really old and battered. I couldn't get my legs in so his friends thought it was really funny to have to come round and wiggle me in. We drove and he left me near where I wanted but had to pull me out the car as I was jammed. I went in a place, Ali Baba, for food. No English, but the man was friendly and enthusiastic. I only had a dollar left but for that I got a really good olive salad, great chips and two huge pittas plonked straight onto the table. First time I'd eaten, heaven.

The hotel was just a few meters away, Riad. Yippee, did I fall on my feet there or what? The owner was as friendly as hell, spoke with a weird northern English accent, changed me a twenty dollar cheque at the correct rate and gave me free tea and a map. The room was seven dollars, completely clean, western toilet inside, table and chair, quilt, thick mattress, and a TV that showed CNN. Just under five pounds sterling, I couldn't have got better in India for that price.

I walked about the city and it was very pretty, on a river with statues and fountains everywhere. People smiled at me and even the police said hello when I passed. I came home and watched TV to see Bush threatening Syria, saying it was harboring Iraqi soldiers, making chemical weapons, and the commentator said ‘though he didn't mention war, yet’.

So the next day I got on another bus. The northern town near the Border was called Aleppo. We arrived and I went to this big hotel as it was supposed to be near the bus station. The downstairs restaurant was closed so I had to go up to the tenth floor. There were very good views and this was another good looking place. The food was only five US, but the best I ate in Syria, hommos (hummas), fries and olives, but really nicely done, loads of garnish, toast, bread, pittas and a tub with little curls of butter that you make with a serrated spoon.

I walked to the bus station. The ticket window told me the bus I wanted, to Atanya just over the border, had already left, come back tomorrow. I came out and the taxi drivers said the same thing. I went to a travel agent and he said there was one going at five in the evening. It would be 200 Sryian pounds, which seems a bit much, but I checked the book and that was the price.

It came, and the conductor was an unshaven man with huge shoulders who looked just like desperate Dan, but he manhandled me to the bus. We drove off, and went for about an hour and stopped at a petrol station. There, they cleaned the bus for two hours. There were only two other passengers, who both complained. We were in the middle of wheat fields, so I went and meditated, then chanted with my beads. Then a cat came and kept jumping for the beads, and it was getting dark and cold so I waited inside. Eventually desperate Dan came and manhandled me back on, then took my passport. We carried on for another hour, then stopped at the border. Dan disappeared into a building. After twenty minutes he raced out looking terrified and confused. He looked about wildly, saw the bus, ran in and pulled me into this office. The Sryian police were looking at my papers. I gave them my exit card (which I hadn't lost this time), told them I work on computers

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and my mother is called Josie Lipton. Then Dan pulled me back on the bus. His hands had a constant tremble to them, that was something I noticed when I first saw him, and that they were dirty.

We went on to the Turkish border. The immigration said I'd have to give fifteen dollars to the bank to get the visa. Luckily I had this in cash. I went back and the guard sang a song to the radio while he gave me a little brown sticker, which is a three month multiple entry, and that's not bad value.

So we were away again. It had taken ages. The driver was getting irritated and screamed at Dan when the door jammed and he couldn't close it.

We stopped at a bakery and Dan got off. Then we stopped at a petrol station and transferred to a minibus. Then they put me out at the bus station. It was raining and I had one American dollar in Syrian money that I couldn't spend.

I had no choice but to go looking for the hotel, Jasmine Pension. I got lost. It was horrible. I was wet. A friendly deaf man sent me to the wrong place, then a tout tried to show me into a bad place. I ended up sitting alone in an alley. I looked at the map and tried to decide what to do. I was scared when someone came past. It's something I notice here. Often I go somewhere and there's no one in sight. That never happens in India. If I was sitting in an alley there, maybe ten people would be living inside it.

My book mentioned an overpriced place for fifteen dollars, but at least I could dry off. I went there and he only wanted ten, but when I showed him a travelers' cheque he didn't know what it was. There was a mid–range place next door so I went to look there. He didn't know what a travelers' cheque was either. The room would be twenty US and he got really irritated when I couldn't understand the exchange rate. I was so tiered and wet I just gave him twenty in dollars cash, nearly the last, and went up. Again, there was no food or water. For some reason, even though I paid, he kept my passport and wouldn't give me a receipt.

But it was a decent mid–range room. I slept there and in the morning the woman on the desk was friendly and there was no more to pay. I went to the bus station. I wanted to go to Gorme in Cappadocia. The bus people said there was nothing direct, but I would have to change in this other place, plus it didn't go until three. I managed to finally use the visa card. I asked for a hundred American and received one hundred and fifty million Turkish Lira. It turns out one dollar is 1,500,000. I went back to the station and in a cafe met the friendliest waiter in the whole world, who let me stuff myself for three dollars, and there were even crispy rolls for free. Then I went down and used the toilet. When I came out I stood in shock when I realised the price for this was a quarter of a million, but then I worked out how much that is and paid it.

We drove for ten hours and at eleven in the night, pulled into a place and they put me off. I walked in a self–service place but everything was meat. I went out and realsied that it wasn't a bus station, but a petrol pump in the middle of nowhere. I sat down and looked at the map and saw that I wasn't even near there, the bus company had just sold me a ticket to a place that was on the way to Istanbul, right on the edge of Cappadocia.

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Buses were passing to fill up but I couldn't communicate with anyone. It was freezing cold, raining and not fun. A really quiet man came up. He didn't speak a word of English but understood where I was going and indicated I could go to a town which was very near. We waited and two buses came in, they were both going there but were full. He was very quiet and shy looking and insisted I go inside. I went in to the warm and sat there while he stood in the rain stopping every bus that went past asking if it was going my way. Then, two hours later, he ran in and said he got me one. I put my bags on and went and shook his hand. He was wet and even shyer. I wanted to give him a tip but he thought it was the bus fare and gave it to the driver. So I gave him another million, less than a dollar, and pointed to his chest and he smiled.

It was 1am by then. I sat next to a man who couldn't speak a word of English but for some reason thought he could. No idea what he was saying, it might have been something about his sister in London, but I'm half guessing. At 3am I was left again in the middle of nowhere. I looked and there was a building with TERMINAL written on. I went up to this car park and it was deserted. I put on a thermal top, wrapped my blanket round me and waited. It had stopped raining but was freezing. I got too cold so went to the building, tried the doors and one of them was open. I went down to the dark waiting room but it was still cold.

I watched the sun come up. A few hours later two French women arrived and others with them. A shop opened up. I got water. A travel agent came and took the girls away. A huge bus came and I managed to get the last seat on this for a million.

We arrived and I got lost. The hotels wanted fifteen US, but I found one for seven run by a friendly Islamic woman with a headscarf and her grumpy husband. I slept ten straight hours. Came out and ate, then slept all night.

So here I am in Gorme, Turkey. This is too much typing though, I'll have to write about it tomorrow.

Saturday 19th April 2003

Gorme, Cappadocia, Turkey.

Gorme is a strange place. Apparently, thousands of years ago there was a huge volcanic eruption here that threw lava over the entire region. So it was just a big flat expanse of lava.

But over the years, hundreds of them I mean, the elements eroded it all down. In some places there were natural boulders there that protected the lava beneath them. So what you have now is a flat valley with these huge pieces of stone going fifty meters in the air all over the place.

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But the volcanic lava is softish, so over time, people have carved into it. The Christians carved out homes and churches, and nearby there are whole underground cities. One hotel here is called the Flintstones, and that's exactly what it's like. Everyone lives in caves.

But the computer is a lot, maybe a couple of dollars an hour, and I'm just entering my seventh hour here. I've made a promotional slide show for the new work.

It's really cold too. I've got thermals on, but they're starting to smell funny.

And the family I live with is weird. They sleep on sofas in a separate part of the building so I don't have to have so much to do with them. She's quite friendly, but seems a devout Muslim, in a headscarf. She has a washing machine circa 1960, it never goes faster than slowly thumping the stuff around. All she ever does is wash and shout at her kids. She never goes out.

The husband it always on this sofa. Either he's sleeping there, or his friends come and he plays cards. Actually, he's really grumpy, not exactly exuding an air of friendliness. I broke the light last night, left the key with his daughter and he doesn't know about it yet. Also, the room is 10,000,000 a night, which is a fiver, but they won't let me pay and there are no receipts, I hope it's going to be OK when I leave.

There's an atm in the middle of the square here. I think I'm going to have to use it. I never did use one abroad, but I'll have to start. Once I leave here, banks probably won't do cash advanced over the counter. Also, there was an atm in Antakya, if I had have had the guts to use it, I wouldn't have had to spend my twenty. I'll log onto the account tomorrow, check the balance, ask the man from the info office to help, try my luck, then check the account again. Sure, something could happen, but it can't be more of a risk that the little machine they use in a main bank.

I wrote a letter to the guidebook last night. I had the Cairo to Istanbul book and I've pretty much followed the route described in it. But there were some good places I found myself I wanted to recommend, plus a few places in the book have closed since publication.

I had a look on the Internet and am pleased that at least one thing is over, visa worries. From here to London, the next four countries let me in with a free visa on entry, after that, I'm in the EU.

Monday ?21st April 2003

Gorome, Cappadocia, Turkey.

It's been one of those days. Yesterday I used the atm and something went wrong. At the last minute it said equipment failure. The thing that bothered me was there was an authorisation code on the receipt. So it was like

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the amount was approved, but the machine broke, and I would be billed without getting any money.

There was nothing to do but change a cheque. So today I went over to Nevsehir. It was a tiny minibus with people standing as well as sitting. It dropped my at the station outside of town, but a car in would be five million, which is too much, plus I didn't have it.

But a friendly travel agent gave me a map so I walked all this way up hill. I went in one bank with a similar name to what was printed on my receipt, but they directed me to another place. So then I was in the bank that owns the atm. I had to take a ticket and queue up. The first teller didn't speak English, and burst out laughing. Then I had to wait before this woman, who was already busy with something else. Eventually she looked at me, I made myself understood, but she didn't know what to do, so she went to get the manager.

He came and said that although it was a state bank atm, there was nothing he could do at this branch, I would have to go to Urgup, another place, but it was too late then, plus it's only a village, there's no way that could be a main branch; he was just fobbing me off.

I went to another bank. I got a ticket and waited. When it was my turn, it closed, the woman didn't speak English. I was sitting down by then but she kept saying ‘move’.

So I went to another place, and they did actually try for an advance, but said there was no connection with the authorising bank.

I went and sat on a wall. As I was sitting there, the man from the restaurant who changed my travelers cheque yesterday passed by. It was obvious I'd have to change again, but FOREX is only until midday, so he showed me the private money changer, but there were no rates posted.

I walked down to the tourist board and it was closed. A school–girl of about fifteen, in uniform with tie and badge and everything, came up and told me it was closed. Her English was perfect and she really wanted to help me. She listened to what the problem was, and all these boys were on the way to school and seemed to know her and thought it was really funny and teased her. Of course, this insane stupidness can't be solved by a fifteen year old, even if her English is perfect. But then she wanted to converse generally and I wasn't in the mood.

So I went to another bank. I queued for ages while the man served someone behind me. Eventually he looked at me... and didn't speak English. He sent me over to a woman who spoke some, she sent me to another bank, even though they were doing advances for the locals.

I went to this other bank. It was deserted, with all the lights off, but he told me it was open, but they didn't do cash advances. He sent me to the bank where they'd already tried. I went to the private moneychanger, but he didn't speak enough English to state exactly what I'd get for a fifty.

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I thought to hell with it, and went all the way back to the bus station. It was another mini–bus. We passed the school where I think the girl had been going. It was horrible. The weather was freezing cold, there's a constant drizzle, all the windows had bars on and through them I could see lockers and desks, it was just like an English ‘school’.

So I came back, ate, and just sat. I can't use the Arabic computer, I don't know what's happening about the account and now there wouldn't be enough money to eat this evening if I still wanted to have enough for the bus fare.

I thought this is stupid. Not only can I not buy anything, but I'll be thinking about the account all night. So I went through the money belt and found the very last twenty. I changed it, then went to the telegraph office.

A man sent me in the wrong direction. I wandered round lost. A woman came up and asked if I wanted directions. She was with a Turkish woman wearing a headscarf, but herself was western dressed. Her accent was completely English, better than mine, so I'm thinking she's a long–termer Brit.

I found it, went in. He couldn't speak enough English to tell me how I make the call. Plus he was rude, grumpy and glum. I think possibly it's by phonecard, which starts at fifteen million, but that would be half of the money I just changed.

So I left, and went to a travel agent. He spoke English, but I think was deliberately ambiguous about how much it would cost. I thought ‘whatever’, I'll just try it because it's better than worrying all night.

I phoned Barclays. The man I spoke to had a really thick Australian accent. I logged in with security questions, and explained what happened. He said from that there's something on the statement showing that I attempted to use the card, but it had come straight back and I wasn't billed for anything. He was really efficiant. Kept saying no worries. Well the call was three American dollars, so I suppose bearable.

I went to the computer and checked the mail, absolutely nothing but adverts. I checked my birthchart and daily planet alignment, and www.astro.com warned me that today things can go wrong and there's a danger of losing my temper, especially about things where there's really no reason to do so.

Then I realised my guidebook was missing. Actually someone was on the message boards asking where the Dutch embassy in Istanbul is. Well that's no problem as it only takes me a second to look it up, but I can't because my book is missing. I can't let it go because, well, I won't know where I'm going, where to stay or get tickets. There wouldn't be any maps.

So I went back to the telephone office and it was there, but the man who speaks English was gone and an older non–English speaker was there and I had to explain that I wasn't stealing it, it's mine.

Well, whatever this astrology thing was, actually I think sun square mars, it must have passed as things got better after this. I went shopping,

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about twelve US for the things I needed, and we're talking deoderant and toothpaste. I didn't buy them while I didn't know the money situation.

Then I came down to the shop and noticed some fruit and veg. I was in a different area so this was a different shop. One tomato and one apple was 600,000, say a third of a dollar, maybe twenty–five English pennies. A lot more than India, but cheaper than a restaurant. But inside, he had french loaves, and single–serves of butter, honey and the shop I already use does fifty gram cheeses, so this is a lot better.

I walked up from this new place, and passed a different cybercafe... AAAHHHGGGG.... English operating system, not an Arabic word in sight, all this time I could have been here doing what I need to do.

So that was my really horrible day today, really horrible until about an hour ago. Now I'm sitting here at this new place downloading my software to see how it works out, plus I have cheese, fiber biscuits, a tomato and an apple to look forward to.

But I'll have to go back to Nevsehir tomorrow and try that bank again. There's one compensation, and that's with the new computer, I'll be able to access my account on–line, so if everything's alright there and the line is also down tomorrow, maybe I'll have to have another go with the atm, heaven forbid.

Yeah, so considering everything, I don't know whether to stay or go. This morning, I was all ready to buy a ticket and leave tomorrow, but now I'll have to mess about with the bank tomorrow. The computer I might be able to use is here. But, oh, the cold. The night temperature is one degree celcious, the daytime is five. I woke up this morning and could see my breath.

It turns out there's just a cold front in Turkey. At the minute, London is a lot warmer than here, and it gets warmer the further north you go. I don't have a coat, and I dread to think what would have happened if I hadn't have got the thermals before I left Delhi, I don't think it would be bearable.

—– Here we go. I just downloaded an oppen–source wordprocessor, and it's installed itself automatically with Arabic menus.

26th April 2003

Antalya, Turkey.

So I left Gorome ýn the end. Checking out was fine, the man was really friendly it turns out. I think he just acted weird because I woke him up at six in the morning when I checked in.

I bought a bus ticket with a company called Gorome. It left at eight at night, and check out was ten in the morning. I tried to use the computer but still no joy. It was very cold waiting and the clock I bought in India keeps resetting itself, so I was at the bus office two hours early.

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I asked for an aisle seat, but it was window when it came. We set off and I had two seats to myself. There were three Australian woman before me. One was saying how she had been walking along in Gorome and some kid came up and said she had the biggest nose he had ever seen. Then she recounted how on her first day at university, the very first girl who came up to her said, without introduction, that she was the thinnest person she had ever seen and she ought to see a doctor about it. And so this carried on, the one in the middle recounting this tortured life of unprovoked insults, and the ones either side of her saying, ‘but your nose looks great, you're not thin, you smell like any woman, your breasts are the same as mine’.

It did cross my mind to give her an unprovoked insult, just so she's have another one to relate.

‘Yeah, and then there was this time in Turkey when a bloke came up for no reason and said I'm an irritating whinner.’

We stopped at Nevsehir and a big man got on next to me; that was the end of comfort. I was really cramped and it was painful. The bus had an attendant, a woman who looked tired, walked up and down pouring free perfume into people's hands and smoking by the pumps each time we stopped at a petrol station.

Someone had flatulence, and each time it smelt, she turned on an extractor fan.

I don't remember specifically sleeping, but at some point I closed my eyes and when I opened them, it was morning. I must have only slept half an hour though.

We arrived at eight in the morning, there's a small connecting bus called a dolmus, to the city. The man left us and didn't tell us where it was, then snapped because I missed it.

Then I found it, got on and we went to the city. The driver didn't speak English, but when I was the last one on, he drove to the bus office and a woman came in. She didn't speak English either, but was very friendly and eager to help. I pointed on the map to the landmark, Hadrian's Gate, and they dropped me there.

But the hotel didn't exist. It was the city centre, all high rise apartments and not so nice. I got lost and then saw a ruined clock tower which I was able to locate on the map, and made my way down to the sea.

It was very steep and by the time I realised I was in a dead end I was at the very bottom. But it was very beautiful, so I rested. It's kind of a marina enclave, very clear water, little boats and yachts, the high–rises behind them which were ugly close up were attractive at a distance and beyond them are mountains, some of which are snow–covered.

Most of all, it's much, much warmer.

I got myself back up the hill, got lost, and eventually found what I was looking for: Ozman pension. The man came out, welcomed me in perfect

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English, showed me the room. Fifteen US, but very nice, brand new mattress, two blankets, attached, washing–line, breakfast included.

I slept for about ten hours, got up and it was night. I went out to eat in a place that I thought the book recommended but later found out I was lost again, I must find that compass, and was somewhere else. The vegetarian option was either meze, one plate for eight dollars, or spaghetti, for three. But the spaghetti was not good, it was just long boiled spaghetti with tomato purè over it. Then he wanted to keep the change. I insisted on it and when he asked where I'm from I looked straight at him and said INDIA.

Then I went shopping and everyone wanted Euros. Plus people are speaking more German than English. I walked right up to the city and things were better.

Next day I tried a load of cybercafes. In one I tried to change the language of the operating system and messed it all up, it wouldn't even work in Turkish by the time I'd finished with it. Another place wanted Euros, another place didn't speak English, any place near the water was expensive. The only good thing about that day was there was a writing assignment at www.writersweekly.com that I think I could handle, so I took notes and went to the park to write it.

There are these women walking round there, I'm not sure what the deal is with them. One of them tried to speak, then ended up stroking my face and saying Turkish, Turkish. I went home and did the writing there.

Today was a bad start, great finish. I walked everywhere looking for food and only ate a pitta in the end, I mean an empty, blank, nothing pitta. Then I got lost and couldn't find the post office. By chance I wandered through a residential district. NOW, I think I'm in business. There are shops selling fruit and veg. There's a cybercafe, 700,000 an hour, cheapest yet, and I've managed to get everything to work.

Because no one has Microsoft Word software, which I need to format the book, I decided yesterday, that rather than move from place to place looking for it, why not just get all the work ready, and in each place in the text where there's formatting required, I'll just use a tilde. A tilde is this symbol ~~~~~~~. It's usually used to indicate that there's more existing than shown. So say there's a really long folder name, like reallylongfoldername/afile, you would just write really~/afile.

But there are no tildes in normal writing. So I'll correct my file, and each time there's required formatting that I can't do with the software I have, I just put a tilde with a note. Like ~insert diagram ~insert table ~make italics. This will be easy as when I finally find a computer with the required software, it can automatically take me to each occourance of a tilde.

The icing on the cake is that I've found two completely free word processors online. I don't know why I didn't search before. One has a spellchecker included, the other can format the page size. The only thing I'm now lacking is a grammar checker and table maker, but with what I've found today, I can do 99% of the work.

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Well I also went to the web site that was calling for submissions. The guidelines are withdrawn, and now you have to email for them. Of course I see this when I've already written the outline. It's a publisher selling work through Amazon, but they only want 8000 words and it might earn a thousand. I'll enclose it below.

—–

29 Ways To Manifest Your Dreams

1 — Decide on what you want. You might want a fast car, but WHY? Perhaps you like to be

recognised. Are there other ways to be recognised? Would it make you as happy to be recognised for something else? When the essence of your goal brightens the whole world as well as making you happy, it's also a goal of the Universe.

2 — Add possibility. It's easy to picture something in our mind, like walking on Mars or

growing a second head, but only the things we picture with a belief in their possibility can inspire the emotion necessary to bring their manifestation to fruition.

3 — Let your dream make you happy now. It's the emotion in a dream that brings it to reality, but if you wait to

feel happy once the dream arrives, you'll become a ‘happy tomorrow’ person. Let the possibility of your dream create happiness now, and enjoy today.

4 — Learn to let go of thoughts. A very useful skill, as you can let go of the ones that make you doubt

your dream.

5 — Make happiness all the time. This is why many manifestation efforts fail. There's no point

believing in your dream for ten minutes a day, and spending the rest of the time focusing on the things you don't have. Set up a reminder you'll constantly see, like your watch on the wrong wrist of a knot in your handkerchiefs. Each time you see it, get excited!

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6 — Concentration, the key to all the time happiness. Pure concentration is hard, the nature of the mind is to be scattered in

a thousand different places. But to achieve a goal, it's necessary to focus on it to inspire the emotion, like a magnifying glass over a leaf starting a flame. Concentration is easier when your focus is pure happiness.

7 — Act ‘as if’ to increase your expectation. We get what we expect, and we only expect the possible. If you

REALLY did believe you were manifesting a piano, wouldn't you clear a space for it and buy a song book?

8 — Be generous. Giving things away is an indication of Abundance Consciousness, a

confidence and expectation that all you desire will be brought to you.

9 — Talk the future into being. The things we say indicate the contents of our mind, we don't speak

other people's thoughts. Talk the future into being, say to yourself you are manifesting this cherished dream, like a preacher trying to spread the gospel. Speak your goal into being until you are brimming with confidence.

10 — Write it down. The Universe can't manifest your goals if you aren't specific. Be like

a lawyer and get it all down in writing, that way if the wrong thing manifests, you can sue God!

11 — Show your beautiful intention. Create a piece of art in honour of your coming goal, or buy a nice

house plant, anything that increases happiness and excitement

12 — Watch your dreams for guidance. Get in the habit of writing them down, they might give directions that

will speed up manifestation, or perhaps suggest a new direction to take.

13 — Follow intuition.

We can choose to think certain thoughts, and when the mind is unwatched, the mind creates a steady stream of thoughts — but every now and again, a thought comes in out the blue, from outside. Follow their guidance.

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14 — Avoid jealousy. Jealousy shows a poverty consciousness and lack of possibility in

your dreams, if you really believed your dream was as good as here, you'd celebrate the success of others.

15 — Protect your dream. Keep it secret so you don't waste energy talking about it rather than

achieving it.

16 — Ask a higher power to help.

Hand over negativity with confidence, let your doubts fly up into the sky and be left with pure possibility.

17 — Fire the dream. Use music or art that inspires strong emotion in you to fire your

dream. Put on the CD or go to the cinema and focus on the emotion inside of you, while focusing on the possibility of your dreams.

18 — Get to know happiness. The essence of any goal is happiness. If it didn't make at least you

happy, then you wouldn't want it. The trick to attracting the dream into your life is to let the dream create happiness in you now, before it's arrived. What is happiness, in essence? A vague mental movement in the mind, a sensation in the body. By getting to know it alone, separate from the things you thought inspired it (when all the time it was just you), it becomes freed and attachment to the material can no longer cause pain. Learn to have possessions without possessing them.

19 — Check it isn't waiting for you.

Could you just achieve the goal, but don't? If you want to create a new apartment, already have your eye on one and enough money in the bank, then is the real goal the confidence and energy to go out and get what you want?

20 — Transform your environment. Make your surroundings a testament to your future. You might not

have the money for the holiday to Thailand now, but could easily afford a poster, coffee table book and lemongrass tea that constantly reminds you the future being created, and inspires happiness and excitement now.

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21 — Relax into possibility. Learn a progressive relaxation technique to practice before

visualising your goal, stress and tension in the body tend to scatter focus.

22 — Complete your part of the bargain. Make a list of everything you need to do and everything you need to

happen for the dream to come true. If you want a new job as a computer programmer, there are certain things that need to happen, like creating enough money for a course and new hardware, but there are things you can do towards this right now, like having your suit dry–cleaned, buying a book to get an overview of a programming language and so on. Not everything will fall into your lap if there are certain efforts you could be making right now and are not.

23 — Be excited by signs. Certain signs proceed certain events. You might attract a painting of

a new house before you manifest the real one. Watch out for meaning coincidence, and be excited by it.

24 — Consider Loss. Often we subconsciously fear losing something, and this fear stops us

attracting it in the first place. The answer to this is to live with ‘free happiness’ in the present. Free happiness as the essence of emotion, not linked to what inspired it. When the possibility of a future dream makes you happy now, then that emotion experienced now is exactly the same as will be experienced in the future. Emotions in the mind only hurt us when we keep linking them to things in the world. Understanding this is the key to overcoming fear, and living like we've never been hurt.

25 — Focus on success. Stay away from negative people who decrease your feelings of

possibility. Either get to know people who have achieved what you desire, or read the biographies of such persons and let their example inspire excitement.

26 — Create a ritual. This is another way to both increase focus, belief in possibility and

state your intent. Make something up, from a whispered prayer and incense stick to a full candles and chalice affair.

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27 — Pay it forward. Decide some beautiful thing you will do on manifestation, like giving

money to charity, making up with a sibling or anything that will brighten the world, then do it now!

28 — Be grateful everyday. Another form of abundance consciousness. Focus on the good things

you've already attracted into your life and be grateful for them. Now, you've done it before, you can do it again.

29 — Never give up. Accept bad days as a minor glitch, look squarely at the bad emotion

and accept it as it is in your body and mind. Hand over your problems or doubts when falling asleep and wake up each day anew.

###

Actually, this file size is a little large, I think better to start a new log, which will likely cover the trip from here back finally to ... ugh, England.

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New Diary Log Three

6th May 2003 Antalya, Turkey.

Well, it's my birthday today. It was a normal day other than I went to Burger King. The only vegetarian thing there is fries. Well, there are salads, but everything was in Turkish, so I couldn't be sure what was in them.

Antalya's beautiful. I solved the food problem. There are no nice places, but the shop has good stuff. Every day, I get a French loaf, stuff it full of feta cheese, black olives and tomatoes, and eat fresh fruit with it.

I'm still working on the file, but might try and leave the day after tomorrow and continue the journey. Things should be much easier now I have the new software.

I stay in Ozman Pension, fifteen US, but nice. There are a French couple next door. They have screaming arguments, then I hear her being hit.

There are so many schizophrenics though. To come to the computer, it's about a kilometer, and on the way I usually pass a couple of people screaming at thin air. You don't see it so much in India, because everything is less, isolated I think. I mean in India, people are constantly talking to you and generally you feel as though you belong to the people around you. But here, people generally only talk to people they know and I can imagine someone living here who's a bit different for whatever reason, and just being so isolated.

It's weird because everyone has money. I only saw one beggar. She was about twenty, dressed in a clean coat, with a baby also well dressed in a new buggy. This is as poor as people get in the west, but they seem less happy.

Someone from Australia sent a payment request for the book yesterday. I was hoping they would buy it today, but there's nothing there.

But, today, and I'm not sure how I came across it, I found out about syndication. There are places on the Internet that store copyright free articles.

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Webmasters and people who write free ezines go to these sites, get some code which they paste on their website, and once a week, a new article automatically appears there.

Of course, writers put out free stuff to flog books and other services. Everyone's happy. When I finished the book in Kathmandu, I wrote three promotional articles, and manually submitted them to the markets, it's much better this way, now I've syndicated them.

Also discovered today, the joy of auto responders. I won't go into the details, but briefly, anyone who sends a blank email to happyarticles@sendfree.com now receives the three articles. Not in one day, but spread out over a few days. So I listed the autoresponder address in free content directories for editors to get the free articles.

But I was allowed to write a little four line advertisement. Every time my articles are sent out, someone else's advertisement is included in my autoresponder. For every two ads I display, they put my advertisement in someone else's autoresponder.

No idea if this will generate traffic, but worth a try.

I was creepy this morning. I got all lost in my mind, and ended up pacing up and down muttering to myself. I only realised when I saw the horrified face of the owner.

I'll tell you what I was thinking about. This was before I decided to go to Burger King. Yes, burger king is rubbish. But ten years ago, when each and all of my days were awful trapped in Northampton, there was only one day I had anything approaching fun. Thursday. I would usually get an unemployment cheque then. So I'd cash it and sit in BHS restaurant and make a tea last a few hours. Then I went to the cinema. New films come out on a Friday, so Thursday afternoon was the quietest time. Then I went to KFC. I'm vegetarian now, but I loved their chicken. Actually, the last piece of meat I ate was a KFC. New years eve, 1996, Bangkok.

Anyway, to continue with my English Thursdays. After KFC, it was late night closing at the library, so I sat there. Then went to Burger King until ten. I didn't eat their food, but it was somewhere to sit rather than ‘home’. When I was planning to leave the country, I had a free year planner from Prediction Magazine. I remember it had a coiled snake and big 1993 on the front, and I scribbled all my plans to leave the country.

Those stupid Thursdays were all I had to live for back then.

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20th May 2003

Selcuk, Turkey.

In Turkey, discounts aren't as quick in coming as in India. The very last night I was in Anyalya, I did a seven hour stint on the computer, and then got a free hour. That man will miss me I think; he used to think it was really funny when I used to go in with fruit, veg, bread and feta and make a sandwich while I was working.

I left the hotel, Ozman, and got three million off without asking... but he wouldn't give a receipt. The first day I checked in, I paid fifteen million plus some water, and he only gave me a till receipt for half the amount, saying that's the maximum amount his till will print. Whatever he types in, the receipt only shows half the amount. So in other words, it's a till that helps you avoid paying tax.

But everyone does it. Apparently, there's some really unfair sales tax, so no one pays it. Sometimes in the supermarket, they ask if you want a receipt. If not, then everything is cheaper.

Anyway, I wanted to go to Kas, further north, and the manager knew someone there, phoned ahead for me to tell them I might come, and it would be fifteen US, the same price.

I had to walk up to the clock tower to wait for the bus. Lots of little buses came past that said octogar, meaning bus station, but I had a feeling it would be for the local bus park, not the long distance. After twenty minutes, a big bus came past with TERMINUS, OCTOGAR, written on it. I stopped it. The man didn't speak English but understood I wanted the long distance bus octogar. He kept pointing to the floor and both nodding and shaking his head, and I didn't know if he meant I should get on or wait where I was for another bus. I picked up my bags and got on, but he wouldn't take money.

But there were no seats. I stood while it was going along; it was really awkward; it would have been easier in India as I would have been in a rickshaw for an effortless twenty minutes. After ten minutes he started flashing his lights towards a bus coming in the opposite direction. Both vehicles stopped and it turned out this was my bus. So it was nice in a way because the driver realised I would never know which was my bus, so brought me along for free until he saw the relevant one.

So they were stationary in the middle of the road holding up the traffic, and I had to clamber off one with all my stuff, then cross over and get on the other one, pay while it was going along, then stand for ten minutes until a woman tapped me and pointed to an empty seat.

So we arrived. The bus station is very modern. I asked around and found out that there's only a minibus to Kas and I didn't like the look of it. I decided to go to the next reasonable place as long as it was north. I examined the guidebook, decided on Fetiya, bought a ticket and got on the bus.

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We arrived five hours later, and then the trouble began. Out of all the places I've ever arrived at, this was the hardest. Firstly, the bus station is out of town, and you get a free dolmus to the centre, dolmus being a little bus. I missed the dolmus and had to wait for another.

Then I got on and we went into town. It looked very nice, kind of a grassy harbour but one great big tanker moored there and hundred of yaughts. There was one other foreigner on the bus and we ended up stopping by chance at the place I had been planning to find by myself, but it turned out that it was at the top of a huge hill, so they dropped me at the bottom.

I went and sat in a park, then opposite saw a likely looking place with flags outside, and the word 'backpackers'. I went in and looked at a couple of rooms, but it was a dive and noisy, and fifteen million to boot.

So I left and walked all around the town looking, it was really horrible, the places were all closed or too expensive. I went back to the park and had another look at my book and decided on a place called Gorme Pansyion, out of town two kilometers away and I was already limping, but I went for it.

The map was definitely wrong. I ended up in a residential area. I had to walk back into town. At one point I was walking through a garden centre; I couldn't believe it. A big plastic greenhouse with flowers in pots all over the floor and smelling of bin bags, mud and mostly flowers.

But I'd walked far too far, I was having to sit down every fifteen meters. I decided to just check in the next place I saw. So I went in somewhere, but it was twenty five million and an ‘apartment’, but he gave me directions to the place I had originally been looking for, just around the corner, NOT where it's marked on the map at all.

I found it and walked in. The owner was talking to a couple, both with very thick London accents. The woman was blond, fiftyish and overly–made–up, her partner was much shorter, thin, shabbily dressed and full–blooded Asian, but he had the same thick accent and it was a bit jarring, ‘Ya 'gonna be alright here luv, 'al nip tu shops, get fags’, he said. Lovely jubly.

Well the owner looked frightened of me. I must have been a sight, dripping sweat, limping and covered in dust from all the places I had sat down in. He took me up to an immaculate room, all in white with net curtains, and not a mark anywhere. But he made this big deal about only using one of the beds, even going to the point of putting my stuff on it and pointing to the bed I wasn't to touch. It was just twelve million though. He went out with the London couple. I lay face down on the bed and just slept.

I woke up really thirsty after an hour and had to go out as there was nothing in the room. I went out and ended up in a huge supermarket with trolleys and background music, but I couldn't work out how to buy anything or what half the things were. I ended up in a tiny shop. The woman didn't know a word of English and there was hardly anything there. I ended up going home with one roll, a sachet of jam and one water, and that was it.

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I slept all night, then woke up at dawn and there was the calling to prayer over the loudspeakers from the local minarets. I've heard it a million times. This time was different. He started, ‘Alllaaaaaaah Akbah!’, then burst out laughing. Then he stopped, but started talking to to his friend. They both had a conversation as though they weren't on the loud speaker. Then he carried on and sang the next line, but again, burst out laughing at the end of it. I fell asleep in the middle of this.

I woke up later, very early, but decided to rest. I had wanted to leave but I didn't feel OK to even go to the shop. I stayed in for five hours but couldn't take the boredom. I got dressed and I wasn't too bad. I made it out and ate. I went to a computer but the woman said it was two and a half million. I found another place for one and a half. I logged on to find that the man from Australia who had requested a payment for the book has actually sent the money and ordered it, so that's great.

But I couldn't upload it to the mail account to send it. I tried all day. After an hour all these school kids came in and started playing games. They had the sound full up and there were gun shots, explosions, screams, it was like a war zone. The file just wouldn't go up.

I walked about looking for another place but there was only one and it was closed. It was really late so I sat in the park and felt awful because someone had paid and had no book.

Then I had the idea to create a special page, in the customers name, with a download link. This I could manage, I sent the address with an apology to the customer, and said I'd send the file as soon as I can, in case the download page doesn't work.

The next day was also very hard. I checked out because I can't live near a computer that can't even send my book, and I walked to the octogar. It was so hot I was soaking when I arrived, with an awful headache. I sat and drank water to rehydrate myself, and decided to go further north to Bodrum, it's a resort town and there should be a decent computer there.

I went to the bus station, it would be ten million, but when I looked, I only had five. So I went to the atm but it said my card was broken. I came back and the friendly boy said I can use the free dolmus to go the town.

I went in and it left me at the bank, but it was all Turkish and I couldn't work it out. I went to another one called Yapi Kredit. I put my card and number in. OK. Then I had to press the amount. I pressed a hundred million, or so I thought, but only ten million came out. I double checked and realised I'd pressed the wrong button. I needed fifty pounds, had received five, and now couldn't have another cash advance until the next day.

Plus I didn't know how to get back to the octogar. I went to the tourist office, it was closed despite the fact it was by then three pm. So I stood in the road and stopped every van that passed until I was taken back to the octogar.

So I sat there and looked at what food I had. One orange and one packet of small sunflower seeds. I had this with more water, cooled down, my

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headache went a bit, then the bus came, with the same staff that had brought me there. Off we went.

We arrived and I had less than a pound. I walked down to the water. It was full of noisy places and everyone was English. I found my place; very friendly, but full. I walked on and went in another place. The man was friendly, but he wanted twenty, couldn't change a check, but indicated I could leave my stuff there and go and get money.

I went to the money changer. Bad rate and five percent, and I had to do a fifty. I was about to eat, then realised that in a place like Bodrum, 'twenty' might mean twenty Euros, not twenty million, so I went back and checked, but it was OK. Then I ate lovely food in a place which was also full of English people.

Next day I ate in the same place. I went to the computer, FIVE MILLION for one hour. I looked at the book and there was supposed to be a place at Oasis shopping centre. I had to take a bus to it. It turns out it was a ghost town, no Internet, and no bus back. It was in the middle of nowhere and I ended up lost on a highway with no shade, but a van stopped and picked me up.

I went down to the sea, and it really was only English people there, it was horrible, it was like England and everyone was from the North. All the prices were in pounds. I went to another computer but it was also five million. Bodrum is full of idiots who only come for two weeks, they walk out of shops without waiting for change, the locals despise them, and they pay any price. All the cybercafes are the same price.

I went to the same restaurant, and all these English people are whining on about their lives in England, and this and that, no one talks about Turkey, their bodies are in the sun and their minds are still in England. They don't want to see Turkey, they just want sun.

Next day, that fifty US was nearly gone, so I packed and thought I'd leave my stuff there and go to the atm. I was just about to go, my bags were packed, I stood up, one foot behind the other, and fell ass over tit. When I got up the metal cup from India I drink coffee in had gone up in the air and landed in the dead centre of the bed. But now it looked awful, a big brown stain like that. So I cleaned it a little, but it still looked awful. By the time I'd finished, it was check–out time. So either I stay another day and clean it or just pay in foreign currency and get out. So I did the latter.

I remember before going there, people were talking about Bodrum on the message boards, and the general conclusion was that there are no ‘real’ people there, and it's true. You listen to them and they're not real.

I went to the octogar. The first place said there's no direct bus, and sent me to another office. This place said there's a bus, but at night, and wanted to send me back to the direct bus that leaves now, but tried to send me back to the first office.

I went to a third office and again, just decided to go anywhere north, Izmit as it turned out, for fifteen million. This was four hours north. We

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arrived and I looked at the map and decided on Selcuk an hour south. I made a sandwich, got on another bus, and arrived here. Found a place to live, and slept.

4th June 2003

Izmir, Turkey.

Not a good time recently. I'm really sick of everything. I came here to Izmir thinking that, it's a big city and although there's nothing here for a foreigner, and no foreigners, the connection to the Internet will be good, so I'll just come and do the work I need to do and go.

In Selcuk I checked out the youth hostel. I went to the cybercafe and wanted to quickly upload the last of the files and come to Izmir. I thought it will maybe be half an hour. No. I sat there nine hours and just managed it, and even then not to my web–site, only to the new storage account called theselcukmess.

I went back to the place I'd had breakfast. It's run by three brothers who are really sweet. I'd already said goodbye to them, then I turned up nine hours later. It was too late for Izmir, so I ate there and checked in a nearby place called The All Blacks.

So the next day I didn't even go near the computer in Selcuk, I came straight to Izmir. I got off the bus at the wrong place and had to walk into the city, then traipse all about looking for somewhere to live. I ended up in this immaculate room for ten US, but no toilet and the shower was a matchbox, Cicek Palace it was called. I went to the computer, answered mail and did general maintenance, but couldn't connect to my site.

The next day, I thought I'll try a different cybercafe. I walked for kilometers around, to the bazaar, to the business district, to the posh area. I had flip–flops on and there were long lines of blood at the strap. I sat on a wall for a while and a policeman on a motorcycle came by and pulled up and just stared at me for ages. Finally, in the posh area, I saw what is, as far as I can work out, the second and last cybercafe in Turkey's third largest city, and there was an food place opposite. I hadn't even eaten then and was dizzy. So I ate and went in this place. Very modern and only a million an hour. Loads of computers.

But it was full of kids shouting. I mean they were screaming at the top of their voices and one of them was in charge. OK, so I can live with that, but there was just absolutely no connection. I sat for an hour watching a white screen. Not one page would come, let alone me downloading the various programs I need.

People seem to accept it here. There were a couple of adults just sitting also staring at white screens.

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So I had to come all the way back to the first place, and did actually manage to retrieve the files from theselcukmess and move them to the website.

I thought, well I'll have to continue north then and try somewhere else, perhaps Cannakale right at the top of the coast, it couldn't be worst, connection–wise. So I went to ask at the bus company the price, fifteen million including bus to the octogar. He didn't speak English, but took me to another place where someone translated.

The next day I went to the office with all my bags. There's someone else there, and he wants an extra two million. While we're arguing about it, the dolmus goes and so I'm trapped.

I went to a different hotel. The room is cheaper, about five sterling, with toilet, but tiny and shabby, which is OK with me actually, Christ, I'm from India. A room would have to be the pits for me not to like it.

I came back to the computer, worked all day, accessed nothing, accomplished nothing. It's an awful cybercafe. They all are actually. No one speaks English or knows much about computing, so they're only used for playing music full blast and games.

In the evening I went back to the bus company to say what happened. The translator came and we argued about it. Then the translator went and another awful man from another bus company came. He reminded me of that man who I met and helped me when I overstayed my Indian visa in Calcutta, in that he looked like a life long opium addict. But Ronnie in Calcutta had a quiet kindness in his face.

This bloke looked like a monster. He had a face that might have been forty but the skin hung off him like a prune. His eye's were totally sunken and around them was near black and, though it's hard to seem possible, even more sagging than the rest of him.

And his manner was as awful as his face. While I tried to speak to the first one, this afflicted life–form started screaming at me, to go, go go a different company. Go now! GOODBYE. GOODBYE. GOODBYE. He looked so malicious and evil I just left into the shop while he started laughing like a hyena.

The shop owner had no idea what was going on as he didn't see it, but just happened to be extremely friendly, so it was surreal; I left one monstrous human being and moments later with dealing with someone else who, at one point, started singing to me.

Last night, I sat down and made a list of ways around the lack of connection and decided to just create the part of the site that will be free, and then at least I can launch it with ‘coming soon’ sections for the animated slide show, thumbnail gallery ect. But I'll download the whole thing in one go, work on it off–line, and then upload it in one go.

Nope. Fifth hour and haven't even managed the first download. Not only that, I'm having this long, complicated dialogue with a thirty year old

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American who was abused as a child, has various problems now and seems to be having some frightening experience like I had when I was writing the dialectics in the mountains.

So I'm sitting here with nothing downloading trying to help him, with all this music playing full blast around me.

Can it get worse? I think I lost my guidebook. I read it here last night, but they didn't find it. If it really isn't at home then I have no maps, no idea where I'm going, how to get anywhere, how to leave even.

There's only one place worse than this Internet wise, the first trip to Bangladesh, but on the second trip, things were generally working.

Come to think of it, I think those Americans were right. When they play the games, they're usually doing it over a LAN i.e. local area network. That means all the computers are linked and they play each other, but it's really resourse intensive and slows everything. Also the ‘music’ they're playing, I think they stream it straight over from the Internet, which would take a lot of bandwidth. And for all of this misery, it isn't even cheap. Going on a pound an hour. A day's work costs more than the room, which is unthinkable. I take 150000000, dunno exactly how much that is, then eat in parks, don't read, just come to these places, and maybe it's good for three days.

So all to do is go to Cannakale and try there. There's a hostel which might have an old guidebook for me to take notes from. If it's not better, go to Ankara, get a map, ask about the trains out, and go.

Maybe it's astrology. There's an aspect of astrology called astrocartography. It's hard to explain but you can make a birthchart and kind of apply the aspects over the globe and work out what influences will affect an individual person who goes to certain places. For example, when Kennedy was shot, the place, I think Dallas, had two Mars lines crossing. It only applies to him though, his chart, the place might be lucky for someone else.

But the whole of the Turkey coast is bad for me. The interpretation is that there are delays, deadlines are missed and a tendency to run into violence. It's only a positive influence for journalists.

If I go as far as Cannakale or Ankara, I'm away for that and into a different influence which favours artists and creativity.

I'll have to work out where the best Mercury place is, Mercury ruling communication and the Internet. Then I'll go there, build a house and stay forever.

Now I have to go and eat in some very noisy place, then go and find out if my book is gone forever. I've had to put my shoes on because of the bleeding on my feet. Uuughhh. What a horrible day.

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9th June 2003

Istanbul, Turkey

Back in Izmir I had a sudden insight one evening, that I might as well go onto Ankara, the capital, and just forget Gallapoli. It seemed sensible because the main cause of all this misery is Internet connection. So, in any country, best connections will always be in the capital because this is where the optical fiber backbone is, and information travels down less copper wire and less bottle necks. So go there, the room will cost more, but the computer will be cheaper, and so maybe it will work out the same.

The night before I was going to leave, I asked the owner, who spoke no English, what time was check out. He held up all his fingers, and then two fingers. I thought, what a weird check out time: two minutes past ten. Maybe it's because it's really at ten, but you get two minutes spare?

Next day, while rushing around, I had the sudden inspiration, he meant TWELVE midday. He did it like that because humans only have ten fingers.

I went to the station and put my bag in the locker, but would have to collect it two hours early as it would be closed. ONE bag, was a dollar and a half.

So then I went to the computer. The connection wasn't good enough for ftp work, so I changed the mail address on about half The Happiness Hike. It's good, I used a special program to encrypt the rediff address, and then put the address as a graphic that software can't read and so I should be able to leave Hotmail for good at some point.

I got my bag and went to sit on a wall in the corner. I had just enough money to get me to Ankhara, but no deodorant. But now I'd have to sit next to someone. Everyone uses lemon cologne here. It's the stuff they impregnate wet tissues with. Smells like sweets, but it's better than sweat so I thought I'd go and buy one. This old man had been staring at me for about half an hour from the tea shop so I went out the station.

Outside, the old man stopped me and asked me where I was from. We went through the usual routine, and he absolutely insisted I drink tea with him. I've been in India too long. The first thing I thought was ‘drugging scam’, so I drank my own water.

He was a retired maths teacher from Antalya. Married, his wife drinks but doesn't like smoking and only eats beef and fish. His children are an economist and an orthopedic surgeon. He went to India once. It's cheap, but the people are dirty. This was pretty boring stuff, but we were on the same train, so I wouldn't have to hunt about.

The train came and he showed me his carriage, then mine, wanted me to sit with him but I went back to mine.

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It was an open carriage with seats facing forward. There was just one male of about twenty. I think he was unhinged in some way. He kept talking to me, then talking to himself, then to people outside the carriage. Then he got really excited and pointed to a picture of a car on his mobile phone. People started arriving and he told them all where to sit and opened and closed windows. I think he was desperate to be liked for some reason. At one point I burst out laughing, I couldn't help it. No one noticed this person, even though he was talking to people who weren't there. He kept pushing his fingers together and saying something to me. I'm not sure, but it either could have been, are you and that old man homosexuals, or are you going to be gay in Ankara.

I sat there for about an hour, then the teacher came. He said go to the restaurant. It was horrible. I ordered an omelette, and he watched me eat every mouthful, but he kept ordering extras for me, not understanding I really only had enough money to get myself to the city. He drank raki and was worse as he got drunk. Eventually I closed down and went inside, answering in monotones. He didn't like it but I couldn't carry on. At one point he got my map, showed me a place in a park and said, ‘be there tomorrow at six thirty’ and before I could say anything he started on about his cast iron guarantee that he will be there. I wanted to scream at him that I hate sitting in parks. I do it here because nothing works, but it's something that pathetic people and I don't want to and I want to work for eleven hours in a day.

He went but even then tried to get me to sleep in his carriage. In the end I was alone and slept in a chair a little.

I woke up and it was light. We were going through some really beautiful mountains, but it was cold. Not very cold. The man next to me was violently shivering and groaning, though he was dressed the same as me. I think perhaps he was by the window and we couldn't close it.

The teacher came and I had to go to the restaurant. I hardly spoke and he left me but kept going on about the park. I had my Hindi book, my only book, but couldn't face a lesson. I wrote some notes and realised my Indian notebook is running out, and got really sentimental about it.

We arrived in Ankara and I was alone. The plan was to go to a hotel, check in, get money, eat, work, sit in the park with an old man with nothing better to do.

I went walking to the hotel. I didn't have enough for the cloakroom and so had to have all my stuff with me. I went for an hour, with frequent rests. But then passed a metro stop and realised I was in a completely different place to where I thought. In fact, I was in the centre, so a better plan would be to get money, then a room, then work. So I saw an atm, this was OK. Thank God. Then I went to the Metro.

The ticket seller didn't speak English and didn't understand ‘station’. He asked all the other passengers but they didn't understand, so I just stood there. I'd been going so long now, I decided to put my bag in the cloakroom for a dollar fifty and to hell with it.

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Eventually a man came up to help me. He looked about sixty five and knew two French words and nothing else. But he really wanted to help. He looked at my map, understood. I got a ticket... AAAAANNNNDDDDD, this little angel came all the way with me, out into the street and didn't leave me until we were standing one hundred meters from the station and he was pointing to it. Then he got back on the train to the opposite direction, to continue his own journey. So perhaps not all retired men are irritating.

Back at the station, the baggage store doesn't work on a twenty four hour basis like India. It's put the bag in, leave to Istanbul at 10pm. or pay double. So my choices are keep the bag or go to Istanbul, the last Turkey stop. I sat and thought about it, I'd been all around the centre and hadn't seen an Internet place, plus couldn't work out where the hotel was. The bag is breaking and is hard to carry. So I bought a ticket and put it in; I would leave to Istanbul that evening.

I took the metro back to the city. Then basically walked up and down every main and side street, with frequent rests, and just couldn't see a cybercafe. I was really limping by then, could feel blisters and just wanted to take my shoes off. I didn't go to the park. I went straight to the station.

The metro is insane. There are only four lines, but no maps. The trains aren't named after the final destination so there's absolutely no way to know where they go. I asked a policeman and he didn't speak English , but put me on a train that went the wrong way. I came back and went to the ticket office. He called out for someone who spoke English but no one did. There was a school–girl buying a ticket, and he indicated she couldn't have a ticket unless she came and sorted this out. She came, was angry, and didn't speak English. It turns out he isn't even trying to get me on the right train, but only wants to check that I didn't buy the ticket somewhere else. In the end they only would say ‘Aksaray’, which might mean north, but the previous Aksaray train went north, but up the wrong line.

I got on Aksaray anyway, and got off at a stop about a kilometer away. I had to rest four times on the way down.

I got my bag, went to the train. It was OK. People looked horrified, then laughed, when I chained my bag up. We started, I went to the buffet. It was packed and everyone stared and whispered when I diluted my drink.

We arrived. If you look at a map of Turkey, there's a big land mass which is joined to the Middle East, then at the top there's the Bosphoros straights, a water way that links the Black Sea to the Med. So they are referred to the European and Asian sides. When on the Asian side, you could walk all the way to Kerela. When on the European side, you could walk all the way to Paris. So I needed to go to the European side. I went and got a ticket for the boat, and the man said it's the first stop. I got off at the first stop, walked all around and nothing seemed right. At the boat place, they told me it's the wrong stop. I had to get another ticket, and another man told me it's the next stop.

At the next stop I got off and saw a train station, which was what I was expecting. I went to look for the hotel. It was so steep, I walked forever.

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Eventually I saw a hotel which was supposed to be opposite the place I was looking for. I went in. No. It just has the same name. I went back to the station. It's the wrong station, I'm in a different area. From where I arrived, where I wanted to go would have been a different stop, certainly not the first.

So I thought I'll have to use my first ever Turkish taxi. I asked, he refused to use the meter and wanted five million, which can't be right. I went in the tourist board. I decided to stay somewhere close and he insisted it was close and I walk. He said, go here and turn right. I went there and turned right, up a steep hill, not there. I walked up and down the first road and there are about fifteen turnings to the right. No. I'll stay at my original choice. I went back to the station.

The tourist man also knew this place, and said a taxi will be a million. I went outside, they want five. I went to the cloakroom, but if I leave my bag until tomorrow, it will be considered two days. No one knows how the buses work, how the tram works. There's no metro.

It's on the other side of town and there was absolutely no option but to walk.

Eventually I found it. I limped in, filthy from two days travelling. The Orient Youth Hostel it was called. A plain room, no water, toilet on another floor, was twenty five million. I paid it and slept five hours.

I woke up, bought soap, and showered and shaved after cleaning the toilet with my teeshirt because there are no scotchbrites here. Then I went out and sat in a restaurant. He asked if I just want a drink. I said no, then looked at the menu and said I didn't even want a drink. He said OK in a way that indicates that this happens all the time.

So I had a plan. I'm now near the first station that I originally wanted. Go there in the morning, put the bag in, find somewhere cheaper, get the bag. Work.

I awoke, packed, and walked down a very steep hill. I found the station, but it was only a platform and there was no bag store. Now it was too steep to go back up to the main road, so I walked down to the highway, and now it would be four kilometers to the other station. There is no tram on Kennedy road. There are buses, but you have to buy a ticket from a ticket booth to enter, and there were no ticket booths. It's the open highway.

I can't believe this, but I walked this too. I stopped maybe eight times. It was just a deserted grassy path. One place I sat I looked down and there was a nearly full pack of Marlboro Kings. Apart from that, it was horrible. I sang Indian songs the whole way and thought about Delhi.

I made it to the station. The cloak room was closed. I went and ate. I came back an hour later and put my bag in. Then went to the tourist board. I want to go and look for a place the guidebook describes as a seedy dump, but attached. It's in Taksim on the Asian side. He pointed to the road and said six or seven meters, yellow bus, one million. OK.

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I went and stood there. No, this can't be right, there are no yellow buses and the traffics going the wrong way. So I stood on the other side of the road but there also there were no buses.

I looked at the guidebook, big bus number 14 from Sultanamhet, i.e. where I started. I tried to get to the tram but there were walls either side, so I had to go through a market underground.

In Sultanamhet, it's pedestrianised and there are no buses. I walked around onto the roads but no ticket booths, no buses.

Back in the tourist office he showed me a map. When he said this road, six or seven meters, he actually meant a kilometer up this road, past the bridge to the bus station, and get a yellow bus there.

So I went there. There were no tickets. I sat and drank water. It was kind of a market. I found the ticket office. I lined up by the Taksim bus for half an hour. When it came to boarding the sign had changed, now it wasn't Taksim. I found another bus, but this was different and wouldn't take my ticket. I found the bus.

We went back to the Asian side, I got off a square but there are no street signs and I couldn't work out where I was. No one could tell me. It was insane, I was shattered.

I decided to look for the second hotel off one of the fifteen streets in Sultanamhet. I took a bus back, walked through the market to the tram, off at the stop. Up all these hills, found it eventually. But it's full, and non–attached is twenty million.

So I went and ate. The book warns you not to eat there because of bill fiddling. Yes, the bill was wrong. There was an argument. I won and didn't pay because by then I didn't care if they killed me over it.

I looked at the book. This was getting desperate and I was starting to think of leaving my bag at the station and sleeping out. But it's dangerous here, there are places the book says don't go to. I'll have to just sleep in a dormitory hostel. Horrible, but better than the pavement.

I found a place in shocking pink called Cordial. Fourteen million just for a dorm, and I can leave my bag there. The dorm is empty. I went and got my bag. Got food. Slept. This was eleven at night. So I started of at ten am. and to just find a bad place in the wrong place had taken thirteen hours of constant work.

I woke up and someone else is checking in. Now this is awful. I have the tee–shirt I cleaned the toilet with. The shared showers are open so I can't wash it there. My clothes are all dirty. The socks are so bad there's no way I could hand them in. I've had to bring all this stinking filth with me, it's in my bag by my ankle. When I left today, the boy acted weird, asked if I'd talked to ‘my new friend’. Maybe he reported that I'm acting strange.

I took the tram and bus to Taksim, and there's a one line metro. So either I'm at tunnel, the south, or Taksim square, the north. I went down and there is not one map nor any indication of where you are. And, not one of the

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staff could understand me enough to tell me where here is. Outside there are information maps up as posters, but never a YOU ARE HERE spot. There was one when I first got off the boat and a YOU ARE HERE spot would have saved me a whole day of walking.

I guessed it was Taksim. The lottery ticket seller confirmed the street. I ate, ordered the cheapest thing on the menu, spinach crepe. It came chicken. They changed it, and I got a free soda, a soda's 2500000, so not to be laughed at.

I found the street with the cybercafe, but no cybercafe. Then I found this place. A million and a half an hour. IT'S FAST. There's a hostel nearby, so I'll ask there, then go and look for the run down and seedy place. But then I don't want to go home. I'm carrying a bag with other people's sewage in. I'm down and don't want to talk. In India it never would happen. I'd buy a scotchbrite, I'd have dettol, there would be water and privacy and strangers that talk to me. I want to go out and eat something I like, I don't want the park. I want something to read. I want my pills and supplements and rickshaws.

I think I've had about enough of this.

Next Day I can't believe this, but it's all getting worse. I left the computer last

night and really didn't want to go looking for the new seedy place far away, I'll just check in the seedy place two doors away. I went there, he didn't speak English. No one did. They all seemed angry and irritated. We managed to make ourselves understood. A room with two beds in ten million. Awful, but a sink inside. Well, I felt quite good about it, went up and got the bus and back to Sultanamhet for the night.

Of course, I wasn't in the mood for speaking, I never am. So I ended up eating in the park. It was unlit, but there were some policemen talking just nearby. An unshaven Turkish man with a bag who was probably sleeping out came and stared at me. The police left and offered him money and he refused it.

I went and sat in a better lit place. A courting couple came and went. It was just overlooking some famous mosque so some tourists came and took pictures. Then a drunken man came and asked why I was holding a cloth. I explained it is my habit as I live in hot places. He said it's not here and asked if he could join me. I said I want to be alone and think. He shouted, ‘Yes, right, OK then!’ and stormed off.

I sat there until about midnight, then went home. I paid for the bed, and realised I wouldn't be able to shower as there's no towel. The night before I just put clothes on and was wet, but it looks weird, already I'm weird so I try and minimise the weirdness. I went to the room and the man was asleep. I just lay down and slept myself.

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When I woke up I was alone. The breaking bag was a worry. I repacked everything and managed to get it all into the writing case and day pack. It made me think. If I can do that, then why the hell have I still got a backpack? No, once I'm somewhere reasonable, I'll sort it out and get rid of it.

I left with all my stuff and went to Arsenal Laundry. The man weighed my one pair of jeans and two shirts and said it's two kilos, seven million, so I couldn't do that. I got on the tram to the terminus. Then at the bus park the bus didn't come for an hour. Then one came that said Taksim, but the driver pointed to another one that said something else. I thought, no, I won't. It has a huge sign on the front saying Taksim, so where else could it go.

Yes, and it went to Taksim. I came down to the new place, and realised what I've done now. First of all he wanted five million for the laundry. I haggled but someone in reception told me to go else where so I still have it now.

I went up to the room to rest. It's an absolute dive, filthy, unmade bed of dirty, moist sheets, rubbish on the floor. This is OK, but then I look and there's no glass wall that separates in from the hall. It's not just that everyone who passes can look in, but pretty much anyone not in a wheelchair could just climb in. Plus there's no bathroom to speak off, it's a tap above a hole in a room and that's rough even for Indian standards.

But there are these women about. Yep, here we go. You just know from the way people look and act, they're Russian whores. There are warnings about it in the guidebook. Apparently when tourism collapsed after the earthquake a couple of years ago, the hotels opened their doors to the gangsters from Eastern Europe. The man who threw my laundry back at me in reception was probably a pimp.

Well, I decided to make the best of it. My backpack has only a pair of shoes in, and is chained to the bed. I have all my stuff with me. I came to the computer. It isn't connecting now. I still can't work out what's happened. It's noisy here, I'm sick of the noise, and the headphones have broken so I can't shut myself off from it.

I'm trying to think what to do. I want to wash, myself and my clothes. I think just chain everything up tonight, make do. Tomorrow, go and look for the original seedy place. OK, it's seedy, it probably wouldn't have got in a guidebook if it was a brothel. If it's cheap and secure, perhaps I can look for a different cybercafe. It might be easier, as now my bag holds just my shoes, the straps on the daypack are OK so I don't have to walk funny, well, not more funny than I usually do.

Next Day Things got a bit better. I went home and the women stay out until

about three am. and don't bother me. I fixed the missing window, but the man from next door came. He has no window, so I had to sleep with mine open and that window not there. But they'd cleaned it also when I went back. Not much, but a bit. I woke up and came straight here. Ten hours now, and I'm

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tentatively finishing the demo. I worked out the file transfer problem. Don't understand it completely but it's to do with a firewall or something. I haven't eaten or washed and shall definitely leave tomorrow. The bill for this computer is about, just more than ten US, so I'll have to do something about it. It was a better day though. Maybe I'll be lucky with a room tomorrow?

?12th June 2003

Istanbul, Turkey

Everything's got better now. Yesterday, I wanted to upload the demo

slideshow. It's only a limited eighteen pictures, but even that is three megabytes. So I woke up and came straight here to the computer. I planned to go as soon as it was done. By the time it was done it was five hours later. At home there was blood all over the toilet floor, not sure what happened, it was someone elses. I couldn't bring my self to wash with the little tap. But for all this, I did manage to finish the demo, and make it into an ebook.

I went to look for the original seedy place in the late afternoon. I passed it and it didn't seem so bad. I was right down by a place called Tunnel by then so I walked up Istekal Caddessi, the main street, and passed a church. It seemed modernish and to be in use because there were all these Africans outside. So I went in.

It was really nice inside. Clean. I think the Sacred Heart Cathedral in Delhi is nicer, but that's because it's home, plus the picture at the alter is the last supper. But in this one there's a crucified Christ. It's not nice though, the icon is far too detailed. Blood going everywhere and you can see all his ribs. Why are all the Christian idols always weeping and in such misery? Why can't they be like the smiling Buddha? Christians always flock to the statue of the Virgin when she miraculously weeps, but surely that's the time to avoid her; she's probably not in the mood for anyone. I'm waiting for reports of a new miracle where an idol suddenly smiles and starts winking at everyone. This is the one I'll go and see.

Anyway, I sat there and it was just peaceful, for the first time in ages. There was hardly any noise. In Delhi there is spirituality everyday, but people just aren't religious here. I left there with some peace in my mind, passed a music store and saw there's incense for sale and that would be nice. I've fell into this routine of waking up and coming to a computer and sitting in front of it all day, even eating there and I don't even have my shrine with me.

I walked up to the buses and sat in the park for a while and that was another peaceful moment, well, the same peaceful moment. I ate there. In the local shop they sell a spicy mezze and I had this from the night before, but it's a bit like something you'd get in a restaurant. I was really tiered then so I went home.

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Today I finally checked out, went into the atm and down to the new place. I wanted to shower and use a clean toilet so badly I would have checked in if only for a night, no matter what.

It's not seedy at all. OK, it 'ain't a palace. There are carpets over the whole place. The manager took me up in a lift to the third floor. My room has a comfy double bed, window with a view of a church, two cupboards, big thick sheets, western toilet, a bin, shower, carpet, and TV. Doubt the TV works, but it's there. I went down and registered. In the room I finally unpacked, put all my stuff away. The floor boy knocked on the door, dressed in a waist–coat and dickie, and gave me a big shower towel, a face towel, two pieces of soap and a roll of toilet paper.

I went toilet, and showered, scrub, scrub, scrub Indian style. All this is twenty million, more than in most places, but don't forget I paid twenty–five non–attached the first night, this is just the way Istanbul is.

So I brought my laundry down, but they can't do it. They showed me a dry cleaner but that's too much. Tonight, I'll do the jeans myself and one shirt that doesn't need ironing, then I'll take two shirts to Sultanamhet after some time, that should me cheaper as it's the jeans that take up the weight.

I came out, the church was closed. The insense was Indian and said ten rupees on the side and it was too depressing to look at it, though I have my Buddha statue out at home, now I'm unpacked. I got some mushroom mezze and came straight here. The demo ebook is too big, there's no way I'll get it up. Eight megabytes, and it's only six demo chapters and a limited slideshow, so I'm just uploading everything separately now. There's a cybercafe opposite where I live, so maybe that's better. If I get this all uploaded, I can try elsewhere.

Actually I'm doing it now. This firewall problem isn't solved after all, but I've downloaded the ftp program I used to use and this seems to be doing it better.

Istanbul

Around the twentieth of June.

Good day today because I made a decision and got something done. Last night, I washed my blanket, which was stinking, then consulted the oracle. I felt much better to get some advice, plus I have the cheap incense and candles from the church, so I could make a good atmosphere. It told me if I get the guidebook here, then the end result would be the same as if I travel on without it and look for it in another city. So in other words there wouldn't be a used one and I'd have to get through two countries with no maps. Plus it told me to get a compass and not to move today. I woke up really early and felt so

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strange. I kept thinking of all the people I know in Delhi. Sonia from the bank of Baroda who wanted to see my book. Gupta the rickshaw driver who always took me home from shopping and occasionally stop when he chanced upon me. The jokes I'd make when I had to push start the vehicle when it wouldn't start. Ram from metropolis restaurant, who brought the exact things I wanted as soon as I walked in without me having to say anything. So today I went to the bank, then down to the bookshop. Thirty eight million, I checked at the exchange office and that's right, so in other words it was the publisher's price printed on the cover. The central Europe wasn't as good. It went too far north and had a huge section on Germany, that was the largest part and something I'll likely never need. I got Eastern Europe, brand new, sixteen sterling, no German section but extended Polish maps, which is likely to be useful. Then I went to the post office and finally sent off my letter to the guidebook publisher to help then update the Cairo to Istanbul book. If it's good enough, I'll win a free book. Then I bought the compass, now I'll know which way to hold the maps up and where to start heading when I come out of stations and metros. Then I came here to this much nicer place to work, quiet with big screens, the mail works OK. A Burmese American is there complimenting my site and asking me how I am. It's only late afternoon, so I have time for tea in the park and to sort my bags out, to dump the big broken bag. Plus I found cooked eggs in the shops, so I've eaten protein and can stock up on them tomorrow, go to the station and hopefully carry on, at least to Sofia, hopefully to Budapest. That guidebook was expensive, but I'll likely use it as much as the last one, it shall get me as far as Western Europe, then I'll probably get a used novel out of it. I think that's why I was feeling so trapped here, with no information about where to carry on to.

27th June 2003

Bucharest, Romania

I woke up the last day in Istanbul and had decided to get rid of my main bag, I can just manage to fit everything in the day pack and writing case. I used the last of my Indan laundry soap on the jeans, so I left my soap holder which I actually bought in Bangkok. Also from Bangkok, a big laundry bag I've had all this time was discarded.

The man was really friendly when I checked out, I think he only ever sees transients. I walked up to Taksim Park and sat with tea and wrote for a few hours.

I took the bus over to Sultanamhet. I was wearing my flip–flops from Delhi, and I tied my shoes to the handle of the writing case. On the bus everyone kept turning round and looking at them. One woman was disembarking but almost missed the stop because she turned and actually stooped to stare and get a better look. I couldn't work out what was wrong. I mean, it's a pair of shoes tied to a small case. Why's it so weird?

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At the train station I asked the price at the cloak–room. It was two US. I said no and left with all my stuff, then realised that is actually the right price, it's just an expensive place. But it was too late and I had to walk round with my stuff all day.

I asked the prices of the ticket and ended up with second class sitting to Sofia in Bulgaria, which is North, the right direction. Then I took the tram over to the centre. Getting off I saw a money change. The plan had been to spend all my lira on smokes and another book, and change a cheque in Bulgaria. But the money change said I could buy foreign currency, just like that. Absolutely impossible across the whole of the sub–continent, where foreign currency notes are like gold dust. Here, they sell them just like that. So I said give me twenty Euros. He gave me it and I wasn't sure. I've never seen one. There was a holographic strip on the side, but it was such a tiny note. I couldn't belive something so small could be worth fifteen American. Maybe it's 0.20? I thought I'd ask the waiter.

I went and wrote in a restaurant for a couple of hours. I thought this is stupid. I have lira and I'm going to buy smokes and a book when I could have another ten dollars, then I'll have a days money when I arrive. I went up again but it was closed, though I managed to get ten elsewhere.

I left the restaurant when it was dark. I didn't really feel like the trip but kept myself going and started affirming how much money the book will make. Right then I looked down and thought I saw a phonecard. When I picked it up it was five million lira, and I'd just spend my very last coin on water. I walked past the Blue Mosque just as the sound and light show was on, so there was music while it glowed different colours. I went to the shop and the five million bought three packs of smokes and a small water exactly.

I took the tram and there were loads of Eastern Europeans there also going to Bulgaria.

In the station there was a middle aged Japanese woman at the counter arguing because her rail pass needed a stamp or something and they wouldn't do it. The man ignored her and told me to get on the first carriage. I went towards it and two Japanese teenagers raced past me into the unlit waiting room. Maintenence were flooding the floor and they had left their bags there. They lifted them on to the seats, but then walked out and left them unattended.

I went to the first carriage but there was no number on it. There was a Caucasian man of about fifty leaning out the window. I asked him the carriage number. It turns out he was British and answered in a really educated accent and said there were no carriage numbers, but just get on. I did so, found my seat and started chaining my bags up.

The English man came and spoke to me. He was unshaven and dressed in casual clothes. He had a railway timetable and kept talking about which train went where and I just assumed he was a real train buff.

I went outside and drank two coffees, then came in again. The man came in and we started talking. He works in Brixton for a disability charity. He bought an inter–rail card to see Europe. It's three hundred pounds and for a

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month you can use any second class train in Europe. So now it was obvious why he loves trains, he's been living on them. He started out flying to Germany with Ryan air for thirty pounds, and had been going round for three weeks, only once coming off and spending a night in Istanbul.

He had been on the train somewhere near Konya and met this Turkish man. He'd seem to resent foreigners, kept saying how poor he was, he didn't like what was going on in Iraq. The English man, who was called David incidentally, fell asleep. When he woke up his visa card was missing.

So this is what he was doing now. Going home a week early to get money, but also there was a meeting as the charity that employs him is insolvent.

We talked about travel for a bit. He's been to India. Rents out a flat to an Itanian in London. Seems to have travelled all his life. Likes architecture, talked a lot about cathedrals, classical music. The train started and I read my book for a while, then wrote for a while. I had the compartment to myself so I put my feet up and had my notebook and I thought it was fun.

After a few hours we stopped. David came and said it's the border, but we had stopped before it so would continue soon. He went back to sleep in his compartment. Half an hour later the police knocked on my door and ordered me down onto the tracks. They told me to walk across the lines, up on the opposite platform and get my passport stamped. He conveyed this by gestures. I said there was another foreigner on board and they kept saying OK, so I assumed David was there.

I got my passport stamped, but he wasn't there. I climbed onto the lines, ran back to the train and found him sleeping. I explained what he had to do so he came down onto the lines and I pointed out the building. He was still half asleep and went the wrong way. I went to get him. He was on the opposite platform and I was on the lines with the train behind me, David was walking away from me.

I shouted that it was the wrong direction. He turned to face me, then said ‘Oh my God!’. I turned away and saw that the train was pulling out the station. I turned and ran and managed to get to the door. It was really high and you had to go up these awkward, flimsy iron steps. I managed to grab the rail and jump, and used the strength of my arms to kind of swing my feet to the first step, then climbed in.

I remember seeing a Bulgarian in the corridor looking concerned. I turned round and David was running behind saying ‘Oh God, Oh God,’ and looking frightened, frantic and determined all at the same time. He lost distance for a moment than shouted and gave a mad sprint and caught the rail, but his feet hit the carriage wall and didn't make it to the steps.

I grabbed his arm and it was half my pulling and half his scrambling that got him inside. I thought he would say ‘Thank God, I made it.’ but he didn't. He want back to the carriage looking really worried, shaking his head and saying, ‘I haven't got an exit stamp, I haven't got an exit stamp’. I went to

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his carriage and asked what would happen and he was looking just as scared and said he didn't know.

I went back to my carriage and read my book. After a while he came to the carriage and looked at me, then burst out laughing and said, ‘Do you think they'll put me on the Orient Express to Turkish jail?’

There were some very dark–skinned Bulgarians in the next carriage. I think they were smuggling. We entered Bulgaria and they had a whole two carriages just full of huge sacks taped shut. They started rushing about, distributing it between more carriages. They filled mine with some of it and a friendly man kept guard. He gave me a smoke and was unbelievably friendly. He didn't speak a word of English but gestured a lot and had enthusiastic facial expressions, it was like the way a deaf person talks. He managed to explain in this way they the bags are full of clothes that they sell in a market, that the passport controls would be conducted on the train by a man with a walkie–talkie and that he likes football.

It turns out that there was no problem with the passports and they just stamped everybody in.

We arrived in Sofia station and I got off and sorted my bags out. David left and said he might see me later. I went to look for the cloakroom and saw David in the ticket office trying to get to Croatia. He knew where the cloakroom was so I changed ten American, went down, put my bags in and kept just my washing stuff.

Then we went up and met two Finnish women he had met in his compartment. They knew where the cybercafe was just past the centre of town and so why don't we all walk up together? David walked off with one of them. The other came up to me, shook my hand and said her name was Sofia, though the irony didn't register, and we started walking on together. She was early twenties, blonde, very light blue eyes.

We talked about things, then she explained how the Inter–Rail deal works. She was studying marine biology but switched to environmental law, and had an apartment. Then she wanted time off and her apartment was too expensive, so she let it go. Then she bought the Inter–Rail ticket, 300 Euros for a month. She and her friend got on the train, go all over Europe, sleep on the train, get off and see a city, sleep on the train. They don't book hotels, they sleep on the train, and this is cheaper than being at home for them. She told me they don't wash except when they sometimes stop at the beach and have a day swimming.

We walked for about a kilometer and a half, then arrived at the Sofia statue, which David thought looked like Star Wars. They wanted to go onto the computer, I said I wanted to find somewhere to live, so we said goodbye and I went over and sat on a church wall. I saw a place called Happy Bar and Grill and ate there, lovely, then went looking for the hotel.

The first was closed, the next wanted 20 American. I tried to change money and a woman said 1.60, which I knew was wrong. At one point I

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wandered into a dentists, thinking it was a hotel. I ended up in a money exchange attached to a casino and got 1.93.

There was no accommodation, so I had to go to Sofia Hostel. It was next to a Chinese restaurant, third floor. I opened the door and a woman was watching TV and drinking. She showed me a large room with sixteen beds and said eight American per bed. OK, I paid her and slept.

I woke up next day and there was a man and woman in the other beds. I went straight out, ate at Happy, then came back and washed. I read in the guidebook that you have to register with the police within 48 hours and get documents.

There was no police station on the map, but I did see the British embassy. I hate using them. If there had of been an Indian embassy I would have gone there and asked their advice.

I set off looking for this. Sofia's nice. It's very quiet and clean competed to Istanbul. Very friendly. Many old buildings with character. I went past a Russian church with large golden domes. I got lost a few times but ended up at the embassy.

The woman at the desk said yes, I do have to register with the police, but ask someone at the hotel to do it, if not, go myself to the passport office.

It was another few kilometers away, but I made it to the passport office. It was closed by then but the guard said it was no problem with an EU passport, just come tomorrow.

By now, my clothes were filthy, my feet black and I had a bag full of even dirtier clothes in the cloak room. There was just nothing I could do but move on to somewhere more traveler orientated. I packed up the next day, well, put my washing things in a plastic bag, and went down to the passport office. I was passed about but ended up with a young woman who said I couldn't be registered like this, ask the hotel to do it. I said I'd left but she said no. I went back to the hostel. The woman's daughter gave me something confirming I stayed there.

It was too late to leave, I had no ticket. I found another place called Art hostel. It was dirty, full of layabouts, and absolutely no way to wash even me. The man point blank refused to register me with the police. I put my plastic bag on the bed and went out. By chance I passed another Happy bar and grill, it turns out it's a chain. I sat there with a soda and wrote all day.

I went home that night and asked the man where to sit. He said to go and sit in the garden. I walked in and it's all falling to pieces, it's like a doss house. Two Bulgarian women on a bench nodded to me and whispered. There was only one bench with a dirty man in the middle of it, I say dirty though I likely didn't look so good myself. I asked if it was free next to him and he said someone was coming. I looked around but there was nowhere else to sit. I asked if it was free on the other side of him and he said, for some reason, it was, ‘But I've just taken a load of drugs’.

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I sat there anyway. There were all people running round and shouting, I think there was some kind of a party going on in one of the rooms. People were washing from a single tap. I went to my room. A French woman was talking to someone, he left when I came in, she said goodnight and turned off the lights. There were various noises, incidents and stuff through the night, but I slept anyway.

Next day I went out, sat in the doorway and drank a coffee. The owners girlfriend came out and stepped over me because it's normal to have people in the doorway there.

I left, and had a coffee in Happy. I felt like a bag–lady, going to their toilet and washing my face. The attendant made me pay because I spent so much time there.

I went to a place called the Rila Beurux, opposite the post office. Very friendly and efficient. I explained I was going north, didn't fancy Croatia, I think expensive. I got a ticket on the Moscow train as far as Bucharest, Romania.

I went to the shop, bought a face towel, and walked down to the station. There was only a noisy place to drink soda. It turns out the cloakroom charges double after the first day. I got my stuff, some really hard bread, cheese and found the train.

I chained my stuff up, but it was weird, looking out the window. Everyone was so white. There was a skinhead, with Union Jack flag with Hooligan, written on. All his friends had shaved heads. I was really relieved when two Japanese got on the carriage next to me.

We pulled out, again, I had a carriage to myself. The train went though some really beautiful scenery, alpine almost, with little houses built on rolling pine–clad hills. I finished my book, weird story about a machine that speaks to the dead. The Russian conductor checked my ticket. Two passengers joined me. Very Russian looking, you know? Like, long faces, definite eyes, thick lips, just different.

We arrived in Bucharest about seven in the morning. I changed seven American, just to get me into town. I put my bags in the cloakroom and walked out. There's a small park and I sat there, looking at the guidebook and deciding my next move.

There was supposed to be a room for twelve dollars in the centre. I went down the metro. A friendly policeman explained how to validate my ticket and get there. I left the station and there was some kid screaming at thin air outside and everyone was avoiding him. I looked at the map and thought, I'm near the bank, why not use the card as then I'll have enough to check–in.

On the way there my flip–flop broke, right in two. I carried in and went on but it was painful with only one so I had to take them off and go barefoot. I found the bank. There was a long queue. When it was my turn she swiped the card but the message came up and said the card was out of use.

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I went down the stairs and a woman asked me something in Romanian, pointing at my feet. I showed her my broken flip–flop, she laughed and slapped my back.

I went to the ATM, it was OK but I wasn't sure what to get. The teller told me a hundred American would be three million but I didn't believe her. I took one million, plus had ten Euros still from when I last changed in Bulgaria.

I walked all around looking for the twelve dollar place. The map in the guidebook is nearly always wrong. I got lost but found it by myself. I walked in reception. It was really posh, I was sweating, dirty, unshaven and barefooted... and she said it was full until a week Saturday.

It was no good, I'd have to go back to the station and get my bag so at least I can put my shoes on, and there's supposed to be one more twelve dollar place nearish the station.

I went back, tried to use the station toilet but didn't understand the charge. I was desperate to sit down. There was nothing except a MacDonalds. I thought what the hell, it's just to sit down. I went in, and there are salads now, the choice of dressing is vinaigrette, thousand island or blue cheese, a dollar fifty each. I had one with vinaigrette. It comes in a large plastic cone. You open up the dressing, pour it in, put the top on and shake it, open it and eat it.

Oh no, it was really nice! McSalad. What a stupid idea. Fast food salad that you dress yourself by shaking... but it was really nice! Maybe it was because I hadn't eaten?

I went and got my bags, got my shoes out and put them on. It's ages since I wore shoes.

I looked for the other place. It was strange, the guidebook map said it was one was, the compass another, and the street signs one more. I went by street signs, got lost then found it. Turns out I should have listened to the compass.

Just as I entered, a French couple went in. I looked nice, mid range. There was a price list on the wall. The cheapest was twelve Euros, she gave them a room for thirty, then it was my turn. I said is there the cheapest and she said yes. I was shattered so I just gave her the money and went up, fell asleep.

I came down and she said there was no laundry service. I went out to shop, everyone seemed friendly. I came back, showered shaved, washed the shirt I was wearing and settled in. It's a small room overlooking a building site, this morning I woke up and the painter was on the window–sill asking me to move my shirt as he was painting.

I went out and had a McSalad, and came to the centre. The woman was right, a hundred American is three million, so I took two, and then came here, to a very, very fast computer, I think the fastest I've ever been on.

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25th July 2003

Brashov, Romania

Bucharest was OK, in its own way. I got tiered of the city though and came to Brashov.

I'm finishing. A complete synopsis for Life Magic is written and corrected. There's only a couple of hundred words and an afterward to the book itself. Pretty much done.

Right on cue, I heard about a new(ish) business. The way traditional publishing works is a big company buys your book, gives you an advance, prints five thousand copies, you sell three and they remainder two (sell at cost to save warehousing expense). This is called a lith print.

But there's also digital printing. It's the deal Angela at Booklocker does. It's a kind of printing that has various differences to lith, one of them being it uses toner, not ink, but the books look the same.

The main difference is, the printer charges a one off fee to put the book on their computer, then prints the books as they're ordered, and charges the same for one as they do a thousand. The minimum you get from a lith print is three thousand or you lose money.

So with the new technology it's feasible to print small runs.

Thus new businesses came about. You pay them, they edit the manuscript, put a cover on, convert it to a printers file, give it an ISBN so it can be ordered by any bookshop and will automatically be listed in all on–line shops, and that's that. But they also order fulfil. So you go round marketing, someone wants to buy it and orders it in any bookshop or online. The publishing company takes the order, prints one book, sends it, and sends four cheques a year to the author, of ten percent.

So it sounds well and good, but it's no good in Europe. In the US it varies, Booklocker is cheapest, two hundred US, another hundred for the cover. In Europe, more like a thousand.

But I found something else. It looks really legitimate. Publish America. They have a different model. They take the script, cover and print it. They charge NOTHING. You get two free copies and one American dollar.

Downside... royalties ten percent and the contract ties you for seven years. On any deal you make with an outside company, they take fifty percent.

So it sounds rubbish? Well I've really looked into it, searched the Internet for what people were saying. There are some complaints that the page proofs take too long to arrive. There were a couple of agents saying that their threshold is low, i.e. they accept rubbish sometimes. The main complaints are about the way they price the book. Don't forget, they charge the author

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nothing, and they have to make the money back, so the books cost double comparison books.

But, there seems to be an awful lot of happy authors. I don't mean only on their company site. I searched and followed almost every link in the independent search engine. I found author pages, a lot of them, where people went through the process, got a dollar and two high quality books, they were happy. I checked the online retailers and the books are all for sale there.

On the companies site, there's a message board. It's really busy, with their authors swapping marketing tips. Some are in England. Some of the books have appeared on TV, John Travolta's reading one of them for a possible film deal, Dolly Parton read a romance, liked it and did the forward for free.

On the top of the site there's a link for ‘Publish Britannica’. I went and the same company is setting up a London office. The site looks the same but the message board isn't ready yet, but they just this minute opened for submissions. If I move now I might be one of the first.

Of course, I just finished a synopsis for a regular publisher. But I can still send to both. If they want me, I'll just have a really good look at the contract. I reckon the day after tomorrow I'll be printing out the synopsis, ready to send. I'll submit to them the same time.

—–

Bit of a shock about Angela, at writers weekly and booklocker, you recall, she rejected my book. But she does a weekly newsletter for writers I've had for five years, plus she helped when the agents were threatening me, so it feels like I know her. In the news letter it's markets, publishing advice and stuff, but also she kind of chats about what her and her kids got up to. That's why you feel you know her I suppose.

She published a book this week, The Woman's Survival Guide to Divorce. Apparently, since all the time I was getting the news letter she was married to some maniac who threw her about, threatened to kill her, stalked her and the kids when she left and took them to Florida.

I looked at some of the anecdotes in the book, and thought of the happy, chirpy newsletters I've had for five years and am trying to make the link.

—–

The medicine ran out yesterday. I stopped for a while before, but went weird in Bucharest, and so went back on a reduced dose. Now it's khatam, as we say in Hindi, meaning finished. So it'll be interesting.

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There are things in Europe I don't think I'm ever going to get used to. Food is a particular problem in Romania. Apparently, under the communists, the shops were empty and people malnourished. It's OK now, but maybe because of this, people don't know how to make things.

There are really posh, horrible places I'd never go in. Other places advertise fast food, and generally sell pizza, but I've seen stuff which is barely edible. I went for a vegetarian pizza. It came, a pizza base, a few slices of eggplant and cucumber on the top, and absolutely nothing else. No cheese. No sauce. Weird.

Pharmaceutical supplements are too much, even standard multi–vitamins are eight dollars. I got some spirulina from the health shop, which is, well, a bit like multivitamins.

There's fruit in the shop. One place sells sliced bread. Cascaval means cheese, and if it's cascaval afumat, it has a smoked taste. Roshii means tomato, which is strange because it means ‘light’ in Hindi, and ‘spiritual master’ in Japanese. Anyway, smoked cheese and tomato paste on sliced bread is as good as it gets.

It's a nice place though. I felt weird when I first came. Everyone is so white, they're like ghosts. The man who checked me in looked me up and down and said they were full. Then he asked if I was an Arab. I said no, I'm Indian. He thought about it and said that would be OK then, I can have a room.

Well it might just be him, the others are nice. I think this is the first place where people can look at me and see I'm definitely not a local but Asian. For a while I though it would just be me, but that was paranoid. There's an African with a sunglasses shop, Indian looking people, Asian tourists. Though when some Oriental Americans with white girlfriends walked past, everybody ran out into the street to stare at them.

The main square has a yellow clock tower. There's a strange symbol of a tree trunk with a crown at the top. It made me think of the lotus flower, which in India symbolises Enlightenment because it grows from the dirt and flowers at the top.

I think they're interested in India though. In the park, there was a shrine set up to the Mother, who is a south Indian guru. In the book shop there are books in Romanian about meditation, OSHO (Indian guru), reincarnation. There's a new age shop selling incense from Bangalore. In the department store there's even an Indian corner with a Buddha picture and stuff from India, mainly religious and cosmetic.

But they're not so interested in spirituality. The main church is called the black church because of its appearance after a fire in the middle ages. But it, like most churches, is closed most of the time. When it's open, there's an entrance fee. I had a double take when I saw that. I mean, how can you charge for religion? People pay money to practice spirituality. It's, mad.

Sometimes it's all so European though. I was going along a deserted street recently and passed a, I dunno, I suppose it's called a junk shop. It was

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all dark and musty, with rotten window frames and never cleaned glass. Inside there were old swords, medals, a gramophone, cigarette cards, you know the kind of place. It smelt like dust and old wood and old things and the old world, and I thought, wow, I'm back in Europe.

There are buskers. Three of them, one a guitar, one a thing that looks like a lute but he strums it fast like a banjo, and the last one has a cello. They're really good. But it's really, European.

Lots of little things. I saw a packet of Tunes today, in the shop, you know, the cough sweets.

When I walk past the butchers, it smells like a butchers. Nowhere in Asia smells like that. If they sell meat, it's outside and has no odour, it smells like the shopkeepers incense.

There's a smallish department store with a stationary section at the top. Floor one and two are men and woman wear, and when you go up the escalator, it just smells like new clothes. The smell of unworn fabric. India always smells like India, anywhere. Not always good, but always India.

I'll tell you something I can definitely never get used to. When you put your foot on a zebra crossing, the cars stop. Sometimes even not near a zebra crossing, if you stand there, a car stops just to let you go.

A few things are a little cheaper than Delhi. Of course the accommodation costs a hell of a lot more and is the biggest expense. But I got a full can of deodorant for a dollar. In Delhi, it's two dollars for half as much. Here, for a dollar I got eleven computer print–outs, it's four in Delhi. Mouth–wash was a dollar, cheaper again. Most things cost more, but not everything.

Oh, there was a panic the other day because I thought my visa was expiring. I'd been here like twenty eight days. I went to the police station but the passport place was closed. The receptionist made some calls but didn't speak English well, I guessed he was saying it was a ninety day visa.

I came on the Internet and the government web sites said thirty.

I went back to the police and ended up in the passport office, but it's where locals also get their passports and it was like India. Packed, rude, hot as hell, dark, no information posted (why do I miss India nearly all the time, every day?). I never did make it to the counter.

So I got a phonecard and phoned the embassy. Consular advice was out. I phoned later and she said ninety days.

To be certain, I asked on the Internet, and a Romanian answered me: ninety days... so panic over.

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Next Day

Same Place

I had this idea about spam. I read in the US that there used to be a lot of telemarketing people that would phone everyone who had a phone, trying to sell stuff. Apparently it all got out of hand. They automated it so that a computer would phone someone up, make a sales pitch in an automated voice, then people press buttons on their phone according to if they are interested or not.

So the new law was, there's an opt out register. You put yourself on this if you never want to receive a cold call like that. If you go on the list, then receive a call anyway, you complain, they trace the caller and the company has to pay you a large amount of compensation. This worked, they say, there's no more cold calling like that.

Now they want to do the same thing with spam, but it won't work. You can't trace e–mails if the person doesn't want to be traced. Plus they might be abroad.

Why not make it illegal to reply to spam? Every time spam goes out, they trace where it went, find people who replied, and put them in jail.

Either the third or fourth of August.

Brashov, Romania

It's been one of those days, so I'm giving up and going home, I have to say.

First of all, I went to the cheap cybercafe. Life magic has a basic source file if you recall. It's plain text, and every time special formatting occurs there's a tilde ~~~~~ like this.

So I needed to put it in two versions. One a plain text version for a standard submission, and one with all formatting. So with the former, I have to take out all the tildes. In the latter I have to find every tilde, delete it and format what is was standing there for, life italics, a drop cap, page break whatever.

You can imagine how laborious this is. Remember it's 80,000 words, in two versions. For example, I had to put in almost three hundred different instances of italics. To put tabs at the start of every single paragraph and so on.

This cybercafe is ten thousand an hour. When the hours up, you go and buy another one. I did this five times and was nearing the end of the fifth hour. (You know what's coming don't you)

I was just finishing. The power went off. OK, no problem. It's all saved, plus the software autosaves it.

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When the computer comes back on, it's all gone. I go and ask her. It turns out they have this software installed that makes sure that each time the computer is turned on, it deletes everything that was there before, completely. I mean, it keeps the basic windows and browser, everything else goes.

Gone. Oh, but not just that. I was getting ready to get it printed tomorrow, and so I'd also completely finished the synopsis, five cover letters and everything in a single file.

So I just left and went to the supermarket. I got this really great smoked cheese, a tube of chili tomato paste, fresh tomatoes and fresh bread. Then went to this place near the church. A girl only sells drinks, but there are tables and she makes coffee as strong and gooey as I do.

I'm all cheered up and it's only like two in the afternoon or something. So I came to a different place. I can't face doing that work again, not today, but I'll be down if there's a day where I just accomplish nothing. So I thought, just for today, I'll archive my mail. I haven't done it for a year and a half. Both accounts are nearly all full.

So I manually downloaded every mail I've received and sent in the last year and a half. I downloaded compression software to make it a smaller file size, and this different computer won't allow me to install it.

All my mail's sitting on this desktop and there's nothing I can do with it.

—–

But going through this mail, I looked again at the two emails I received from Host Europe, both sent the same day but from different departments. One says to ignore the mail, it's a mistake and my credit card details were never stored. The other one is confirming that my details and credit card number have now been deleted.

—–

I was in a gift shop in Kathmandu once. I saw a card with picture of a really irritated woman sitting in front of a computer. The caption was, ‘Some days need a delete key’.

—–

Bah, I'm going home.

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New Diary Log Four Budapest, Hungry

29 September 2003

I left Romania because the room had become oppressive. The best place in Oredia turned out to be Lotus Shopping centre. It's just a standard shopping centre, clothes, supermarket, stationary and so on. In the slap bang centre there's a food place with cold rice, salad and hard bread which they heated in a microwave. I could just sit there and write and write. But I think when you're living in a city and the best thing about it is a shopping mall, you've really been there too long.

I thought, I'll go to Cluj. It's going back east, but at least it's going somewhere, just to get me on the road again. I took the tram to the station. The woman at information didn't speak English. While I was trying to get by, this boy came up and interpreted perfectly for me. So I understood that for a rapid train, I would have come back at three. I went to walk off and this person came and spoke to me. He said he was involved in tourism, was waiting to meet some foreign friends and if there's anything he can do, hotel advice or whatever, just say. I said OK and went to sit outside.

Five minutes later he came up and started talking, asking where I'd went. He kept making a big deal about how his job was tourism and he could tell me anything I needed to know. He kept on asking what he could tell me. I tried to think of something. I thought maybe the visa. I already checked with the police and embassy, plus got a post off the message boards, but if it makes him happy to be useful. I said, OK, do you know how long the visa period is for a British passport.

He asked to see the visa, cried out OH MY GOD, there's an F on it. F means two weeks. You get a month, but only if you ask for it, it not, it's this special limited visa. so I've overstayed by two months. He said it's like that for British because it's not part of the S… something, the agreement between EC countries that let's each other's citizens reside. Britain never signed it, which actually is true.

Then he explained how I'd have to go back to Bucharest but there would be a fine, a big fine.

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Then he said he can postpone his trip for two days, take me to the border and speak to an official he knows and help me pay a bribe, but it will be about six hundred Euros. So by now, I'm suspicious. Very suspicious, and I went cold on him and only spoke in monotones.

There's a famous chain of hostels in Romania called Elvis villa, all the backpackers know it. He was saying how proud he was that he helped the owner set all that up, did this for him, did that for him.

Of course, I've lived in India long enough to know the confidence building tricks that scamsters use. So I just stayed silent and mindfully observed him. He was about my height, Nordic race, pony tail, very pockmarked skin and the features were pulled back giving him the appearance of a weasel. I'm looking at him and thinking, wow, apart from ugliness he looks like anyone else and if I go with him, he'll spend two days with me trying to steal six hundred Euros.

The tram came and I wordlessly walked on it. As it pulled away he said he'd wait for me. I went to Lotus and wrote.

I came back and he was in the hall so I went to drink coffee. I went to the ticket window and he came and said it was the wrong one. Then when I had the ticket he said he's been phoning round all his contacts and he can help me avoid jail. I said absolutely nothing but just stared at him. He seemed really confused and went away.

Eventually the train came and when I pulled away, he was helping two elderly tourists get their bags off a train… so god knows what he was going to do with them.

Cluj was average. The room was really beautiful, but you have to have it with breakfast, which is a waste as I can't eat what foreigners have. But after living in that large Victorian building it was really civilised. There was actually a working radiator there. It wasn't very hot, only luke warm, but I've never seen a working one outside of England. I sat in the room and was surprised at how cold it still was after two hours, then realised the window was open.

I went out to the shop, and a Roma woman served me. This was the only obvious gypsy I've dealt with. They don't do regular jobs. If you see them working, for some reason, they're always standing in the street selling binoculars.

Well it was too expensive to live there and I couldn't see the Internet, so I went to the station and got a ticket back to Oradia. I had a few hours so I went to a recommended place to eat, and it was so inedible that I had literally a mouthful. Then I just went walking.

I ended up at a main square, with a huge church in. I sat there. Outside there was a massive statue of resolute looking knights.

I went back to Oredia in the afternoon. I couldn't face the Victorian building, so went to a different, expensive place. The woman looked me up and down with distaste and whispered to her friend, then told me only a

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double and only for one night, and seemed surprised when I took it, but it was either this or the previous place.

I wasn't sure what to do the next day. I went to the train booking to see how the trains to Hungry go. There was a direct one, or one via Timisoria in the south, so I thought, I'll do that. The room is a lot there, but this train will arrive just after ten, so if I wait until midnight, or after midnight rather, I can get two nights for the price of one.

I arrived there and had to walk a kilometer to the attractive main square. The journey by foot was deserted and intimidating, but OK once I arrived. I sat in the cold for an hour until twelve fifteen, then went to the hotel.

He refused to count it as a new day, and said he wouldn't even check me in before noon, i.e. over eleven hours away.

I went to another place, and he kept looking at the clock and seemed confused. He was really friendly though, but even so, decided that a new day begins at seven am. in the morning.

Well these were the only two places. It was one am. now, so I had to walk back to the station. I went and sat on the platform but it was far too cold, and came back inside to this non–stop dark cafe.

It was such a weird place. I don't think anyone was there waiting for a train. They were just the people who didn't have anywhere to go for the night. There was one large man of about fifty. He kept looking all around and I noticed he was drawing the patrons with biro in a notebook. For some reason, the background to each portrait was an American flag.

There was one youngish man with bags who looked like he might actually be waiting for a train. But after a while two young women came in. One of them was only just conscious and was carried by the other. They sat alone with water for about an hour, then started talking with the young man. They talked for another hour, then all left together.

By the door there were two prostitutes of about thirty. They came and went. Eventually it was seven am. One of them had been talking to the same fifty–year–old man for about an hour. He seemed really enthused and would talk to her, then go silent while she considered something. Then she'd shake her head and he'd look glum. Then he'd get excited again and start talking, while she would again think and shake her head. At one point he said something and she didn't shake her head; she went over and said something to her friend… but her friend shook her head, and so she returned to the gentleman and shook her head. They were still doing this when I left.

I went over the road but the buses hadn't started. I went in another non–stop place and was shocked to find it was heated and that I could have been sitting there. I read my guidebook, by now, shattered. All I could find was a campsite, where ‘bungalows’ were fifteen US.

I took the bus to the end of the line and got off and there it was. I went to reception, woke the man and got the pricelist. He showed me a little

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hut, but the pricelist says fifteen per bed, and there were two beds. It was either this, or go back and carry on to Hungry. I took it as I'd saved by not checking in previously, went to a very friendly shop for water and slept.

I woke up, and it was really nice. It was in a kind of little forrest. I went to the attached restaurant and had a normal time, sorting out all my post. I came back and slept.

So the next day I was to leave. I took the bus back into town and found the booking office. The woman didn't speak English, but a young kid asked if he could help. It was fifty US for some reason, but that included the connecting train. It didn't go until eleven so I walked and walked and walked looking for somewhere to eat. Eventually I ended up somewhere recommended, and as expected, it was just about passable.

At eleven, I went to the station, went to another town, then got on the train. There was only one woman of fiftyish in the compartment. She was sleeping and woke up when I got in. We traveled for an hour and arrived at the border. The Romanian guard asked why I had stayed so long and I said I liked it, and he stamped me no problem.

Then we went through Hungarian customs. The official spoke to the woman but let her go, but insisted on looking at my passport. He seemed suspicious about the Turkish stamp and insisted on looking at everything. I mean, everything I own was unpacked and opened. It's OK, as he was professional about it and it was obviously because I'd been to a drug producing country, rather than picking on me for some reason. I don't mind when they're strict because I don't break the law, I just don't like when they're rude.

We arrived and it was the last stop. I went to bag storage and it was four US a piece, so I said no. I changed three dollars and went to the metro and found the hostel, Red Bus Hostel, Budapest.

Outside, the shutters had a large Union Jack painted on the outside, which made me feel funny. I went up and a friendly Hungarian said there would be a bed but not until ten, then it was seven. But there was Red Bus 2, one stop away, that had five beds. I said no, I'll wait.

So I sat on the sofa. After half an hour, I closed my eyes. He came and said you're not allowed to close your eyes on the sofa because it's a public area.

The phone went, someone wanted a bed and he was told to come, there will be one at ten am. He turned up and was a short French man. The man said there was only two beds. The Frenchman curled up and went to sleep on the sofa while I had to stay away. Then a woman came in in her underwear and asked what the time was. Then another woman came in and paid for her room. The receptionist came and said now there was only one bed as he had thought she would leave. I discuss it with the Frenchman and we laughed and agreed to toss a coin.

Then the receptionist came and said there are only two beds at the other place and to wait for the owner.

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The ‘boss’ turned up. He was perhaps twenty five, very thick cockney accent, tattoos all up his arms and never looked at me while he spoke. He seemed really angry about something. The situation was explained to him and he said even though there's one bed, we should both go to the other place. The Frenchman said,

‘Savva?’

And the Englishman snapped at him,

‘What's savva?’

I said, OK, gimmie the map, I'll go. And walked out.

The other place was really poorly signposted. Eventually I found it and a short, young Hungarian woman looked at me like I was scum. I almost walked out just on the basis of that glance. She showed me where everything was and took fifteen US from me.

My shoes were so rotten I couldn't take them off in a public dormitory. I went out and bought antibacterial soap from the shop, then looked for flip–flops. Only women wear them here, so I tried on pink things, and bunny rabbit things, and even one with the thong made up of little flowers. I really don't care; I didn't buy them only because they didn't fit.

All I could find was a horrible plastic slipper for fifteen US. I went to pay for them and say a Romanian fifty bill. I had just changed money and know for a fact I'd spent every last penny. Well the fifty Romanian is the same colour as a Hungarian five thousand, so this was the change from the dour hotel woman. In other words, I was exactly five hundred down and only had the Romanian note to show for it. The Romanian note is worth a dollar fifty, the Hungarian twenty dollars. Not only that, I gave her 3200 for the room and key deposit. Actual price, 2800, so actually she scammed me forty US give or take.

I went home and showered and finally slept.

This is in a poor part of town. Down by the Danube, Budapest is quite attractive, but the Internet is three US an hour, so it's unworkable. I went to the tourist board to ask where the Ukrainian embassy is. They gave me a map, directions and a number to make an appointment. I phoned but it was closed.

Next day I phoned, but they won't do it the same day, so it was for Wednesday.

I went Wednesday and at ten am. I was standing in the middle of nowhere in front of an abandoned building. A resident who spoke no English came out and explained by pointing, that it's moved. I went to the phone but to ask what to do, but there was no reply from the embassy.

I phoned next day, and he said they were open that day but didn't do same day appointments and so come Friday, and bring a confirmed hotel reservation.

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I went on the Internet and ev everyone told me to ask for a private visa, not a tourist visa, and put down a fictitious address of someone who's inviting me. I did this and put entry date as the first of October and period of stay as thirty days as this is what the book says a visa is for.

I went back today and met an Englishman outside. He's been before, gave me some tips. We received our visas and looked. His is for six months, because that's what he put on the form and asked for, but he paid the same as me. Not only that, my visa starts the first October exactly, meaning I'm even now stuck here. Nothing's really gone right in this place.

But I'm looking forward to it. No one speaks English, you have to know key Russian phrases, you have to fight for everything, but it sounds better than here and is on my route.

Next Day Things got worse at the hostel. I went home last night and ‘Pete’ was

on the desk. He's a real slob. He's fat, his eyes look in different directions. At night, he sits watching football, eating cereal straight from the jug that the next day the guests will have to eat. Once I went out at nighttime and he and all these guests in reception went quiet and stared at me, following me with their eyes as I went out the door. This was weird so I stood there and I heard him saying how weird I am, that he saw me walking round the streets barefoot and putting my shoes on in the park. That I never say anything, blah, blah, blah.

Well last night, I went in and he said that he'd sold my bed and I'd have to leave in the morning. Previously another English man on reception had told me to pay in advance when I came back. So I paid for that night, went out, later on, came back and this ‘Pete’ snapped at me, saying his colleague had said I would be back from the bank soon. He didn't even know what was happening. The horrible owner covered in tatoos happened to be there for the first time ever. I explained to him what happened. He said he'd make it alright and told this ‘Pete’ that no one should be asked to pay in advance, even though it's convenient for them, it's up to the customer to pay before ten am if they want to stay.

Well last night the owner wasn't there, only Pete, and he said I didn't pay in advance, so he sold the bed to a group. I argued and it was obvious he was lying in some way. First, he said there are only two other people staying, and they've both paid, and the booking, confirmed by credit card, is twelve. That's fourteen, but there are twenty beds. Then he said there was another booking for four. But that's still eighteen. One minute he said they'd phoned, then he said it was an Internet booking.

This man got really funny with me and in the end made some calls. Then said I can stay and he will tell the group leader that he has to sleep on the floor.

I just went to bed, and today came out and ate, then went to the station where the man I met at the embassy said there's a morning train from. I

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had to walk all about but ended up in international booking. It is forty US and leaves at six am, so I bought it. Then I came back and asked the OTP bank if I can have dollars on my visa card. She said that I'd have to change twice and so would lose money. I went to American Express and they don't do Visa in that office at all. So I went back to OTP bank and said can I have five twenties? She said it's really complicated to do it manually, but she'll come out to the ATM with me. I wasn't sure why, maybe because I went then came back, she was thinking I'm a clueless idiot.

Anyway, she stood there and I put the card in. I needed 23000 and had 5000 on me, so I wanted 20000. Except for the PIN number, she pushed everything and as soon as the amounts came up, stabbed 25000. Then she gave me a ticket and showed me where to stand. Then she went, came up half an hour later and adjusted the ticket machine so that I would be next. I worked everything out at the counter and ended up with six twenties and a five. The man I met at the embassy said there's a money change at the station and so I can do a twenty, move on to my destination and check in somewhere without having to work money out. I like doing it like that as you always get screwed when you just entered and are still getting used to the notes. This way, I can only be screwed for twenty, although this man said the people are nice.

So now I have to go home and pack. My bag broke again and I had to glue it an spilt it everywhere. Then I have to go to the park and use my laundry brush to clean my flippies, as they're lemon yellow and look awful when they're dirty. Then it's my last night.

I'm glad it's my last night really. After the fight at the hostel yesterday, I went out just to sit somewhere. It was raining so I walked around looking for somewhere. It was really wet in the park, there was'nt even a shop doorway. I went around the block and ended up back in the park. I put my hat on and got wet and was miserable.

But there are lots of people like this in Hungry. As you know from my constant whining, it's the most expensive place I've been to. The whole economy was changed so it could be aligned with and enter the EC next year. I'm really not sure this is best for it. Yes, you can see wealth. There are sports cars, everything works and rarely do you see serious disease on the streets. It's rich, but for some people. Other people have it worse. I mean, at night, there are people who are well dressed, but not very rich. So everything's too expensive and they all sit in the park or on flower pots and talk. In the subway, there are large amounts of youngish people, always the same ones. They sit and talk and drink. Sometimes the police come in a car and collect everyone's ID, and then takes it back to the car where they show it to someone in the back who's crying or all beaten.

In Burgerking at night, I sit there with only coffee, and do my Hindi, read the books the cleaning lady gave me, write and stay there hours because it's warm and dry. But there are all these other people there, only with coffee, staying just as long and just talking.

I think that's what the prosperity of the EC does for a country. It makes a currency stable, increases wages, a few people get very rich,

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everyone goes to school — but most people don't have enough money to do things that are fun. They're better off than Indians, financially. There's no disease, there is healthcare, you can drink the water and so on. There just isn't any spirit though. Most people work all week, and at the end there's enough for a special salami, a bottle of wine on a street bench sunday afternoon and save the rest for a holiday.

Indian people do less, have less and are better off. The whole country is set up for people who don't have much money. Even beggars eat hot food for just a few cents daily. So Hungarians counter this misery by trying to make more money at the expense of their family or any chance of true happiness.

I was sitting on a bench once and these two girls of about twelve came up and asked for a smoke. I said no and they insisted that it was for their mother who had been in a car accident, and they pointed to a woman who was sitting about half a kilometer away on a bench. I still said no, and basically, well, I won't say they ‘mugged’ me, as they were twelve. They came forward and one of them wrestled the cigarette off me.

A while later, she rode past smoking it shouting obsenites at me. Then she came back with the woman. She was about fifty, see through top, too much make up, knowing face... you know what I mean. She didn't speak English but I could see that she wasn't their mother, and I said this. They spoke Hungarian for a while, and the kid told me, ‘she wants to be your mother’, and carried on to try and arrange a deal.

So these two kids can't have been so poor, they have bikes, but in the pursuit of happiness their parents have left them out, and basically, if you think about it, they're pimps. That's what they've become. Their parent's don't know because they're trying to make money to make them happy.

I'm trying to think what my conclusion is.

In Hungry, and the west generally, everyone has strived for a prosperous society and they've got it. There's health care, education, the streets are swept and so on. Also, all of the standards are high. You go to any single restaurant and it's clean, there's music, original oil paintings on the wall, waiters in dickies, imported top quality food, a valet service. There's no crappy little cinema, only great big, American standard multiplexes with casinos and multilevel parking. There's no poorly made Chinese painting set in the shop, but only the best, professional quality German one. There's no smoky second class unconditioned railway carriage, but only a French quality, super–fast, characterless one.

There are two things wrong with it all. One is that it's not real character. You can go to a restaurant in Asia and you'll never forget its character. It was dirty, smelly and cheap, but the character was genuine as it was exuding the character of the family that was running it and with whom you connected when you went in there. Here, there's character everywhere, like an Indian restaurant, with plastic Indian Motifs, plastic, clean perfect

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food, door persons that are trained to say exactly the same thing to everyone who walks in, always perfectly said but never from their heart. The whole of the EC is clean, perfect, sterile and ultimately fake.

But the other thing is that, once they make every single thing that exists, clean, perfect, high standard — then no one can afford it. There are a few who have worked their souls out and have enough money but not enough time to enjoy all the artificiality, those who can't afford it and sleep in the park with their pets — and the vast majority who get by and have to spend an awful long time trying to achieve short periods of happiness, socialising on plant pots by the road and counting sports cars and dreaming up ways to work harder at things they hate for money that can't buy them anything.

OK, that is more than enough whining for me. As I said, I leave tomorrow at six am, and arrive at one in the afternoon tomorrow, at Chop in the Ukraine, from where I will decide a likely sounding destination.

Friday 3rd October 2003

Ivano–Fransk, Ukraine

Well, I've moved somewhere far more conductive to work. Back in Budapest I went home that night and the dour woman said hello and actually smiled. I went to the dorm and there was no one there so I went and asked her if the group was coming and she said yes at eight, my dorm would be full but my bed is OK.

I started packing and at seven thirty a group of Hungarian people arrived. They were mid–forties. The women went in another dorm and all the males spilled into mine. They were all wearing exactly the same thing, lime–green dungarees, white tee–shirts and black boots. Well, they were wearing them momentarily. The minute they walked in they all took off all their clothes except their underpants and stood talking and laughing loudly in a semi–circle. This was insane, but the staff seemed to think it was normal. They left after a while to the dorm where the women were.

I went out for a while, then came back and slept and woke up at four am. I got dressed in the dark trying to be quiet, but all the coins fell out my pocket so I ended up walking all around the place picking it all up.

I left and at four thirty drank vending coffee in the non–stop supermarket. Then I went to the metro and onto the train station. My train was shabby but not full and we set off and I read some of the Thomas Hardy book the cleaning woman gave me. It's not bad actually.

At the Hungarian border it was easy. Then we crossed into the Ukraine. Two women came on in green uniforms with the huge Russian style caps made up of large disc. They didn't speak English but groaned and said

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‘Britannia’ when they saw my passport, and took it while stamping everyone else's.

The train went on and at the next station I tried to explain to another passenger that I didn't have my passport but he indicated I should get off and go through the green channel.

They singled me out and there was another policewoman, older, in the same uniform. She spoke English and was gruff and rude. She asked what I was doing, where I was going, do I have drugs, am I sure, why do I have so little stuff. Then she went through everything. What bothered her most were various printouts from the computer I had with me, about various things, writing markets, the contract from PA and so on. Then she wanted to see all the money I had and was angry I didn't have pounds also, but then let me go.

I went over to the ticket window but she sent me to the tourist board. She didn't speak English and sent me to the Tourist board. She only spoke French. A Ukrainian woman came up and asked if she could buy my ticket as it's return, you can't buy singles. She gave me four dollars for it, ten percent of what it's worth, but fair enough as it's no good to me and she probably couldn't afford the full–priced one. Then I saw the bank that the English man at the embassy had mentioned, so I changed twenty five US. Then I went and sat outside and relaxed.

I came back in and tried the ticket office. A man spoke English and helped. Either I could go to a nearby place by electric train, or connect at Srtyy to get to Ivanno. I went out and looked for the electric train but it was a ghost town. I came back and was alone with the woman but she understood that I wanted to go to Stryy so sold me a ticket. I bought a flat pancake for twenty five cents. It had meat in but I pulled it out and ate the dough, then I went and got on the train.

This was just a seat in a sleeper compartment. It was OK. I was so tiered. The guard said I could have sheets and sleep in an empty bed for five dollars but I said no as it wasn't long enough. I just wanted a room.

I went to the toilet and the man who helped me buy a ticket wasn't there, but his friend was. He didn't speak English but we communicated with a pen and paper and I learned that this train would go to Lviv and arrive at ten at night. He went and another man came. He had a strange face, maybe sixty, but skin pulled back like a pixie. He was very drunk and was trying to ask me something. In the end he just pointed to my face and said Arab? Without waiting for an answer he shook my hand and patted my back. He sat with me in the carriage for a while and then walked off and I noticed the seat of his trousers was very badly soiled dark brown.

It was getting very dark and we were in mountains. The idea of getting off the train was losing appeal and I was thinking of staying onto Lviv, a big city, where at least I would have a map, metro system and some idea of where I was. But half of this train were teenage soldiers. All of them were drunk and there was a fight at the toilets. So when Stryy came, I got off.

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It was a small town. I walked outside and there was nothing really there, nothing that looked like a hotel, so I came back in. I couldn't see where to buy tickets, everything's written in Russian and Ukrainian, which has a Russian alphabet. There was a uniformed woman behind a counter. She was twenty, blonde and somehow also had a face like a pixie. She understood I wanted to go to Ivanno, but seemed very angry I couldn't understand Russian. She sold me a ticket, said platform five, but it was only twenty–five cents, no way could it be that cheap.

I went to platform five and it was a passenger train. There were two boys of maybe twenty there and I asked if it's going to Ivano. They said yes but kept laughing, then said both yes and no. The train left and I stayed on.

The boys weren't together. One of them was with a girl. He laughed the whole trip, giggled till he was crying. After a while it became apparent why when he came and asked if I wanted some ‘vodka, or plant.’

Then the other boy, who seemed far more sensible, indicated I had to get off but said he would help. We got off and started walking towards a building. An old woman came up and asked why I was going to Ivano alone. Then a man of about sixty came up and spoke to the boy. The boy told me that this man was going to Ivano and was offering to take me. I said yes, and I thanked the boy and left.

We went up to a building and he helped me buy a ticket for a dollar, but spoke no English at all. I kept looking at him and memorising his appearance so I didn't lose him. We waited and another man with all his front upper teeth gold came up. He looked compassionate and told me to put my coat on. I said I didn't have one. The first man took his off and tried to get me to where it. I refused, because that's taking hospitality too far, and they were OK when I rolled my shirt–sleeves down.

The train came and the three of us went to a carriage. There was no English but when I sat down, the gold–toothed man noticed I was limping and tried to ask if it hurt, so I nodded and pointed to my knee and hip. Oh God, the look on his face; he seemed so upset. His face, really, looked like the weeping Madonna, he was so genuinely sorry for me. I tried to tell him to forget it. We sat while the train went out and I was there about an hour. I got so uncomfortably cold, I went out and put my thermal top on, then came back and put my scarf and hat on and wrapped the blanket around me. I looked at the two men and they were still looking so upset for me. When I had finished, they again tried to give me their coats. When I refused, they rearranged the blanket so it was concentrated around my knee and thigh.

I tried to sleep and every time I moved in the slightest, they would re–drape the blanket over me so that my knee was covered.

I lost consciousness for a while, I remember waking to see the first man praying on rosary beads.

Then we were there. The golden man had gone but the first one told me to follow him. We went out and into a coffee place. He brought two

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coffees and wouldn't let me pay for them. It was fresh roast, damn fine, and had a kick to it. He pointed to it, laughed, and said ‘cognac’. But then he seemed worried where I was going. I showed him the map and the hotel name. He took me outside to a young policeman and spoke to him. The police man knew the hotel and said one dollar for a taxi. Now I was OK, the first man left. I thanked him, shook his hand, pressed my forehead against his hand and then touched my forehead, which is an ultimate honour in Indian culture. I have no idea if he knows what it means, but he seemed happy and walked off while I mentally blessed him as I'd still be on a platform somewhere otherwise.

The taxi took me to a place that looked five star. They said eighteen dollars, but it was two am. by then and they said they would check me in as October 2nd, Ghandi's birthday incidentally, so I got two nights for that at nine dollars a night. I bought two liters of water and went up. It was smallish, circa 1950. There was a radio not much smaller than my writing case which had a huge unmarked dial and three large red buttons on the top and holes for the sound at the front and that was it. The phone was a big dial one. BUT, the bed was thick and warm and I slept.

Next day I went out, it looks nice, like Russia, it's still part of the Russian federation. Everything is also cheap, comparatively. I came back and washed. I washed everything. All of my clothes, my fifteen dollar flippies, I emptied my bag and washed the inside and outside with soap and glued the bottom when I saw it was ripped. The taps were broken and there was only piping hot water. By the time I finished my hands were raw and there was a blister from all the wringing of cloth.

Today I packed up and came to another place. It's only eight dollars, not attached but comfy enough once I cleared the condoms off the floor. I came and ate and realised it's far to cold to be sitting outside, and then came here to use the Internet at just under a dollar an hour.

But very good first impressions, the place really had characters. Everyone is really white and most people have pixie looking faces and gold teeth, even if they're young, but they all seem friendly enough. I changed twenty US today and saw the Orpat Indian alarm clock for sale, exactly the same as the one I bought in New Delhi. I looked at the price of Umbrellas and they're a dollar each, so I might even get more socks and another tee–shirt.

7 October 2003

Lviv, Ukraine

I left Ivano Franks, or whatever it's called. I checked out early one morning, went to the station and no one could understand what I wanted, so I had to sit outside and write it all out in Russian, but funnily enough, that worked.

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But then I couldn't get back to the city. There was no car, absolutely no one around, nothing in the vicinity, so I ended up just sitting in the freezing cold and wet with my book. The police kept walking round and dragging people out, bums I mean, but really aggressive.

Then it finally came, and arrived in Lviv at eight. Some huge soldiers checked my passport for some reason, but it was OK. Then I went all over looking for a car, got to the hotel and only stayed one night as it was dear, and moved to a rude place today.

It's a tad depressing though. The place, right on the border with Poland, looks nice enough, and all the trees are in autumn colours. But it's very cold and there's not really anywhere to sit and work. There's a table in the room, but it's still cold. This is really the last city in the last country I could really achieve anything.

The agent who was complaining about my site changed his mind, said it was a commendable service and invited my to submit work to him. The woman who paid twice accidentally received her refund OK, and said she'll buy everything I ever produce.

8 October 2003

Lviv, Ukraine

I felt really broken today, well, I don’t know broken, tired perhaps. I knew the cold was going to get to me at some point. The thing is, being over this moon ascendant line, where, according to my birth chart, while I stay along it, it assists in accomplishing a life purpose. I was in Istanbul where it’s really inauspicious. Then I entered its influence in Brashov, where I finished and submitted Life Magic.

Then I went onto Oredia, which is even closer to it, PA accepted it, Frank de Marco asked to see sample chapters, then again a while later, asked to see the whole thing, on which I am still waiting.

So it’s just auspicious to be here. I went onto Budapest thinking I’ll make the most of the auspiciousness because the line runs right over there, the moon line I mean, straight over Budapest, through Krakow and Warsaw. So the plan was go there, and get a synopsis finished for the current project, submit it, then come to the Ukraine where it’s cheap and finish it so it’s ready when people ask, travel back via Krakow (which is on the way) and auspiciously send out to anyone who’s requested, and the good vibes turn everything to success, I sell a film deal, Life Magic goes to the top and I live happily ever after, back in time for Christmas and before the cold gets too bad.

But already the cold’s too bad. It gets worse every day. Yesterday I went all over looking for somewhere to go but there was nowhere, so I went home with just a piece of bread, not even cheese. When I went to the toilet,

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there was someone unconscious on the floor in there; God knows what that was about.

Any way, I went and did the same thing today. It’s drizzling and the wind is absolutely icy. I went looking for somewhere, got wet and ended up buying an umbrella. Four US but it’s nice, doubles as a walking stick

I did eat, in Yellow Submarine, a strange anomaly here as it’s dedicated to the Beatles, and the menu is in English. There’s a Sgt. Pepper coat in the window and photographs of the band on the wall. I dried off in there and listened to the White Album. The last song’s called The End, Ringo sings it. I was shivering so violently, and realised I’m never going to make it. I’ve got 20,000 unedited words in novel form, two acts of a screen play, and that’s it. Not even half way. This together with the time the trip takes, the intense cold and there being nowhere to actually sit and write in a way that is remotely comfortable, I’d never make the deadline of submitting the work before I leave the moon line’s influence.

But I want the money. That’s why I’m going for Hollywood. Yes, a far off and unlikely goal, but that’s the only way out because I can’t live here like this. As it is, all I have is Life Magic. Even if Frank wants it; it’s unlikely to be enough to live on. I mean, it’s not enough to go home, to New Delhi, which is the last goal and I think you knew deep down that was coming.

I’m going to look for a raincoat. It’s horrible. This is really the last place where there’s any degree of comfort. Krakow in Poland is six or seven hours away. There’s a EuroLine bus to London direct, or train via Warsaw with two changes.

But it’s giving up. I sat in the Sacred Heart Cathedral in New Delhi, trying to surrender and do what I’m supposed to, and the signs said this. So I did it thinking it would work out. If I go back to England with only a deal on Life Magic that can’t sustain me, the plan evolved in Delhi is over.

I suppose, if I don’t freeze to death, there could be one last spurt. Like the flogged horse giving a final, wild thrash. I can write the project as a treatment. That’s where you sell a concept to a production company. They pay for just the idea, and then either you or someone else gets a screenwriting job, but the pay’s good even for the treatment. I could submit that, together with the almost signed deal on Life Magic, and put it to an agent. This way there’s still a chance that this pathetic situation can work itself out. A book deal done, a treatment going out by an agent and a source for further work. A long, outside shot, but everything I do is like that. That way, there’s still possibility existing.

I think I’ll try and go to Krakow tomorrow. The dorms are out of the town and I don’t know how to get to them, but there’s no choice as it’s the first connection. It’s level to Lviv, so will be as cold, but there’s still possibility. Maybe I’ll get lucky. I only need a couple of days, somewhere to sit warm and comfortable and if we’re talking just a treatment, I’d be done. Yes, so it’s over then, but there’s possibility, the last idea has gone out and I exited fighting because there’s nothing to live for in England and I’d be there on the basis it can still work.

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But I’ll need the last of the money off Gee, really. I can’t stay here. It might mean disappearing somewhere with nothing, no plan, no idea – but that was the situation in the very first place. Walking around the cold grey streets with my fingers so numb I can’t count out change, I’m remembering how bad it was and the original resolve and fatalism is returning.

I’m writing to PA to say I’m on the road and will sign as soon as I get it, and I’ll maybe speak to Frank when I get over the auspicious line… maybe even phone him?

What a total mess. I hate this.

11th October 2003

Lviv, Ukraine

Don’t ask me how this worked out, but I’m going to Kiev, as in chicken Kiev… which is actually east.

I had a normal night last night. I went out to Yellow Submarine, ate food, was warm. It was fun, but they play a lot of Wings and instrumental Beatle covers, which are OK, but some of the voice covers are awful. Then a man with a guitar turned up and walked round playing it, but no one watched him. He went up to this busy table and was really playing madly trying to get their attention.

So I came home and slept, then went to the station to go to Poland. I’d checked on the Internet and understood the train left at nine. I walked out to a park about a kilometer away. I sat in the middle of it. It’s really pretty, with the autumn leaves now. Two women came up and sat with me but couldn’t speak English. Well they had a booklet full of different languages, a page in Russian, a page in Chinese and so on. I had to read the English page.

It said God Almighty has a plan for us all, and he’s coming to remove the cause of unhappiness. I asked if that means the sun will come out today but they didn’t understand. They showed me a picture and smiled, nodding furiously. It was a grassy field with all the people of the world being together and loving each other. Then they showed me an address in London, said ‘Jehovah’s Witness’, and indicated that I should go there.

So I carried on to this five star hotel that is supposed to have a booking office, but it’s gone and only sells mobile phones now. So I came back down to the state booking office, but that’s advance booking only. I carried on to the main square, and tried to work out how the trams work but no one could tell me how the ticket system works. I wrote down the word ‘railway station’ in my notebook in Russian and showed it to a kid standing by a car. He took me for two dollars.

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I went to information and he sent me to counter two. She told me the train goes at seven, in the morning, I’ve missed it. So my options are to go elsewhere, or come back to that place. So I wrote down more Russian phrases and went to counter eight, at random. Everyone scowled at the person before me as she was bulk booking.

Then it was my turn, and I managed to get by reading the Russian as she refused to look at my notebook. Ten US and I leave tonight at ten forty five. The police singled me out and checked my passport again, both times I’ve been to that station they’ve done it.

I came back to the city for three US and went to Yellow Submarine but it was closed for special party, so it was fries in MacDonalds as both salads here have meat in. It was packed there though, so I came here to the computer.

Yesterday, I had to admit it was winter. I unpacked the thermals and put them on. It’s going to be hard as I won’t want to take them off now but I’ll have to keep them clean, well, I won’t keep them clean but I’ll be aware of that fact.

I just looked into Kiev on the Internet. It sounds hard, plus it’s under bad astrology for me, but they’ve just renovated the station, there’s supposed to be a tourist board that speaks English, and it’s the capital so it connects with everything and at least I don’t have to be back at this same place tonight.

I tried to shop yesterday, but there’s not so much here. Everything is old Soviet style, the dingy stuff kept behind cabinets. There were a huge pair of canvas gloves that looked like boxing gloves. I did get two Chinese handkerchiefs and three socks, that’s all. If I’m well, maybe Kiev will have better stuff.

I did the oracle yesterday. Funnily enough, it told me that I’d have trouble getting out today. It also said if I wait for Frank to get back to me he won’t, but if I contact him while still in the auspicious area there will be abundance and success. It also said to use the last of the postage to tell agents my situation and only brief explanations of future ideas, rather than trying to flesh it all out now. Plus it said don’t make myself known on the PA message boards. The plan was to register and then put posts up about how upset I was at not being able to sign the contract, the reason for posting this is that the PA staff moderate the board and the posts would be noticed, as well as the letter I sent the day before yesterday.

Anyway, it’s half seven, so perhaps Yellow Submarine is open again? Actually, I wish I hadn’t have checked out, but that’s just the way it worked out.

I am totally sick of this, to be honest. I'm sick of the freezing cold and I don't want to go out from this place. I'm sick of not eating food I like in a comfortable place I can write in. I'm sick of people not being Indians. I'm sick of people staring at the Asian. I'm sick of the story I'm working on. I'm sick of always being in places not knowing how anything works or how to get things done.

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I looked on the Internet earlier, at pictures of New Delhi and Kerela. I would give anything to be there, anything. I'd go to Metropolis Restaurant in Paharganj and have the cheese sizzler. Or I'd have masala anything in any place on Kovolam beach and then lie on the warm sand and look at the stars.

I really don't want to go out from here. But if I can just use up the last of the stamps on submissions that are half reasonable, perhaps I'll see India again. I don't know if that's true or not, but it's the only thought that can get me out of here, this warm... noisy, uninviting, dark, foreign horrible hell that I've been so stupid to fall into by virtue of listening to someone who has no true life, and took mine away.

Dearest India...

I SHALL return!

Monday 13th October 2003

Kiev, Ukraine

Arrived safely.

Actually, it's OK here.

The trip was varied though. I went out from the cybercafe and Yellow Submarine was still closed, so I had to come to the station. It's really poorly designed. I wanted some tissues and couldn't make myself understood in the chemist. I ended up outside but on a cold marble bench, so I sat in the tram stop, but I was getting really funny looks. In the end there was kind of a tent for the last hour.

I managed to read the Ukrainian information board for my platform number, then found the carriage OK. I dropped my writing case below the train onto the tracks and the staff just looked at me while I had to go down and get it.

On the train, I went to the toilet, and when I came out there was a woman waiting who gasped, then turned as though she was going to run. I had the same reaction from a teenage kid earlier in the day. I'm thinking of getting a sign made to hang round my neck, ‘Yes, Asian and eccentric, but harmless’.

The carriage was superb, I wholly warmed up there. A dollar fifty for sheets, but it was quilt–like and I was snug lying there until seven thirty am. the next day when we arrived. I got off and went outside. I found the toilet, then sat on a window ledge to repack my stuff to put it in the locker room. But a soldier came and shouted at me, ignoring everyone else, so I had to go outside.

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I did it, came back, changed twenty US, and went to the cloakroom. It was mechanical lockers and no one could show me how to use them, but then one of the staff took me to the usual cloakroom and they were friendly.

I went out to the metro, then south two stops according to the map in my book and my compass, got off and sat in a small park, but couldn't get my bearings. There were no Russian signs even.

Back at the ticket office, the counter clerk couldn't tell me the name of the station, but pressed a button and a policeman came. I tried asking him but he couldn't understand, and then decided to take me off to a little room. He kept asking if I am Iranian, then wanted to check all my papers. This was getting really annoying, but eventually, he showed me a map and I understood where I was.

I worked out that there are dual language maps, but only inside the trains. I had to change twice and went to the very last stop south, for the hotel I was looking for. Outside the station I sat and watched the buses but no number eleven came. Then I saw one over the road but no one could tell me where to buy tickets. I watched a few come and go and worked out that you get them off the conductor, which the guidebook said isn't the case.

So I got on the and paid a friendly woman who got down on her hands and knees for me when I dropped all my change.

I'd already written down instructions to find it from the Internet. Stay on until the end of a big park on my left and get off after that. I did so, then wasn't sure. I walked a hundred meters and saw a likely looking place, but there was no sign.

Inside the woman was friendly. Non–attached is eight US, and cosy. I went to the shop and bought weird Ukrainian stuff, ate it and slept until eight, then felt bad as I'd be up all night. I went and got water, came back, and slept again until eight this morning.

I paid and came back to the centre. This was easy as I knew what I was doing now. It was fun in a way. It was incredibly packed, but then you come out and have to go up these huge escalators. They're so big it takes a couple of minutes each one, and they're playing classical music the whole time.

I arrived at my destination and sat on a wall. Then, I couldn't believe it.

A man approached me. He was around sixty, dressed in white and orange Indian clothes, carrying a Tibetan bag and had pictures of Khrishna all over him. When he was close he smiled and I said,

‘Khrishna, Krishna!’

He stopped and looked surprised, then tried to communicate. But he could only speak Ukrainian and Russian (yes, I did try Hindi). The only

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English word he knew was ‘Donation’. He didn't get one. In the end he stepped back and looked really confused. So I started singing the mantra,

‘Hari Khrishna, Hari Khrishna, Khrishna, Khrishna, Hari, Hari, Hari Rama, Hari Rama, Rama, Rama, Hari, Hari’

His eyes opened to total surprise, we grasped each other's hands and palm–bowed, and it was fun. People stopped and stared. God, he looked out of place.

So I got lost looking for the cybercafe. I saw him an hour later, showing literature to an angry looking Ukranian woman, seventy, huge, black overcoat, traditional scarf, bag of potatoes in each hand. What the hell chance he has of converting her I don't know. He does this all day; that's why he was so happy to see me.

I shouted at him,

‘Khrishna, Khrishna!’

The woman swung round looking confused then angry, like, how the )*^^%&) can there be two of these nutters in Kiev? He shouted,

‘Hari Khrishna!’

Saturday 29th October 2003

Warsaw, Poland

Dear M, How are you? Thank you for the emails. Yes,

I have arrived in Warsaw, yesterday actually.

Leaving Kiev was fairly uneventful. I packed up in the evening, checked out and rushed through buses and metro trains to realise that my clock was wrong and I was an hour early. So I changed up what I had on me and got fifteen dollars for it. Although in backward Ukrainian script, I could understand the information board, so I got on the train and that was that.

The guard came and moved me to another cabin with a woman who avoided eye contact, which is fair enough as we had to be alone in a locked compartment.

We got to the border about eleven at night. The Ukrainian guards were OK actually, they wanted a driving license, but accepted just a passport and didn’t ask to see the currenly declaration which I didn’t have, nor the money change receipts, which I did. We were there being shunted for ages, but then the Polish side just let me in without question.

It was late, which was great as I got in at eight instead of five. The exits were properly marked and I ended up in exactly the right place, going the right way thanks to the compass. There’s only one place in Warsaw that’s central so I was really hoping to get in or I’d have to go out looking in the suburbs.

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It was at the top of a building. I walked up and it looked OK, but it’s an old style hostel, so I paid ten dollars including sheet rental, but there’s a lockout until four in the afternoon. I went all the way down, changed the fifteen, came all the way up, paid, then had to stay out for six hours. They lock the door at eleven and you can only stay three nights.

So I went out, very windy and very cold. I went so far and realised there’s no way I can stay on the streets, so I ducked in the next tent I passed. This was good, she spoke English and sells dollar pizzas. But I had to stand and it was only a little protected, so I ran into a shopping centre, I ended up in the cinema. There was no choice as my feet were wet and I had to be somewhere heated.

I came back at four. There were two men in the dorm talking who said hello. I knew it was going to be awkward as my shoes are rotten but there’s no chance of washing my feet in the park. It wasn’t too bad though as it’s all set up for people on the road. There are washing buckets and a clotheshorse in the bathroom. With a bit of deospray, water, the window open for five minutes, I got by.

Well a group of French school girls turned up and all went to one end playing table–tennis, so I went to the other end where you’re allowed to smoke and read basically. One of them came over and tried to speak, she said I sounded French. Actually, it’s not the first time someone’s said that to me.

It’s not bad, but it’s institutional. A uniformed warden paces up and down checking everyone follows the posted regulations. Lights out at ten. Blah, blah, blah. In the morning I got up and it was OK, a bit awkward. There’s eight of us and we all went about our business in silence.

So I went to the smoking end, and it was full of German schoolgirls, smoking. I sat there on the bench beside them and thought how good that is. They let them smoke, you know, make their own choices. School, the stress of it, would be a lot easier if it was a smoking environment.

Then a girl ran round the corner and shouted something. They all jumped up and threw their cigarettes into the ashtray beside me and in around two seconds, had leaped into the non–smoking section and were instantly reading and looking respectable.

A short squat woman with thick round glasses and stony face stomped round the corner and came up to look at the ashtray, which of course is smoking like a witch’s cauldron with this stupid, vacant foreigner next to it, who thought German school girls are allowed to smoke. She shouted something and they all looked up, confused, as though they’d only just become aware that she was there. They were so good at it, I wanted to help them. If I could speak German, I would have taken the blame. I would have said my friends had just left or something.

So today I came out, it’s less windy. I lost my umbrella and the staff didn’t speak enough English to go look for it. I shared wet bread breakfast with pigeons, then came here. Internet is a dollar fifty, which could be a lot worse. I put one shirt in the dry cleaner, two dollars fifty, which could be a lot

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better. The shirt I have on was cleaned in Romania, so that one they now have I wore through the whole of the Ukraine. I’ll put two trousers through there and this shirt before I leave, I might as well as it certainly won’t get cheaper heading west. As for smalls, the hostel is set up for washing… but will it dry in time?

So then I have to go to Orbis, the ex–state ticket office to see the onwards options. The whole thing might be twenty four hours. Not sure. I want postcards. I’ve drafted the last letter to Frank, which will be redone tonight and sent tomorrow along with five electronic submissions, then that’s about it.

8th November 2003

Paris, France

Well, here I am in Paris — and I think I’d better end this diary, and site, and whether I stay gone, or metamorphosis and return as something new, is up to something else.

So in conclusion to it all — I would say that: everything has meaning and happens for a reason. Schooling almost ruined my education, but certainly did my life, but it did turn me inward as I withdrew, into an agoraphobic obsessively reading every meaningful subject.

Just recently, I read about a medical condition, noted the symptoms, looked at the medical pictures — and realised that, without a shadow of a doubt — that is me. That is what I was always facing. It’s strange, how the main demon I came to earth to face is revealed to me in a time of such apparent endings. I just sent a letter to Japan telling her I’d be gone for a while sorting myself put and would write when there’s some permanent change. It felt awful, like the first day I left her.

I was lonely in England. I was agoraphobic. I couldn’t connect with people as ordinary folk do — but had the time, intellect and inclination to study reality creation, the effect of the human mind on the outcome of events and the nature of consciousness itself.

I did this, left the country, fell in love and had a perfect, normal ten days, then had to learn the methods and techniques to me through the reverse side of creation. I had to ask different questions, such as, should one want to acquire things if everything is in a constant state of change — and so on.

I thing it’s all come together in the book Life Magic. Perhaps that was my purpose — if there’s going to be another phase for the consciousness that is me ,it is again, up to something else.

I stand by everything though. If you’re unhappy but have a dream, dive in and risk everything, and if you lose everything, you had nothing, and if you die, you were all ready dead — but while diving — there’s possibility.

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One last thought. Everything is energy, including us, both physically, mentally, in anyway really. So life creation, mental pictures or consciousness affecting the world obviously works on an energetic level, it’s an interaction of energy.

Perhaps, until we free ourselves forever, the underlying energy behind it all is conscious in a separate way to our sense of self, and in existence and life creation we do things, but there’s the sense of the underlying allowing itself to be taken? I don’t know? Are we humanist, atheist, agnostic, or whatever? Underlying energy might be separate consciousness, maybe it’s pantheistic? I like to think it’s separate and the sense that is me will dissolve into it one day. Maybe it is that way; maybe it isn’t. It’s a nice belief in a way. I like feeling understood when my body’s alone and eyes don’t perceive any friend.

Always be honest. Never give up. Follow your star

Au Biento.

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White Elephant's Limbo

The little white elephant, is lost and doesn't have a name. He's forgotten who he is, or even why he came. So he has to live in limbo, even though he's not to blame. Trying to start over, making life a joyous game.

14th November 2003

Picadilly Circus, London.

I'm here. Finally. I left Calais without problems, waltzed through customs, and took the train up to Cantabury and stayed at the youth hostel for the night.

Then I came here but was in a lot of pain, so I came to a hostel here and there was a bed, but only for one night. So last night I sat in Lester Square reflecting. All these memories of previous times kept coming back. London used to be this big, magical, cosmopolitan place — but now I went all over, it's just another city. I walked home through Soho and the smell took me straight back to China.

So today I went over to Hyde Park. It was very, difficult in a way. I remember this long thing I did, about twelve years ago. I wanted to go abroad,

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teach, get published so I made model representations of all my goals, working on them daily over seven months. Then I came to London and put them in the Serpentine from the bridge near Kennsington Gardens.

Now I'm back, today, all these years later and essentially all the things I was trying to create have been created. True, not in exactly the way I wanted, and now I'm broken. But I did pretty much the same thing in Kerela before heading back and am carrying a similar magical pouch or whatever you'd call it. I dropped all the beads from my mala into the Serpentine from the same spot. I always knew the Serpentine would be the first place I came to if I returned.

Oh, last night I was there for the turning on the lights in Regent's street, and something went wrong, it was funny.

So I'm going to Anne's in Northampton, in a couple of hours. I have one last chance to check my mail and see if Frank has replied and it's all worked out. Last try for a miracle, then I go north. What happens from there I have absolutely no idea. I find it very hard to imagine anything good.

Tuesday 18th November 2003

Northampton, England

It really is as bad as I remember. I came up on the train and walked all the way in, bad memory after bad memory. The awful Burgerking that I used to live in is still there and I had a quick burger, then walked home.

I came in, Anne was there, so I saw her for the first time in a decade, said hello, sat down. There was an intense bout of dizziness so I had to go and lie down. I came back a while later and so we talked. I ate bread and she was irritated that I didn't use a plate, then I walked wet on the carpet. Next day I got up and straight away it's back to the old routine. No web site, no work, no computer. Endless Burgerking days.

I could list all the reasons it's bad but I only have a few minutes left. This is bad. Very bad. I have to do something.

Next Day

Northampton

I only have a moment, as my times running out.

I need to shower. I can't do it there. I use the toilet outside. There's no way I could do that there. Last night she was angry after having walked all around, and isn't fully lucid when she speaks. First she said Geoff wants to wash his hands of the whole mess and myself, which is fine by me. Then she showed me my old banking stuff, cards and so on. I said there's a letter with one of the cards that says the pin number will be the same.

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A while later we were sitting there. My evening consists of sitting and staring at the table, and she suddenly turned off the TV and said, you're pin number will have changed. I said no, I just said there's a letter which says it's the same. So she looked really mad and asked why I got her worried about it... though I had been sitting there in silence.

The noise. The TV is never off. I did my washing and told her to leave it but she went through everything when after I went to bed. Nothing is unpacked, all my stuff is locked up.

She asked about the publishing contract, I said I'm hoping for money soon. She laughed and there was this look on her face, then she started about now I can go down and get unemployment benefit... no problem, she's already asked my 'brother' to get all the information.

I could go on forever. There are two saving graces. One, I'm meeting M tomorrow, in the same place that I told her I was going away in, so I'm full circle. The second thing is that yesterday I was worrying about Frank, and I asked myself what will happen. I got some mental picture of a cherry and a feeling it was a bell fruit machine. So I asked when will he phone. From nowhere, I saw the BT box where I check my mail, then a stick with about fifteen notches in it. I thought, what, a notch a day, so about fifteen days an email will come? I saw the stick again, then a pear. So, what, a pair of weeks? The start of December? My last chance for any chance of salvage. This cannot continue.

Thursday 4th December 2003

Easy Internet Cafe, BurgerKing, Picadilly Circus, London.

Look, nowadays I even work in a Burgerking. I think if they had beds here I'd live my whole life in Burgerking, just like the old days.

An awful lot has happened, and to be honest, it's fairly painful to write about it.

I was in this routine, of waking up early, walking round town, sitting in the library, sitting in Burgerking — and at night, looking in a few pubs to see if Yasmine, my sister was there.

One night, I again detailed my search to Anne, who suddenly admitted that she had the number of her mobile, but hadn't given me it because she feared I would be ‘poisoned’ by her.

The next day I was getting ready and glanced into Anne's room, and saw she has a framed picture of me in Thailand, with Suntaree — and the sight of this put me on a downer all day, a memory of better times. I went to the church in the evening but got shouted at for wearing my hat, and then it closed ten minutes later.

I had a drink in a pub called Punch and Judy, then went out and dialed the number. I recognised her voice instantly, but I had to explain who I

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was a few times, and then she sounded happy. She said she'd come down to Punch and Judy.

I drank a fair bit and thought I was waiting forever, but I saw her straight away when she came in, with her hair dyed bright red. I went over, we hugged, sat and drank. Straight away she started saying how the family had hurt her, how much she hated Carly her eldest daughter. Her youngest son is in jail. We had a few drinks, and then went on to another place called The Bantam Cock. There was a man called Jerry singing there. My sister talked to a man who turned out to be a psychiatric nurse who ended up being diagnosed with schizophrenia himself and seemed to be interested in her.

The man called Jerry was very funny. Then there was Jim, who lives next door to Anne. Yasmine had told me that she used to live with him and he was really difficult, and I put my foot in my mouth by telling him. His smallish friend Archie was very nice. We were all pretty drunk and so went onto another place called King Billy.

This was a really loud bikers place, but OK when you've drank enough. I lost my hat. We left there and I realised Jim was well over the limit to drive, so we went to another place called Charles Bradshaw. I spent most of the time talking to Archie. He was saying I'd be much happier if got to know some British Asians as I would feel less out of place.

Jim was tiered, so Yasmine and I ended up in another place called Square 11, a club. We were quite drunk but I was sentimental. I cried at one point and we lie there in each others arms. It was just so intense. Someone called Jim came up, actually who I've been referring to up until now was Chris, not Jim. He was young, Yasmine said too young for her, but we were all so drunk, I staggered but the two of us basically carried Yasmine home. Jim went, I went home alone with Yasmine and we were so wrecked we broke the curtains, put the Doors on, went to bed in each others arms and I fell asleep listening to Spanish Caravan.

Monday 15th December 2003

Queensway, Bayswater, London W2

No, I haven't been here all this time. I've been back, and now am back in London; I never seem to get time to write this.

It's hard to keep writing now, as it was all a while ago and I'm trying to remember what went on.

Basically we did the same thing for the next few nights. Race messes up this whole family. Yasmine kept saying, even though it wasn't really relevant to the conversations ever, things like, ‘I'm English mate, born and bred’, and would come up with very racist comments whenever she was dealing with non–whites. I got the feeling that she had to keep introducing me to friends and then it's obvious we're Asians as I'm so much darker.

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We went up to see Sarah, her daughter, and Sarah's daughter, Chloe. Then she took me to by blood father's house to see if he still lived there. I haven't seen him since I was five, but he has moved. I have a possible address from a phone book, but am in two minds as to whether to phone, as I only want documents proving my Indian origin, to eventually go for a passport, or at least Indian residency.

One night, during a racist outburst, I said I am Asian, feel good about it, don't really appreciate that kind of talk. There was a screaming argument. She kept saying I am completely English, and can't be anything else... and that's offensive. So I asked if we could just agree to be different, and she said no and started with the same kind of language, so I walked out with her shouting.

Next day, I went back and we were OK. She said something like ‘I felt like you were trying to push something on me, a way I am not’ and I said nothing. We still went out, but I was on a downer and things were never the same again.

I came to London, spent a night in Picadilly. Spent the next day, all day, finding another place with a bed in Bayswater. Met a Korean man, split up with his girlfriend and travelling before he signs on for a lifetime job with Samsung. Also met a man from London, also split up with his girlfriend, his flat's full of memories, so he stays there every weekend.

Back in the awful routine when I got back, though things got a little better. I bumped into Yasmine last night and we were OK so I said I'd phone and we'd do something Friday, which happens to be the day her son gets out of jail.

Mad time eh? There's more gone on than this. I'll write it if and when I remember.

Kettring Road, Northampton, England.

New Years Eve

It's not great, though it could be worse I suppose. Stayed in London a few days. Didn't specifically accomplish much, but it was just lovely to be away.

I came back and did go out with Yasmine. Things settled down with us and it was OK actually. We spent the evening with a man she knows called Adam, and I met this woman whom everyone kept warning me off. Can't even remember her name now. Then there was an interesting man who's been going all around Asia for years. I don't think what he does is legal to be honest, but he knew Delhi and Kerela well and it was lovely to talk fondly of home at last.

Well I went home about two am to Yasmine's house. She was pretty drunk, and just started. Basically the conversations when she's in that state are

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of two basic types. The first is pointing out all the qualities she has, for example repeating how street smart she is on the basis to a fortnight holiday in a Mexican resort, and then saying all the supposed reasons why I don't have the particular trait in question at that moment, why I never will have.

I just sat in silence for half an hour like this. Occasionally she left course for a while and then starts pointing out things she thinks are my faults, and explains how other people did this to me in my past, then points out all the ways in which she isn't like that and did better with her own children, and once she's on again about how great she is it leads nicely back into the first mode of conversation.

At one point I tried to change tack, and I asked her advice on what to buy Sarah, her middle daughter, for her birthday. She immediately said that Sarah knows an unconditional giving that I can never understand, because I never can because I've never given birth, and so don't know how to give without wanting something back. Blah, blah, blah.

Yes, she's argumentative when drunk. I remember once when walking home she saw someone she knew, but only by sight. He owned some lap top dancing bar. She went over, introduced herself, spoke nicely for a few minutes, then suddenly started calling him a leech, he's like this, he's like that.

Well, he might be, I don't know him. The last time I went out with her she was talking about this incident with someone at the bar, Adam I think, and started pointing at me and saying how she had this fight but I wouldn't go over and start punching the man.

Oh, whatever, this is just the way it is. I smiled the whole time and we left on good terms.

I got home about two, sat at the dinner table and scratched my ear..... splaaaaat.

The ‘cyst’ burst. I say cyst, but I dunno if it was. It recently grew huge. When it finally burst, it spewed forth lumpy puss, then blood. A lot. But cyst surely comes from cystern, meaning to hold water? I don't really mind, it's just nice it's out.

I forgot to say, while walking in market square some time ago, there was a tap on my shoulder... and it was Darren Tierney, the Irish origin kid I new at school since I was about twelve, knew all my life, and spent my last day in England with.

Christmas was nothing. I spent a few hours mopping blood from my ear, then a ritual. That was it. I didn't go out.

My ‘brother's’ wife came round with the two boys, this was just before Christmas. I walked out without saying anything.

Boxing day I got sick. The heating is awful in the room; it's either a fridge or a furnace. I slept with the window open and got flu. I was tiered and slept until last Monday when I got thrown out because it was cleaning. I wish I hadn't of because I could have got Sarah something and seen her. Also I felt too ill to arrange something to be away from here at New Year.

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So now. I have to speak to Yasmine. I might go out but I doubt it. It's really expensive, and not fun towards the end. I might just stay in and stare at the White Elephant, which I can see from the bedroom window. I'll reminisce of the Italian man last year, all the other years and how back at Malabar when I made that stupid, stupid, stupid decision — I didn't think I'd still be a white elephant staring at that white elephant, right back where I started.

Frank, where are you?

I received a new debit card from my building society today. Also, I decided on a camera, it was fifty pounds cheaper at Amazon than at Boots, so I bought it yesterday. Today, Boots is only eight pounds cheaper, and so I cancelled the online purchase and might have a look tomorrow if it's open.

In the little bedroom, there's everything I ever sent back or was received from people I know... and her, over ten years. I can't face it. Plus there's the big locked box at Mothers that I left, mostly diaries, but also pictures. Somewhere are the gifts that Junko sent me, and the unopened last letters. It all hurts so much, especially now.

But if the camera can do what I am hoping, I can take all that stuff and archive it, and then destroy the originals. I can be free of possessions. There are nine big boxes, a medium sized cupboard and a large trunk full of stuff. Hard, but think how lovely to be free.

Anyway, I'll have to leave here, pop to my sister's, go home. It's not long, really. I'm getting what needs to be done done, it was, and is, getting the info that takes time, but I AM going home.

Thursday 12th Febuary 2003

Picadilly Backpackers, London

Ah, the bane of modern technology. One of the things I came to London for was to pour my heart out and update this. So here I am, pressed tab by mistake, lost it all, and now you'll never know the whole story as I can never be bothered to do it in that detail, and in the town where I was born I can never get past the moment–to–moment blackness enough other to do the absolute bare minimum. So... come to think of it, in this dark and unread corner of the Internet, does it make any difference what–so–ever?

Maybe I'll type some tomorrow? Go over to Bayswater. The thing is, I have to sign into this web page every so often or it gets deleted as it's a free page. So it will likely make no difference one day as I won't be here, no one reads it and if it fell into oblivion the world would be no different.

I'm so tired sometimes. Everything.

Nothing.

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Please stop sending me meaningful coincidence unless it portends something better or will change my course for the better in some way. When it doesn't it's painful and it hurts me.

24th Febuary 2004

Leinster Inn, Bayswater, London

I never get to write now do I? It was all I used to do. My diary was once my best friend. There's rarely a day that I don't think how returning was a terrible mistake. G. Sharif will never have the inkling of the amount of pain he has caused me.

Talking of him, let's start with that story. He told me about five years ago that he had ten thousand pounds in my name. He ruined my life and I returned minus the dream and asked for whatever it was worth now. Four months later there's nothing, but a letter turned up addressed to me from a stock broker asking me to sign an indemnity certificate to replace a lost share certificate. I sent them thirty pounds and signed it but they never sent a cheque.

So I went there about a week ago with my ID. The certificate had been sent as a mistake to my address even though it's mine. He phoned up pretending to be me to redirect the certificate to him, and they gave me a letter he had sent pretending to be me instructing the cheque to be sent to his address.

There's one thing to think at the end of all of this; it's over. Whatever happens and whatever he took, I have this one certificate, 60% less than it was supposed to be, but it's over, and I never have to think about it again.

Let's not talk about him. I went to France a couple of weeks ago. It was lovely... and for various reasons. The main reason being to send Junko's birthday card. I'm ashamed at having given up the dream when I once promised her I never would. So I left on a Sunday, the train was cancelled so I spent that night in Picadilly, then went to Calais for a night. The next day was Bolougne. I had written and sent the card in Calais. In Bolougne I stayed in the Youth Hostel. There was a young Australian in with me. He had come specifically to study Viking culture and was into ‘living history’, which means dressing up in Viking clothes, living their way of life and restaging battles. He was so into it, and spoke all night about medieval European kings.

I drank too much and tried to talk about Junko.

Then I had to return. I had been doing the copying in the room at Anne's. Everything that was too hard to deal with I put in a special bag. Upon returning I found Anne had put new shelves in and the bag, including negatives and other assorted delicate items, was now scrunched at the bottom of a whole load of books and stuff. I went on a downer then. I couldn't believe it.

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I mentioned it to Anne and she said she's always been like that. Like once she gave a load of shares to Geoff as a thank you for the work he did, but later sold them as he's never been to collect them. Mar said about a diamond ring she had that she had given her as a gift and Mother was so happy. It had to go back for cleaning, but when it returned Anne sold it.

Mother never said anything about it, but told me she could never forgive her for it.

So I just got on with it and did the copying. One thing, I sent a business type letter to an address in the phonebook that I thought might be my father's, who I haven't seen for 25 years, asking for documents to prove a link to within three generations to pre–partition India; this is one of my very long–standing goals and possibly my last.

It was a shock when a reply came, telling me he would write soon with ‘good news’, and signed ‘your loving Father’.

The last time I saw him, Brian, mother's lover of 30 years, was kicking the &^*&^ out of him in a car park for talking to me.

He included a phone–number in his return address, so there could be interesting developments.

There are so many things to write, but I'm never in the mood in that hell hole, right where I started. One thing I wanted to mention was the, often painful, coincidences. There are so many. One I'll bother mentioning, the bench in Hyde park where I used to do the magic and sit and reflect, now is gone and has been replaced by the Peter Pan statue (I'm talking about Hyde Park obviously), the boy who never grew up. Is that supposed to mean something which I'm supposed to learn from?

Another thing which comes to mind. While going through all these old documents, I found my birth certificate. For some reason, of which I have absolutely no idea, on the back I had absent–mindedly written ‘I want’, and then crossed out the second word.

At the time, ?15 years ago, I had obviously been absentmindedly doodling and suddenly remembered where and so left it like that.

But to find this now, in my present circumstances, it feels like it's some kind of spiritual instruction... like ‘this is the way out of the hell that you constantly live now.

So here I am, back in London. Why? Two reasons. I always come somewhere nice for Junko's birthday. Secondly, to deal with the bag in the corner, the crushed one, with all the stuff that was too hard to deal with.

A piece of good news. I wrote an article about self–publishing when I was back in Romania, for Write Success. It was accepted but I never heard from her again.

She got back to me last week saying it was about to go in, called the article ‘excellent’ and forwarded payment to twenty five dollars, the first time I was published by an editor since being with Junko, the first time I ever got

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paid by an editor. Not only that, it was published the 22nd February, eleven years to the day since I left England for the trip and my life. I arrived here on the 22nd, but didn't get to see it until the day after, Junko's birthday.

There's so much more to write. It's such a hard time, but I'll do it tomorrow.

Wednesday 5th May 2004

Leinster Inn, Bayswater, London

Hard time... of course. I typed all my news previously but somehow lost it. My birthday tomorrow. Every year since I was twenty one I've spent it somewhere different. For the twenty first I was in London... but I slept in Northampton, so I think I'm keeping my record.

I've written very few dreams since my break down. I must get back into that.

Dream

Junko's gift I was with Junko and mother and we were all living together. A letter came from nationwide building society for Junko. She had arranged for mother to have an allowance.

Then I was taking an umbrella out of a cupboard.

Interpretation Could do with something put away for a rainy day.

Thursday 6th May 2004 (My birthday)

Leinster Hostel, Bayswater, London

Here I am, on my birthday. I think I already mentioned that previously I typed up the news but lost the info. It's a hassle to do it again, but I'll try and note the main events.

Well the main thing is that I did meet my father. It's a blessing and a curse really. He wrote to me and said be in the white elephant pub, not really knowing it's significance for me. So I went at eleven am. one morning. I was there about five minutes and he came in.

He had indeed got the papers. His father's passport, his mother's birth certificate and so on. We talked and he was interested in the news. It was a tad awkward, as you can imagine. But we left and I said we'd write.

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He wrote first and said come the elephant again at some pre–arranged time. I went and Elizabeth was there. This is his partner, a woman he left mother for, so they've done well to be together. They showed me old pictures of me that they kept from the seventies.

We drove out to a pub at the back of Billing Aquadrome. Awful because I have these awful memories of just sitting in the back of the pub that mother was running there, each evening, the whole of the school holidays. I was always just sitting on this brick wall.

Anyway, this wasn't too bad. We talked. He went bankrupt in the eighties and retired soon after. Did the car boot sales. Worked in a charity shop.

We went to Weston Favell centre and I showed him my web site. We shopped and they drove me home.

That was that, but then he wrote again. He picked me up and I went for a meal at his house. I've never had someone cook for me for fun since I was with Junko, so I paid ten pounds to the Red Cross as a donation for the meal.

It was so horrible, boring. They do nothing and talk about nothing. I spent the whole time clock watching.

The same next week, but I had auctions going on, so I did all the packing there but I hated it.

My first edition 'the art and practice of contacting the demiurgue' by ophiel, bought from John Lovett at the occult shop for a tenner went for fifty two pounds!

I was supposed to meet him again, but stood him up. I've written a couple of times since then from London and will have to pop round before I go. If it's just one last time then it won't be so bad.

Well this is this. What else has happened?

Nothing. The last time I saw Yasmine I was passing a pub, the Bantam. She was drunk but I sober. She started on me the way she always does, so I just left. We had this mad closeness when I got back, but she's just, I don't know. Not wanting to know me I think. Blaming me for things I haven't done? I really don't know.

I've really done nothing for my birthday. I got up. Washed. Went and ate a baked potato at Whitelys. Went to the cybercafe and asked if I could make a dvd. Nope. I've phoned every cafe in London as I want to back up the photo cd's but no one can do it.

I've had some bad birthdays. I was thinking this morning. Apart from Junko, I've never received a gift from someone I'm not related to. That's sad isn't it? I've never spent it with anyone since I was in Indonesia in 1993 with Alisdair Maclennon. I've mentioned the terrible twenty first which ended up with me in the room alone weeping in Northampton. That would be the third

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worst ever. This one isn't too bad. At least I'm not there, and I'm getting ready to go.

Yes, I'm going home.

It's difficult though. Technically, all I have to do is decide on a route, get visas, bond my savings, buy insurance, pack up and store my stuff and go.

But I've failed at the writing. Mother has her own problems, I don't think the money situation can last forever. I have various ideas since the success of the auctions, but they're not guaranteed.

All land borders seem to be closed. My last chance is to go to the Georgia embassy tomorrow and see if I can get there. If so, it might be possible to get to either Lahore or Delhi from Central Asia. If not, I might be looking at an eleven hour flight.

—–

Talking of the copying, I had a bit of a shock.

My only friend... dearest diary, you understand the only thing I've really thought of for ten years don't you? Yes, that's it. The stuff from Junko.

I finally faced up to the last bag. I went through everything that wasn't to do with her and put what was left under the Indian flag I bought on ebay, the logic being that my dream of going home would give me the strength to face up to this.

One night, I did. I knelt down, removed the flat, and randomly pulled out a piece of paper.

It was an aerogramme from Junko, the first she sent me, telling me how she felt at the airport.

And across it's centre, in a thick red marker pen showing through on both sides, anne had written:

RECEIVED JANAURY 1995

FORWARDED TO CHANG MAI, FEBUARY 1995

I suddenly felt like a knife had gone through my heart. All the times while travelling around I've thought to the things of her I have in England. And when I find it, everything has been defaced. She had this awful, ugly handwriting. Across one of the few possessions I'm planning to keep, it's like an act of vandalism. I put it back and so couldn't face this last thing right now.

I was physically ill for a few days. Eventually all I could do to face it was to come to London resolute that I wouldn't return until I was at least applying for a visa or had a ticket or something.

So, I'm still on for this. It's all a lot harder than I thought to get it all done, but I will do it. When I get back, all I have to do is destroy all of my possessions except the defaced stuff I really cared about, make a will, and leave.

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It's still difficult to think of a way that all of this can work out. Frank DeMarco still had my script and the oracle is positive, though this is really a long time. This is just the way writing is; writers write and sell the work to the public themselves. Publishers are just distributors. I'm far too eccentric and outside to actually do that.

I'm thinking, perhaps if I wrote a series of small booklets which I sold through advertising. At the same time, I'll look for valuable first edition books in India? Rubbish life, but if I get lucky and buy the right thing it might set me up for a long time.

The thing that really keeps me going is the thought of being in India. Now I have the papers to apply for residency. No idea if it would work. I remember when I was in Cochin, a man in the card shop told me that Kerelans love outsiders and I should apply. I laughed at the time... but I might do just that.

I can imagine being on the beach at Kovolam. Warm air over my body. Sitting about in a restaurant and writing. Days that aren't filled with worry, rude people, expense.

To go out and eat reasonable food in a nice place where I can see stars in the sky. I'm here in London right now, with a quiz night in the bar with drunken Europeans shouting. I can't afford to do anything here. Empty, empty days.

Of course, I could get to India, get residency, and I'm still me. So then what? Didn't get the girl. Didn't get the home. What would I carry on for?

The mission.

Perhaps I'll work it all out even after all this time?

Mian wrote again. She only said hello and it was only a couple of times, but it's nice to have continuity.

I saw Darren Tierney on the way to the station. Apparently he's never worked but spent this ten years dealing with a drug problem. I saw him the day before last when I left the country. Now we're going to meet up and do the same thing. I'm looking forward to that; it will be fun.

I paid for an hour, but only have five minutes left. So I'll sign off.

Not the best of birthdays, but certainly not the worst. It was the third worst if I think about it. The worst was making a mess at school in 1979 and being beaten by the form teacher Mrs. Frost. The second worst was making a mess at home at seventeen and being shouted at by Mother. Then now.

The best? Hmmmmm. I think Nagarkot on my thirtieth. Very beautiful.

No wait. I've a better answer. My best birthday?....

The Next One !

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Friday 7th May 2004

Leinster Inn, Bayswater, London, England.

I actually managed to get up and get myself to the Georgia embassy today. They said I need a letter of introduction from a travel agent. So that's out. I looked all over the internet but didn't see a simple pimple political map, but then realised I can go without being in Georgia, but it might mean flying some of the way.

It's so difficult to find information out here. I can honestly say that it would be easier in India, and it's not the only thing that works better in India.

I've had a look at the travel site just now. If I want to do a long land trip, there are just two countries at the end of Turkey, but I would have to fly into both. It's silly, there's just no land border... unless I did do it by Georgia to Azerbygan, that's really the last possibility. I'll have to ask a travel agent what they would charge for the letter I need.

It's a long–shot isn't it? The other option is a direct flight to Kathmandu, 277 Sterling and 11 hours in the air with Gulf. That is horrible.

But I've been here nearly six months, and in the whole of my adult life, I've never been in one place for six months; a record I'm proud of and intend to compete. In the middle of this awful amount of effort, guilt, hard days of trying to simplify and get out, I feel resentment to the person whom, if you read of the breakdown in Delhi, caused all this. Never in my life has one person caused me more pain. Considering that his abuse started in childhood, I don't think anyone could cause me more pain even if they tried (though why would anyone?).

So it's time to focus. I'm not really getting anywhere going from embassy to embassy right now. I phoned every cybercafe in London looking for somewhere that can burn me a CD but there's nowhere. I have over seventy cd's of the copied diaries, and I wanted them archived on just one.

Well time to cut to the chase, as they say. There are at least cheap cd places here. Out of those seventy I don't need all of the stuff. I could perhaps get it on five, which is better than nothing. I'll try and focus on doing that tomorrow. If I go back, then at least I can start destroying things. Minus me from possessions.

Last time when I left I used that huge red trunk to store everything. This time there will be a lot less. I was going to look about for another chest but smaller. Then I realised that there's no need. A suitcase type thing, with wheels that you can drag behind you would be ideal and I'd never be bogged down by the immobility that the last one caused.

Bond my savings. Make a will. Go.

Why am I still here?

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I came to London resolute that I wouldn't leave until I had my plan out. I think that's still the best idea. I should definitely do the cd's tomorrow because then that's one last thing. I suppose Sunday could be doing the oracle, as then I can make a definite move the same way.

I didn't enjoy London this time.

Someone once said, 'when a man is tired of London he is tiered of life'.

I think:

'When you're tired of London, you're tired of London, and should fly away somewhere nicer'.

The following Tuesday, around one am

Same location

I'm still here. I was planning to leave tomorrow, but I'm still here. Here.

It's hard to go away from here. It's not a fabulous hostel, or place, but it's, you know... I don't know. Here. Basically I don't want to go back north. I don't want to go to Anne's house.

I hate it there, just like I always did.

I don't want to face the last defaced stuff in the box. I don't want to walk around an unwanted life.

I don't fit in at Leinster, but I don't fit in anywhere, so it's all the same to me.

Though you do get tp know faces. Their overheard stories. Yes, there'll never be a normal life of just going round connecting to people. It's OK.

I don't have so much to do here. I was planning to go to Turkey and travel through central Asia, then fly just a little distance to Delhi from Almaty. But Georgia won't give me a visa.

So it's either a case of go anyway and see what I can work out in Turkey, or fly all the way to Kathmandu. I went all the way up to Bethnal Green today to look for the guidebook to the West Causcus, but it isn't in print yet.

So I don't know. I have to stay here in London until at least it's a definite that I'm out, then I don't want to stay in Northampton much longer. Hopefully I can make it less than a week.

So, the plan. Tomorrow, I carry on copying the cd's I've been making for six months. Yes, six months... that's how long I've been here. Go to the Azerbeijan and Kazaksthan embassies and see what their rules are, go to art shops looking for wood–carving tools because I'm interested in taking that up,

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buy a travel bag and buy a plastic suitcase to leave the stuff in I'm leaving behind. I was going to look for another chest to do that job like the last time, but then I realised it's silly. Why a chest? A suitcase has wheels, and would be portable. One day my family will die, and I'll be alone, and I need to be fluid. Likely I'll have no one that will take it for me. Perhaps Yasmine would, but I can't bank on that.

I had the idea, did I mention?, to advertise for first edition books in India, where they are less valued, and sell them on ebay to make a living. M. thinks it's a good idea.

This is an insane thing I'm doing. Oh, out the blue... Bah, another time...

I'm sick of being here. I want to leave England. I will.

Very, very soon.

Tuesday 11th? May 2004

Leinster Inn, Bayswater

There's only ten minutes credit left on my ticket, so it will have to be succinct. I'm going back tomorrow. I actually came here nearly two weeks ago. Look how much better things are when I'm away. I'm back updating the diary; thinking about new projects; planning a trip. The latter is difficult. Georgia want a letter from a travel agent before giving a visa. Don't know about Azerbeijan. I'll pop over tomorrow. At least during the trip here to London I've found out about what is and isn't possible. Then I'll just make the last of the DVD back–ups and be done.

Though I shall also buy a suitcase. I haven't yet seen the exact on that would fulfill my purpose of using it to store the things I'm leaving behind, but I will buy something tomorrow.

I'll get that and a little ruck–sack. This way, I'll get back and the things I'm taking go in the ruck–sack, the things I'm not keeping go in the bin, the things I'm giving to Junko go in the rucksack, the things I'm keeping go in the suitcase.

A suitcase is a better idea this time than a chest. It's fluid and portable, which was very much the point of the whole exercise.

Monday 7th June 2004

Easy Internet Cafe, Leinster Inn, Bayswater

Dream: Personal, I don't know

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Anne was lying on the bottom of the stairs, dying with some kind of illness. Barbara, the cleaning woman, was basically deciding to leave her because it was time to go.

I had to run round like mad because the phones didn't work, but eventually managed to get an ambulance. When it drove off with her I saw it had an advertisment for a liqour company on its side. I thought to myself that I was really being hypocritical because if it was me, I would just leave it to fate, like Barbara had decided was best.

Interpretation

I suppose it means I drink to avoid dealing with the Anne situation. But really, I don't know.

It was really quiet in here, but now a load of Germans just walked in.

No, I haven't been here the whole time. I left. That last day in London I went all over the place to find just the right suitcase. Apart from it's colour and that I would have preferred metal, it's OK. Though I accidentally kicked the lock of as I didn't realise that you had to set the combination before the latches would close.

There's no night train past eight so I bussed part of the way and got back past midnight. Of course, I'd had my birthday in during the trip. I was feeling really in debt, maxed out on the overdraft, Barclaycard owing a lot. When I got home there were birthday cards and basically, money everywhere.

So why am I still in England. What have I done since returning?

Well I have got some way along the path to the ultimate plan, though I'm shocked to come here and see how long I was up there.

I opened a one year bond with the Royal Bank of Scotland. This is OK, though now overly impressive. They were supposed to phone me with a password but never did. Then I went online to open a two year bond, that can be closed with notice, at the Coventry Building Society. Tomorrow, hopefully, I'll open a three year with Nationwide.

As well as this I've destroyed almost all my possessions, and everything does indeed fit inside that suitcase, except a bag of stuff destined for the charity shop rather than the bin. Whoever has the job of clearing the bins at the park opposite where I live will wonder what the hell is going on.

Ohhhhhheeeerrrr, there has been some problems also though.

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One thing. At the end of the mess with my 'brother', I ended up with a certificate of 144 HBOS shares. The stockbroker said either hold them or sell, either way they are good, and the whole mess is over. Yipee.

Well HBOS sent out an end of year report and it went to my 'brother's' place. So obviously the stock broker hasn't informed the registrar what went on concerning these shares.

I thought, well, never mind, I'll tell them myself. It doesn't matter as I have the certificate, and this is the all important thing the stock broker told me. So I wrote, informed them that I was never connected to this address, and asked them to correct their records.

They replied and said they would do so. OK, all over, no big deal.

Two days later, seven cheques for a few pence under two hundred and fifty pounds turned up. Some of them were stamped duplicate. The letter explained they were the dividends that 'I had requested', that some of them were duplicates for cheques already sent out — which have now been cancelled.

Considering I have no clue as to what this concerns, I phoned the registrar. They said that they were dividends going back to 1999. The three previous cheques have already been sent and someone's cashed them.

So what was the first thing I thought of? The time I turned up at the Broker and they showed me a letter 'from me', instructing them to sell the shares and send the cheque to his address.

So I was basically in disbelief. It's funny. Well, not funny... you know what I mean. I received an envelope one day full of money that I wasn't expecting, and throughout the rest of the day (starting with the teller at Nationwide pointing out that four of the cheques were duplicates), it slowly dawned on me what has probably happened.

I met mother on the Tuesday. That's a funny thing. We meet every Thursday, as we always did, and that time, she said she was free on Tuesday also, if I wanted to. I said maybe, I'll phone. The cheques arrived Friday. Can't remember what I did Saturday. Sunday I usually stay and clean as there's no bus service and the cleaning person comes. I cleaned, then walked down to New Tung shing restaurant. Oh God, there's a story. I'll tell you soon as I have thought about this. I'll make it bold so I remember to tell you. New Tung Shin Take–Away.

Anyway, it was closed. I phoned Mother on the way up and she was shocked when I told her this.

Then we met Tuesday. She had been happily watching TV as it turned out, and I didn't realise how much it would affect her. We talked the whole time. I mean we really connected. Even she said at the end how it was an unexpected bonus. The Thursday previously, it had basically been a confession type conversation. I heard a load of her secrets that I didn't know, then made her swear to take the secrets to the grave, and told her about half of mine. One of which, I'm not going to publish here, but how I learned to my

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'brother's' criminal conviction in a Leeds court. I'll say it perhaps the time of the New Tung Shing explanation. I'm even starting to think now how that 'essay'? will take shape.

We met Tuesday and she'd obviously been thinking about it. Apparantly he's never applied for a liqour license and she had always been curious, and had already had her suspicions that there would be some problem, but didn't know what.

Anyway, we talked a lot. She said that Anne wants me, in the light of what I'll be up against some day, to go and make myself known to her solicitors in case anything ever happens to her while I'm away as, 'it can take up to nine months for money to come through'.

... Actually, here in the cybercafe, I just heard 'hotferdumma', so they must be Belgians on reflection.

Just ten minutes left on my Internet ticket, so not so much time to get into anything meaty.

What shall I say?

I've destroyed almost all my diaries. The size of the suitcase forced me to be ruthless. It was difficult. The first was from 1986. Basically, the moment I left the insane stupidness of an institution that does everything it can to stop an inner intelligence flowering, I started writing. It continued ever since.

But all these books take up space, and if they do I'm not fluid. One day, I might be totally fluid, using a mail forwarding service and having nowhere to store everything. Currently I'm limiting my possessions to one suitcase which I'm leaving, and one bag which I'm taking.

But one day I might have to have both with me, and somewhere to store one near me. This is bringing me on to the subject of my will and the British Red Cross, which I don't really want to broach while the seconds are ticking.

Tuesday 8th June 2004

Leinster Inn, Bayswater, London

Good start to today, but it's dragged on. The shower's out of order; I've had enough of hostels.

Last night the time on the computer disappeared. I just typed 'eight minutes left' and it shut down. Today it's 1.20 an hour. I put in 1.50 and got less than that??? Anyway, I wrote notes of what I was going to say. You remember how I had this bad period once and basically wrote all the dysfunction in my life and its start in an essay called Confessions. There I mentioned how I became obsessed with marrying an Asian. I don't think I went far enough in that explanation.

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I used to think I was Chinese. I know it's nuts, but it's true. I grew up and I knew my father was Asian, but I didn't understand that it meant anything to me, that it was relevant in anyway.

In the lower school, ages five to nine, the teachers didn't like me, though I wasn't interested in what I wasn't interested in. The only non–whites were me and this Jamaican kid. I was friends with a Caucasian called Harvey and people used to think we were brothers, so I was passing without knowing it.

The Jamaican kid was absolutely tortured. Not by me because I was quiet. But the confident kids used to tie him up and roll him down the hill in a barrel. Push him in a confined space and have half the class lying on him so he was crushed.

Then we went to a middle school. The Jamaican didn't come, he went somewhere else. On the first day we were all lined up outside waiting to go in. This white kid came up, pushed me and shouted a racial insult at me which I wasn't quite sure what it meant.

Immediately this huge Jamaican kid came up, slammed him into a door, started shouting at him, insulting him racially with derogatory Caucasian terms.

This kid was cool. He was good at sports, stood up to teachers hurling insults at them, at weekends hung around town with cool black men — and I was always under his wing in some way. When he wasn't there, there was no violence, but always anti–Asian verbal insults. I learned they applied to me and why, and at home I used to weep in front of a mirror saying the insults to myself again and again until I had deliberately desensitised myself to them.

Well then we went to the upper school, ages thirteen to sixteen, though I got through about a year and a half until I stopped going. There it was different. There was only one Indian but he was Geeky. It was more Chinese and Vietnamese. I think this is when it started. On the first day there, they always find some kid committing a misdemeanor, go absolutely mad about it as a warning to all the others to stay in line. The victim is chosen at random... unless you're the only non–white, in which case it's you. The teacher walked in the class, accused me of chewing a piece of paper, screamed, dragged me round by my hair — all in front of the terrified kids who would be under her 'care' for four years.

The racial tensions in this school were palpable. Already, about half the white kids I knew we would go round as a group, but when we went to someone's house, just I had to wait outside on the request of their parents.

Anyway, the insults. In England, racial hatred is of two types. There's hating blacks and hating Asians. All Asians have the same stereotypes, and the insulting words bar one apply to all Asians rather than specifics. So what was said to me was said to the Chinese.

Of course, in those teenage years you start to find an identity. It was fated in a way as I always used to choose projects about the far east when I

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was just past toddling. But in those teenage years I used to just identify myself as Chinese. It's mad, but it's what happened.

I was living with my Aunt in Kingsley. She had a shop. When she leased it, she used the same insults, saying, 'I don't want the shop leased to a ****** as it would spoil the whole street', and so on. It's OK as she grew up in pre–war Belguim and so just has a different outlook. But in the whole street, there was only one Asian business: The New Tung Shin Takeaway, and I identified with the place in an unhealthy way.

I decided the way to become Chinese was to marry into the culture and leave the one I was in. I did a large piece of magic that took seven months and ended up creating the resources that got to me to Asia. Met a few slappers, fell in love as was the dream, couldn't sustain it and never got over it.

This is why today in London, I am walking round with letters, slides, keepsakes from Perth in 1993, heartbroken that some of it is damaged or missing, emotionally unable to face up to it and open the packages — have been alone for ten years and always will be.

Those early school years left bitterness in me that I think will never leave. It's much better since I found that I feel at home in India, and now from my Father I have papers that have some chance of giving me either residence or nationality. But many things, I just don't support England. I've never worked or paid income tax in this country and I'm jealously guarding the record. Because of all the trouble with my brother, I decided to make a will and leave whatever I may or may not end up with, to the Red Cross. But I wrote to them to ask if you can specify where the money is spent and explained my situation. They sent back a 'restricted to the use of India' clause.

Damaged goods.

There is an obsessive quality about me though. Recently I decided to change half of my travellers cheques and put them in a bond. England is a nanny state now; I haven't even been able to open a bank account because I simply can't get the correct documents.

I asked every travel agent in Northampton, only one agreed: Yorks Travel, 2 Newlands Walk, Market Square Entrance, Grosvner Entrance, Northampton, NN1 2EW (+11 1604 630261) I handed all the cheques over, the teller started the procedure. Then she started looking suspicious. The manager came in the back and looked at every cheque. Then she came back and said that she wouldn't buy them as on the reverse they have a little stamp 'issued by Standard Chartered Bank, Nepal'. She said that she has worked for ten years in Forex and never seen such a stamp as they are only ever stamped when they are cashed, thus they are void because they have already been cashed. Really, they should now be confiscated but I can have them back if I leave now.

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Since them, I've written to Standard Chartered and Amex, have written to the agent concerned every single day. Today I went to Standard Chartered and as I was explaining it, the Manager walked in who had just answered my letter and showed me the copy that should be in Northampton by now. Basically, the teller was at fault. Tomorrow I go to Amex to see what they say.

Nothing is of more importance to the innocent that innocence.

OK, no innocent person likes to be accused of theft, but I can't let go.

This is why my bag's so full.

The Internet timer says that I have ten minutes. There's no way I'm going to risk it. I'll write tomorrow, most of which will be spent in the American Express company due to Pluto Neptune conjunction on my IC as part of a grand trine with a nasty Venus Uranus opposition.

;–)

Thursday 10th January 2004

Leinster Inn, Bayswater.

Something went wrong with my credit number yesterday, for the computer I mean, but when the man gave me a refund he got really funny with me and it left me feeling weird.

Weird day generally today. I got up fairly late and felt very ill. The previous night I had found the isbn of a book about Georgia I though I would never find. I didn't know if it was exactly what I wanted, but there was one on the shelf in Victoria. So I went over there and sat in Victoria Gardens all day. I think I fell asleep a few times. Eventually I took pain killers and walked up to the library and did indeed manage to get the book out.

I'm sitting here with a can of Guinness. It really is a nice drink when you have it very slowly.

I'm going to make a start on the stuff from and of Junko tomorrow, if all goes to plan. While I was sorting out the travellers cheque mess I had to be over near Moorgate and went into Mary Le Bow church by chance, in passing really. But I think it's a nice place to go to prepare myself. Apparently is was designed by Christopher Wren, but it's significant to me because in it there's a bust to some admiral, who was the first Governor of whatever of Australia, so it's kind of significant to me.

It's a very hard task though. Very hard. If tomorrow I try and just face the negatives and transparencies, then it's nothing I haven't seen before somewhere, so I suppose it will be bearable. There's no respite in England though. I sit here in this rubbish little hostel, dirty and noisy. Last night was like anarchy so I went to sit outside. I've pretty much always done that whenever I stayed in hostels. But here the man moved me on, so I ended up

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with a drink right down sitting on some flower pot in Notting Hill. It reminds me of that vile place I was at in Hungry.

But I must do it, if I am to actually get somewhere and leave the country. If not, this kind of thing can go on forever and I'll just be stuck here. Recently when I had this deep connection with Mother, she did mention that if I stayed in the country, then, financially, she 'couldn't sustain it', and then went on to list all the reasons why I am better off there; which I wholly agree with.

So really, I should list what needs to be done. Everything that, once completed, means I can get on a bus. I'll copy the guidebooks so I know exactly where I'm going. I'm really getting ready now.

Last Steps

The last things to be completed before leaving the country.

• Make a will

• Copy the Junko treasures, have pictures printed and the whole thing safely stored in good packaging

• Photocopy the guidebooks and print out relevant information from the Internet

• Bond the last of my money at the Building Society

• Label the contents of the suitcase I am leaving behind

• See my sister, Darren, Par to say goodbye

• Dispose of the stereo, my last possession

• Copy the documents I'll need to take with me to apply for Indian residence

• Get my camera repaired

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That's a nice way to do it actually. As I complete each thing I'll just move it off the list.

Time's up on the computer, bye!

Friday 11th June 2004

Leinster Inn, Bayswater

Well, considering what I had planned to do today, it's gone surprisingly well. I went to bed last night at four am and there was someone sleeping there. I put the light on and ordered them out as only the top bunk was left and I'd never get into it. He was friendly enough, but in the morning there was a note from him to keep the sink clean. Personally I don't use it, but I think Kevin does, it's been blocked all the times I've ever stayed there.

So today, I went out and to SEEN photography in Notting Hill to find out the cost of reprints. Then I went to Whiteleys. I really love the Italian place in whiteleys. I go there so often, the girl noticed when I changed my drink. I'm on Red Bull now — need the energy. Apparently, the Whiteleys building was Hitler's favorite building in London, and he intended to run operations from there after the invasion.

The camera broke a few weeks ago but it still takes pictures, I just can't change the settings or format the cards. But they did this in Jessops. Really friendly. Then I went over to Victoria. In the coach station, I phoned Nationwide credit cards to have the late fee removed from the statement, but the person I was to speak to was off. Then I phoned a place that does cheap wills, only thirty pounds, but I'd have to go to an address in Kettring and it would be delivered a month later. I phoned the Nikon repair people, they're in Surrey but I could do it as a day trip via Richmond on the district line. I said that Boots never stamped the warranty when I bought it, I only have the credit card slip but he said no problem, just as Jessops had said they would.

Then I went to Victoria library and found the guidebook for Turkey. I Xeroxed all the pages I need, took about twenty minutes. It turns out you can go via Greece, so I don't know if it's best to make my way there? Would it be direct? Then, in the library I'm on about now, I realised that my credit card statement is missing. Not only does it have the full number on, but also the extension of the woman I was supposed to deal with.

Then I went to Mary le Bow Church. The original plan had been to go there and ask for, whatever I need, then go to St. James in Picadilly, and also under the Eros statue, all this steeling me to finally open the transparencies from Australia — and look at Junko for the first time in ten years.

By the time I sat down I was absolutely shattered. It was only half hour until the evening service and basically I just rested. My legs were total

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agony and after ten minutes it became obvious I couldn't fulfill the original plan. This happens most days to me due to the pain.

In the end I just thought, I'll do it here. As I said yesterday, there's nothing I haven't seen before. So I got the files I have kept them in, and opened the first one. It was of my idiot 'brother' in Sydney. The next was somewhere in Asia. So it went on.

Eventually, it was all opened. I can hardly believe it. All I have of her is a couple of transparency rolls and a negative. The latter is the day I went with her looking for a room. One set of trans was badly scratched by the Thai processor. The most important was both intact and present. We used to go to the kitchen in the youth hostel, actually, as I recall it was called Victoria Youth Hostel. We used to go and cook basically. It was only simple stuff, but I never let anyone cook for me again. Those times recently I had to go up to my fathers and have his partner make food, I donated money to the Red Cross for each meal.

The first time we ate like that, we had just moved in. I was out and when I came back, there was a note on my door saying, 'John, come to kitchen'. I still have this. When I went down there, she was cooking us a meal. So at that time, I took a transparency roll, which I have and is well developed. I have this lovely picture of food on the table with the food in direct sunlight and her in the shade. When I sent them back from Thailand, all the envelopes had fell apart and I worried for years as to whether it was safe or not. And now here I sit in London with it right next to me. The most important pictures I ever took. I'd set fire to all my negatives if I could keep just that. I'd give my soul, come to think of it, if I could just be back there.

I've just looked over this page, right from the start, while drinking a red wine in a can. We both used to have that. We would go half on a box, but she was really fond of it, which is lovely because no one likes a Puritan woman. I always do these things. There are some things we used to do together, and I only ever do them when I am alone and thinking of her. There are other things I have never done since we parted. I never played backgammon again, not pool. I never let anyone cook for me. I never ate a honey melon not a canaloni. I never loved, I never lived. What has happened here? Is she well?

I never had the last two things she wrote to me forwarded, I have them with me. This is going to be awful. It's going to be so hard.

But if I just do it. If I can open this stuff up and face it. I have to accept the last things she said to me, whatever they are. I have to find out what, from all this stuff, was lost in the post, and what (much more likely) this 'individual' who brought me up has either thrown away, destroyed or vandalised.

I was thinking how this might all be some inner karma. Mother had me and sent me, shortly after, to live with an Aunt on the other side of town. This was a woman whom, she knew was devoid of... I don't know what.

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I get to know mother when I'm older, she supports me in going away. Now I don't really want all my possessions cut up and vandalised, written on and thrown away, so I put it under lock and key and gave it to mother, who used it to keep the telly on, fair enough as it was all in a sturdy chest.

Then I have this thing, event, miracle, that happens to me in Perth. Of course, I NEVER would give Anne's address to Junko. So Mother received all the communication, it was copied and the copies were forwarded to me, the originals kept safe here with mother.

So I thought. As it turns out, as soon as they arrived there, they were forwarded to Anne, who got to work destroying each thing that came into her possession.

I was physically sick, and then ill for three days, when I saw those aerogrammes. I only glanced at them, and have to face them yet.

Some of it went addressed to my 'brother', who of course gave it straight to her.

There's one piece of good that might yet come of this. I'm getting all the information and situation I need to leave the country. It's going to be hard emotionally to leave; because everyone is so old. But when I finally open up that post and see what they have done to the only things I care about, I'll stand up, shoulder my bag – and walk out without hesitation.

Only ten minutes left, so I won't start anything meaty. Hasn't this page gone on a long time? I have already rough designs for a new one. I was adamant that this would only be one page, in pure white to illustrate my state of limbo, then I will be back at least doing something meaningful. In Victoria library, then have a 'new age special display', and I picked up a book about chaos magic. Publish America contacted me yesterday to ask why I never signed the contract for life magic. I think it's all pushing me towards doing what I came to life to do — until my 'brother's' phonecall of two years ago.

I said to M. that I have destroyed every picture of him, every note from him. As my sister said in reference to how she himself considers him 'he just doesn't exist'.

I'm going to have a drink and read my book.

Saturday 12th June 2004

Leinster Inn, Bayswater

Not the easiest of days. Are they ever?

I woke up really late. I don't really recall what I was doing the previous night, it was nothing significant. I went outside and sat on the stairs trying to decide what to do with the day now that it was past midday.

I looked at the camera and realised that I would have space for 130 pictures on the memory card. There are two diaries, one written long hand,

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and one dataday that recalls the things I did each day on that fateful year 1994. I decided to fill these, copy onto disc, blank the card for Junko's correspondence.

There's a kid in here who's only twenty but looks exactly like Vladamir Putin.

I washed, Kevin was sleeping but we have a new roommate, Alex, he's the one I threw out my bed but turns out to be really friendly. I was pretty much leaving as he came in, and I walked up to the telephones outside of Queensway station. I was trying to phone a solicitors information service to see if there's anywhere local to do my will. It was a recorded message.

So I walked down to Hyde Park, where the whole thing began. With me were the two diaries. It's a million miles to Kennsington Gardens, so I went some of the way and by leg started buckling under me with intense, sharp pain. I get this all the time, but never mention it. It usually means I either have, or have had, too much weight on my back. I saw a likely looking tree and went towards it.

It's a long time since I lie on my back under a tree — mainly because it's so painful getting up again. I risked it and went on my back, my feet rested high against the tree (which always helps the pain for some reason) and used my bag to rest my head against.

I cut my ear while shaving this morning, but it's been bleeding all day. I have to keep scooping dried blood out my ear.

Under the tree, I started praying, generally, and for the strength to do what I had to concerning the plan of facing up to the diaries and copying the transparencies. I had the idea of using my seperate smaller cards for all the things I want to print out.

The prayer turned into a kind of conversation, like how could I possibly get myself out of this situation. I don't only mean being in England, which is remedied by following the steps outlines yesterday and buying a bus ticket. I mean generally, overall. I walk around knowing no one, with painful memories and no connections. I lived my life in two weeks in 1994, I had no life before, and none since, and now I'm crippled and still haven't earnt a penny... not exactly true. I earned twenty five dollars for my article about self–publishing. When I left school I did nothing, then went on a training course at a factory where I earned less than my rent, left when the training was over and the actual job would earn me twenty pounds over my rent. I worked at Oxfam, went to college, temped part time in Thailand as a teacher where I was fired because I was useless. That's it. That twenty five dollars is the only legitimate wage I've ever earnt in my life.

One of the things that came up in this conversation, when's my ear going to stop bleeding?, was Frank De Marco, who's had my manuscript Life Magic for around seven or eight months. The thought popped into my mind to phone him.

When he originally asked to see the whole work, I sent it explaining that there was a time issue as another publisher had asked for it. If you've read

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this page from the beginning, then you know that the hope was that he would get back to me with the positive reply before I got back, which would validate both the ten year trip, and my life, ... life purpose.

So the thought came to phone him. The day had been sunny and overcast, but all of a sudden, a strong breeze rippled the leave above me which I was staring into. It felt like I was being instructed and was just right in some way.

I thought I would do the oracle, then recalled that although I don't have my actual I–Ching book with me, I do have the one I had in Australia. The one I used when with Junko before she left PTL to be with her Mother. It would be so symbolic to ask the last questions before leaving from this book, especially asking the question about Frank.

What is wrong with my ear? It's always this one. This is where the cyst was and it's been ringing since December.

Anyway, then I considered how far it was to Kennsington Gardens, where I planned to do the copying, so I thought I would just look at it where I was, under this tree. So I opened up the package and went through it.

An Interlude

A while ago someone wrote asking how to buy the book, as I took down the on–line from. Because I'm so busy, I just forwarded a free one. He wrote back about it today, around two months later.

Hi,

Thank you ever so much for your kind gesture of the free ebook ‘the miracle of expectation’. The statement ‘You are everything you expect’ is the most profound thing I've ever read and it really knocked me off my feet . Your book has set me on the path to fulfillment and peace with myself and my family.

The idea that happiness is a thought or a feeling and that a person could be perpetually happy regardless of circumstance is fascinating.

I can't thank you enough and I look forward to seeing your book or books on the shelf soon. This concept transcends any of the books I've seen and I believe could revolutionize the self actualization movement.

thanks

al baker

And Mian also wrote.

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Hi John

How are you????

I hope that you oke in last email you wrote that you will send me more email when you in LONDON But till nou I don't get any email??? How that possible??? or you are to busy H?eeeeeee.

Or you don't like send me email anymore!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This all what I have and see you again

Mian

This was nice to receive, well the first one anyway, considering what I've done today.

Anyway, to continue with today's adventures. I looked into the books.

The one I thought was a diary was a general scrapbook. It includes Asia and other such rubbish. The only significant things there are:

A beermat from the place where I met Junko Imanishi.

I sachet of green tea from Japan which she gave me.

A note from her. It says ‘John, have you finished work yet. I hope so. I should be back about five. Miss You’.

I remember the day she left that. I was supposed to be writing my article for Nova, a New Age newspaper, which was published. I got back later and there was the note on the door telling me to come to the kitchen and when I got there she was cooking dinner. It was our first night in Victoria Youth Hostel as I recall. Maybe I should mount the two things together.

Tomorrow, I plan to face the whole box of correspondence. I only have what she sent, not vice–versa or I'd be here with a suitcase. That article in Nova, Western Australia's largest alternative newspaper, was the only thing in print I ever saw.

My times up! I'll come on tomorrow, of course.

Sunday 13th June 2004

Leinster Inn, Bayswater

I've done it. Yep, I went out and faced up to it. I left here about midday, and thought I'd buy some special food. No food is good in England, so I just buy whatever is cheapest. Today I bought a feta cheese salad and mixed Indian snacks. I had the box with me, so it was quite heavy. I walked up to Queensway, then into Hyde Park. I was up by Black Lion Gate and needed

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somewhere to sit. There was space before the railings on the actual fence itself, so I sat there. I noticed what a lovely day it was and just relaxed for a couple of minutes. Well, about twenty. Then I started walking.

I went for ages looking for a tree to sit under. It was so hot but there were people everywhere. I ended up on the bench where I did most of the other copying, inside the enclosed structure, part enclosed I should say. I ate the Indian food and salad with a cold green tea. There was a very old lady with two people, one of which would have been her off–spring. She kept saying how she thought there would be more people. She said it every ten minutes.

I walked off looking for a tree. I walked up towards Marble Arch, I mean in that direction. I went past the children's park, up slightly to the right of this near the road there was a tree which had an slight valley before it so it was easy to get up and down from there. I lie and thought for a long time.

Then I opened the box.

It's good and bad news.

Only one aerogram has been scrawled across. I opened the book, 'Catcher in the Rye' she gave me as a birthday gift. I opened the ring, which I had assumed was the one she put on my finger in Church but it was another gift she had sent me from Melbourne. Some of the letters and cards I recall being sent copies of are missing, though a few have a black and white xerox in their place. That absolutely broke my heart. The letter just after I left saying she missed me was intact, with a few photographs and cards.

After all these years, it was so hard. I read some of her mail. Over such time, I've come to recall it all as one way, it was me wanting her. But now I read that stuff, she was upset to see me go.

I lie and thought. I cried a lot. Then I did some copying. I lie for a lot longer, then went to the cafe in Whiteleys. I made an inventory of what I received year by year, to see what was missing.

The last time I heard, mother said she had written with a web address. I never had this forwarded due to the mental breakdown. This is missing, so the last two communications at least I haven't seen. The web address I got over the phone was www.unep.org.jp. In one letter I haven't seen, of around 2000, she mentions she was working part time for the United Nations Enviromental Project. I didn't know that until today.

I recall I had a photo which Anne Xeroxed of her in Paris when she was travelling, this is missing. Also I was told there were two rings, one's missing. Another gift described to me was an incense holder in the shape of a cat — this isn't there. I'll double check my bag tomorrow.

So much stuff seems to be lost. The only things I really care about in the world, and they have been treated with such thoughtlessness. I came home and scanned a few things because I thought it would be therapeutic to finally put some of this within the diary. Yes, you can finally see the person behind my... I'm not sure what you'd call it. It depends how kind you want to be.

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Note: on the web page, there followed some pictures of Junko Imanishi and my times with her in Perth, plus pictures of keepsakes etc.

—–

Next Day

I want Junko Imanishi

I can only live with the thought that she is somewhere on the planet and there's the remotest chance. Since I left, there hasn't been a day that I haven't thought of our time together. What if I phoned her? Now I opened the old diaries, I have her old number, if it's changed then maybe the operator can find her? But what if the call went badly? As it is, I have the post up until 2000. It went until 2002, just as I broke down as it turns out. Now, I have her address to write to, a remote chance that in a long time, when we are very, very old, that she wants something different and I am doing well. It's not likely, but if it exists, then I can carry on. I can get up when I feel like sleeping, write when I feel like relaxing, travel when I feel like staying, strive when I feel like giving up. If I phone, perhaps it would go well and we could at least speak. I wouldn't mind if it was at least one a year. But if she didn't want to... what would I get up for and pursue my dreams. I just searched the web but there's nothing about her, except what I've written myself. I wanted to go to the cybercafe today to scan everything I have from her, though the scanner was occupied. I did find the silver ring that we took together to a church in Perth, dipped in Holy water and she put on my finger. That must be my most treasured possession. The cross stitch equals it. I'm not sure I can ever let go. I need to see the last post that she sent me to know what I can do about it. She doesn't feel as I do; it's always been that way. All I can do is bequeth her my possessions and wait until I die. Unless, I phone her? How would I ever face up to this though. She doesn't feel as I do. At best we would be friends, which I would live for. If she doesn't want that, how would I carry on. I'm tired now. I went and sat by the plant pots in Notting Hill. I have a Stella Artoise with me. I'm so tired, but it's only eleven thirty. Is there any way out of this? I've been like this for ten years now. All the dates of when we met and when we did what I now have with me, starting in October 1994. So this year I will be somewhere going through this anniversary, and it will be too hard for me. So I could phone. I obviously need to talk about it. But it's like stalking her. But I've never really talked about it. Who would there be who's better? But she would think it weird. Why did she stop writing? I won't know until the last mail is found. Perhaps she would like a phone friend for now. I would pay the calls. Only twice a year, and she can say anything she likes to me. But, if she doesn't want it... I've found out, and have nothing to get up for. But....... if that's all I get up for, I should really know the true situation. But can I take being totally, wholly 100% alone in the world?

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I love her

I think it's Tuesday.

Dream: Bathroom mistake

All I recall of the dream was that I was in a hostel and I went to the toilet to urinate, then realsied that the bathroom had moved and I was accidentally peeing on someone. Don't ask me the interpretation.

I woke up feeling bad, but decided to copy all the stuff from Junko. I went and had an ice–cream first. I never eat them. I'm not mad on the stuff to be honest, but I think she liked it. Well, I know she liked it because she ate it. Once were in Victoria food hall and there was this picture of a huge ceramic bowl brimming full of all sorts of ice cream, so she ordered one. When it came it was a plastic cup, tiny, with three scoops in, each less than a golf ball in size.

Another time, we were out in the main street in the tourist area, and she had a cone, she chose toffee flavour. So this was the example of desire that I always used in Life Magic.

It's hard to imagine the kind of day I've had. I can't describe how I feel. I went to the scanner, there are two but both are broken. So I brought back all the stuff and went to Paddington Library. I renewed my Central Asia book and then went to Victoria. In the library there wasn't the guidebook of Greece I wanted, as it turns out that this is the gateway to Turkey. Then I found it just sitting there as a new acquisition. So I at least have that now. It turns out that flying is an awful lot cheaper than the bus; I'll have to have a good think about it.

I went to the Mary Le Bow church, but it was closed. On the way home there was a lovely poem on the underground by Carol Rumens, 1944, that captured how I was feeling. I saw it after noticing someone reading a Jack Keuroak book, and Junko gave me the DharmaBums to read in Sydney. The poem said that a broken tree can live without flowering buds. I thought, yes, that's it.

I had to go and buy more Internet time.

This is driving me mad. I haven't eaten in around four days. It feels like I'm dreaming all the time. What is wrong with me? She only ever wanted to be friends. I remember seeing this thing on TV recently. It was an assortion of tales about obsession. There was this man who had lived in England in the 40's. In the war all these refugees from London came up and he watched this girl he liked. One day he plucked up the courage to go and kiss her. She smiled. After that the war ended and she was sent back to London.

When he became an adult, he looked her up to see that she had emigrated to Australia. He accepted that, married someone else, and lived he never really stopped thinking about this London girl. One day he confessed to

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his wife, and she accepted that. The wife got cancer, and out the blue her last words were 'If you really want her, you'll find her'.

Bah, it's a long story, but he did find her, and they ended up married.

.... so what's this got to do with me?

Because, there must be some way out of this emotional mess. I knew people before her, and no one since. When my plane flew away, I felt like I was going to start screaming and get them to land it. I don't recall what happened after that but I'm pretty sure I blacked out. I woke up and there was really bad turbulence. I have been fearful of flying ever since then.

I arrived in Singapore and walked round in a daze for a week, then regained normality... but my life had just stopped in some way.

Why? Why was it different? She didn't feel for I as I did for her. When I met her I told someone that she was the one, and they said I was on the rebound. Just before I passed out on the plane, the only way I could not scream and run to the cockpit was to keep repeating to myself 'I will see her again, I will see her again'. I nearly went mad anyway.

So what to do now?

—–

I'm going after her.

I've just typed up what I did today and then lost it. I must have pressed the wrong button.

Anyway, I was talking about the strange new person in the room. I was nervous having the only things I care about in the world with me. So I went to St. Matthews Church, Bayswater, but it was closed because Europeans only perform religious rituals. So I kept walking onto Hyde park and entered above the Black Lion Gate, near the coach park, and as is my habit now, I lie on my back under a tree. This is nice because I can use the trunk to help myself to standing position now.

I was praying for a solution, and then it came to me. The situation is this. I was near nervous breakdown in Australia in 1994. I met her and projected what I needed, a relationship. She went for me because the same thing had happened to her. She had fell in love, fell apart, and decided not to ever get that close again. Basically, to avoid attachment. Because I had got so obsessed with finding such a person before I even left England, I attached my emotion to her in a way that she didn't want. The reason she's been so kind is that she realised that I've felt for her the way she felt for someone else. He was an Iranian, so he looked a lot like me as he wore a cap as I did at the time.

I remember when I told her sitting on a flower pot in the street that I loved her. She flinched. I assumed because she was afraid of experiencing the same hurt.

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Unless she was realising that now, because of what I just said, I would go through the same experience that she had just gone through.

When she met, she referred to her lover as a friend. I assumed that meant... friend. It really meant that she would never be as close to someone. I asked her if she would ever be over this and she said not now, but she doesn't say never.

After I left, I owed her twenty Australian dollars, and she asked me to phone but she was still with the other man. I didn't. Why didn't I phone when I was in Sydney, as the other one did and talked her round. Now all this time later, should I?

What if she stopped writing because she's married? Did she heal this much? She sent something to the wrong address, the post before last, so perhaps she thinks I don't receive things because I didn't ask for post to be forwarded since the breakdown. Oh shit, I love her.

I phoned M. eariler. I tried to ask what had happened about the post, but I broke down. I texted yesterday. She could tell that there was something wrong, but didn't know what. I managed to ask about the post earlier. She has no idea. It was a long time ago so she has no idea what I'm talking about. She doesn't know, but at least thinks the last post that came is in her drawer. She'll look out the rest but it might have been misfiled. I've never told anyone about how I feel, except just after the breakdown.

So I did this magic in the nineties, and ended up obsessed with the woman who had just learnt the lesson I had learnt. Avoid excessive attachment and desire. From the moment I met her until the last I heard from her, she just kept offering me friendship. When I think about it now, especially that she might have married, friendship is good. To speak to her once a year. To accept that there's not that possessive love, just real friendship.

My times almost running out, so I'll save this, go toilet, and come back.

Ten Minutes Later

So what, realistically, is the plan? Realistically being the situation, my mind and life. What will I do, what can I achieve to get myself out of this insane mess?

I tell you my real regret. I left her in Perth because I had already arranged to meet my 'brother' in Sydney. I thought it would be OK when I got back. The last post I got from her was Christmas Day 2001, the next day my 'brother' phoned, and instigated a mental breakdown. So this is why I stopped reading the post, and so lost everything. One of the things he said was that 'you don't have any friends', but in actual fact, lost me my only friend.

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It's nuts. I know. But look at me. What else can I aim for? There's no other passion in my life, it's all I aim for. She came with this message of seeking friendships, and I messed everything up. But now, looking over all of the post, I can see what she wanted. Friendship. I'd be a weird, loser partner. So, you know. I had a whole life of unhappiness. Then ten days of happiness, of playing backgammon in Victoria Gardens Food hall and talking up on the roof of the YHA. If I die today I would look back on my life and say I did this and that, ... and had ten happy days. It was the connection.

One of the things I copied today was a letter I received from her in Sydney. She was telling me where to meet her when I got back. But she was also angry because I had written, concerning by 'brother', that 'I have finally met someone more childish than you'. It was just some playful sarcasm, but she obviously took it badly 'since you have just sent me ten letters complaining about your brother'.

Isn't that ironic, concerning the situation. Also, she drew a little map of were I was to meet her. Included, written in her own hand, was HYDE PARK, which I think sums up exactly what has happened.

I didn't realise until now. But what to do. Lying under that tree in Hyde Park today, I had the insight. What is the one thing that is constant in this situation on my part? ... A large and massive amount of energy. I've lost all energy from my life in any other way. So what still impassions me? There's only one thing, seeing her again. She only wants to be friends, and if this is the case, it's better than how I am now. What if I knew her, as a friend, tried to lessen my attachment? Did everything I could to align myself to seeing her again, as a friend. If she's with someone, well, she was when I knew her. When I was with her and I came up with this idea of being reincarnated as a cockroach and a cat, I also asked if I could have her permission to use magic to bring us together. She cried and said yes... but she did consent. It's wrong, perhaps, to use these energies to try and entrance a person into a relationship, but if both she consented and I have accepted a friendship would be so precious, a friendship, not only would it be permissible, but there would be massive amounts of emotional energy available to create the abundant circumstances where a meeting would be happy and fun, and deep, stop, enough words!

So how would I deal with a phone call? Considering that I almost broke down earlier on the phone to mother when all I was doing was asking where the post was. Easy. Have someone help me. Enough. I have to go toilet again. I'll write tomorrow.

Thursday???

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Leinster Inn, Bayswater.

Message to: The Samiritans.

Bad Times in Bayswater

What's the best thing to do, if you really want to phone up. If you're losing your mind and have to say something to another person.

But what if you can't speak? If it's something that's ten years old, and has never gone away. No one has any idea that it happened or that you feel this way about it. What if you've never said anything, to anyone, and right now, here in June 2004 nearly ten years later, you're walking around the parks of London, going insane with pain.

How do you phone up, when every time you try to say what's happened, even vaguely, you get choked up and start crying, that the emotional pain seizes your body and you just can't say anything. You can cry and whimper but no words ever come forth, and no human being will ever know what happened and how you are feeling now. If it's absolutely impossible to say one word about it, or even think about it.

Do you think I should medicate myself, just to start talking about it? But I've lived abroad, I don't have a family doctor anymore. I have some diazepam at home in Northampton, but I'm in Bayswater now. Maybe I'd only need two to relax enough to get the first words out.

I'm in a cybercafe now. I'm weeping as I write this, but it's night and no one can see me. Don't tell me to phone and the person will wait until I can speak, because it's been to long. It's too much. I can't even think about it. The closest I get is sitting in the park, where I weep, and no one notices. It's dark there. It's in Notting Hill.

I went to the church today. I'm very spiritual but don't follow a particular religion. It was the St. James on in Picadilly. You can write your prayers on a piece of paper, and leave them on the board, then light a candle. I didn't write down what's happened. I just wrote asking to pray for me, that I get through this. On Sunday, it will go on the altar. Perhaps they read it out, I've never been to a Sunday Service.

There was a market outside. I walked around and looked, and there was this 'green caravan scheme'. It said there were leaflets in the church, so I went and got one. It's a drop in councelling service, run by people on training courses to be councillers. It listed all the reasons you might want to talk. I read it and there was a string quartet playing Mozart for free; I think it was a practice session. I sat and cried as I read the leaflet, because I'm desperate to say what's happened.

But there's no way I can go in. I can't say the words. I don't speak to anybody, about anything, so I can't imagine myself saying it. I don't even make small talk with people; I can't say this.

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But I'm going insane now. In ten years, I've avoided everyone, haven't spoken to anyone about anything, let alone this. But now I'm going mad. It's physically impossible to get the words out. I'll have to have two diazepam, it won't work any other way. It's OK because they were prescribed for my intense fear of flying. If I only want two, to get the words out on the phone, do you know where I'd get them in London? I'll get them, take them, make the call, and say it's this, this has happened to me ten years ago, this is how I feel now and what I have to do, these are my options, and I want to be well and I don't want to feel like this every single day for the rest of my life about something that happened so long ago.

I'm still crying. It got really busy a while ago. Someone sat next to me but still didn't notice me. They've all gone now; I'm alone here. It's nicer like that. Strange isn't it? So alone and so desperate to say what's happened, but I avoid everyone and am relieved when people get away from me. Is that normal? Is that what everyone else writes? You must read some really weird emails from some really weird people.

You know when you go through a park or are on the tube, there's someone sitting there crying or wrapped in emotional pain and you get scared in case they mug you so keep walking? I'm one of them.

It's OK to keep walking. I keep walking too. I go down to the convenience store and there's this woman sitting outside begging. She's blind with a guide dog and I always wonder, if she has the support somewhere that she can be given a guidedog, then why doesn't' she get everything she needs? She hears people walking near her and banters, trying to get money, and is funny and sarcastic, but we all ignore her. I don't say anything, because I haven't spoken to anyone for ten years.

It's mad isn't is? We're all walking around with this emotional pain in some form, but we never take the risk, to notice someone and ask them if they're OK, to tell them that we're human too, and this is what's wrong with me and let's sit and cry together and heal together because life is this hard and we're all alone deep down.

I want to walk around and see all these lonely people, run up and touch them, hug them, and scream that I'm one of them. Every person that I pass there on the street must have a story, is it as bad as mine? Does it matter? The very fact that we're alone means we that all have something in common. There should be a union for people who live a life and just can't be the same as everyone else.

I think I've written too long. My credit ran out two times and I kept saving the mail and buying more time. Do you really read these mails? Do you understand what I'm saying? Do you read them out loud to a colleague, or just in your head? I'm saying that I'm tired of feeling like this and I want to be well. In ten years I've spoken to no one, I don't let people touch me in any way. But I want to start to be well. I just can't get the words out. I have to find somewhere in London for just two diazepam, to relax my body, to make the sobbing controllable, to say what's happened, that it's this and I feel this way and I'm going insane and I never say a word to anyone, I don't know anyone,

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and I want to speak to a human, to see what they feel, and for me to feel like a human.

I can't speak to the person that I see. I want to go there, get the medication, and go somewhere else. To be alone and relax, as much as I ever relax nowadays, get it straight in my mind, and phone. Is that mad? Is there any chance?

Where shall I go?

Monday

Received this today

Dear Sir.

I was inspired by your messages. I am thanking you for giving me so much of useful information.

Thank you and may God bless you.

Loga samastha sugino Bhavanthu

your's

sincerely

Baskaran.

Malaysia.

Thank you very much for letting me know that my writing has helped you in some way. I do appreciate the encouragement.

John.

The Next Friday Morning, around 1am

Leinster Inn, Bayswater London

Junko's Letters (Dream)

I was with mother in a car. I said that if I couldn't speak to her, then I would fly to Osaka.

Then I was in some brightly lit place, opening her post. There was a letter, and a little piece of paper which had been ripped up, and a friendship band.

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Interpretation

I wasn't sure. Initially I thought it meant that she was saying that my address had changed.

I've thought about nothing else since I wrote. We did tie friendship bands on each other. I thought maybe she was not wanting it anymore. But in the dream it was a new, whole one. Also, I think the ripped up writing had her handwriting on.

So it could be that she's moved and realised that I don't get her mail as I never wrote to her new address. So she waits until something comes. This would explain why she once sent something to the wrong addrewss. She had gone and so has to read the mail in retrospect.

I spoke to M. Everything that I don't have with me has been lost or thrown away. I can tell from her voice that she doesn't even care. Maybe I should have said how I was feeling all this time. Even if they knew, no one would care. She's Asian and so doesn't count. The only person they ever got excited about was a white woman I saw.

The feelings in my mind are much clearer now. When I knew her, the first day we spoke alone and I told her how broken I was, she offered me friendship, and I pushed her into a relationship she didn't want. She's always offered friendship since then.

That thing I did in Hyde Park worked. I came to the earth a soul of obsessive desire, latched it to her, and with her kindness, support and friendship of ten years, she's taught my soul one of the, the main, lesson it came to learn.

We have all these energies within ourselves, like love, compassion, warmth and we radiate them out to the people around us as friendship. We look at them and think, what can I give that person, how can I make them better, pick them up, believe in their good qualities, aim higher — for the stars.

And if you do what I have done for ten years, then you attach it all to one person or object. Rather than the energy basking them in warmth like the heat of the sun, it burns them as it tries to mould them into the shape you want them to be.

I've learnt the lesson. Thank you Junko Imanishi. Now, I just miss my only friend. I have mental pictures of her in trouble somewhere, upset, alone, and I feel a desperate fear, longing for her happiness. Then I have pictures of her marrying or having a child, and I genuinely feel such tremendous relief it's tangible.

I had to leave her because my 'brother' was coming to Sydney, and I lost her for a while, but serendipity brought us back together.

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Then I stopped reading the post for two years because of the nervous breakdown caused by my 'brother'. But despite of this, I'll find her.

I want to know her, to know that she's happy, in any way. And if she's with someone it's great. I know I'm truly healed now. I'm going to be very alone in the world one day, and I can start off anew with just one special friend of a long time.

What's in the last post. What if I'm wrong and something happened and she thinks it's best to not have contact. The contents of that last post is killing me. It's at Mothers. I must wake up tomorrow and get it. I can't stand not knowing. Pray it's that she moved, has a number, but whatever it is, I'll find her. I can only carry on with her friendship. Even if I'm not allowed to speak to her but I speak to her friend who tells me that she's happy. Then I'll be inspired to carry on because I want to share the things I plan to do with a friend. I'm going to be so alone, unless I find her.

I'm already looking at airfares. The last night I bumped into her, we went to a Greek place. I didn't recall the name but it turns out I saved a lighter I bought from there. It was called Plaka, and this is the place where I would need to stay if I was in Greece. I have all the photocopying I need done, bar a bit. I'll get some laundry done. I think I might be able to leave in seven days. It all depends on what's in this last post. Here is the place to open it, where I can go to the Japan centre if I need help finding a number, and can speak to a UK international operator.

If she doesn't even like me, I'm honestly fine, as long as I can always know that she's alright.

I want to give her good news. It inspired me to contact Frank; the oracle said do so when the time is right... and I didn't even ask it this time.

Bayswater, London.

Friday 25th June 2004

I'm sick of feeling like this. I can't get over it. I realise now that it is the price of obsession... I just don't know what to do about it.

I went to Northampton today. I kept phoning M. but she wasn't there. Sometimes the phone wouldn't even connect. I went up anyway, thinking that I have to know and so, if my 'brother' is there, I'll wait and do it in a taxi; and to hell with it all because I have to know.

I got to Northampton and still couldn't get her, and so phoned A. She didn't know. At M's bar, people I don't know kept answering the phone, and so I put it down, being a weirdo who doesn't speak to strangers.

So I went up to A's place and the cleaner was there. I ran in, because I'm in such a state nowadays, and asked her to phone M and ask where the post was. There was some on the stairs, but not the stuff from Japan because she has no idea what this means. So I went upstairs and got a pair of trousers

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and my washing powder and conditioner. M wasn't there but at the hospital it turns out that she had to have therapy on her hip.

What the hell was that? A Taiwanese student who gave me crisps last weekend just came up and went Hiiiiii really seductively.

Anyway, I came straight back to London without saying anything. She could tell from my voice... although perhaps not, that something was wrong. No one would have any idea. I'm not really a human to anyone. I'm this fragile thing that all people that get to know me protect, and in some ways it's true. It's not true that I don't have normal human emotions though. I just pretend not to.

This is what's happened with J. She knows me too well. Times she's written and got sentimental, it's been about the rooftop when I've told her to look at the stars and follow your dream. This is what she's drawn little pictures of. The person... I don't know. The person I was looking for someone to help me become.

She always said, do things for yourself. I suppose. But, you know. It's good to do the web work and follow my dream... but, you need someone rooting for you, someone who wants you to be happy and is so when you are.

There was this man muttering behind me just now that he didn't have a full pound for the Internet, so I gave him one. He gave me 90p back. I don't know why I did that. I just realise how important it is to give now. You know who taught me, the very person I might be about to lose.

But what's in this last post?

I phoned M. earlier, and accidentally woke her up. G. might be there tomorrow, but I don't know. I have to phone at midday. There's only one way to resolve this mess.. to find out what she said. I've put out far too may prayers for this not to be fully resolved. Ha, maybe I should give a one pound loan to the Taiwanese woman. Then again, a woman who is friendly to a man who is the weirdo in the corner is usually suspect. Then again... I met one who just wanted to give and always has done.

It would be good to have good times again. With J. With anyone I suppose. I've known her so long and we have the shared memories... so it's different I suppose. I don't know. I don't know what to do anymore. I want to go, be away from here (can I take the Taiwanese student).

That's playing on my mind now. Why is she making such an effort to know me? If I stayed here long enough, that would play out.

Earlier, I imagined phoning J. After a day of praying and excitement, the enemy of magic, doubt, set in. She must be so different, and so much of what she's ever done to pick me up must have been done out of a sense of compassion, or good old feeling sorry for me. How could we actually speak now?

We did get on though; then again, people are just more formal on the phone, especially after ten years when they're married and frightened

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concerning a person who would obsess for ten years. Too kind. Far too kind, feeling, aware of others feelings —– why I fell for her I suppose.

What would be a good resolution of the situation. Let me think a way out so at least I know what to pray for.

I think I'm too isolated, so much for so long, that one day I'll be totally alone and what I insist on doing with my life doesn't make any income, so it makes me a grasping person.

What if I met some people, was less alone and new friends helped me establish a friendship with J. An actual friendship, that means taking true joy in the other person's happiness, however they find it. Maybe I could meet a group of Japanese people who would translate for me as her mother doesn't speak English.

I realise the way I've manipulated her over ten years, she only ever offered friendship and only ever did... and I pushed her into a relationship that she didn't want and made her keep contact all this time. I hate me. She's probably relieved to have the excuse of the address change to lose contact with me.

I need to meet new people to help me resolve this situation. I would love it if J. didn't feel obliged to keep contact, knew that I was healed and only yearning to know of her happiness and give more than I take and be truly happy to think of her with someone else. Move on and be successful with my dreams and share it with her and new people, share her successes, and just, follow my star.

There's no way to know the resolution until I know the mail. I must get up and get this sorted and get moving.

Around an hour later

It's nearly three am.

I'm just someone she met while travelling and feels obliged to write to. That's just the way it is. I'm so hot and tired sitting here writing this. The Taiwanese woman still sits here. Why doesn't she go and sit with the others. This whole exercise is about me not being alone. I've destroyed every remnant of my life that other people haven't already destroyed, and I'm sitting trying to think of ways forward. I suppose this whole episode was hoping to have someone to talk to on occasion who shares my dream. Who knows me for who I actually am. Someone just came in and grasped my arm and said 'God, you're not still on that same computer'. The first thought that came to my mind was that maybe I'll be able to make contacts like this when I'm alone. I met him earlier in the laundry room. I can tell that he's had an eye on me for a while as a loner that needs someone. I just know that from the way he makes an effort. He keeps patting my back and being really friendly. It's ... I don't know.

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I think this is much of the problem really. I remember when I was at school I got in trouble with some kid and they took me home and all the parents were angry, and then when they took me back they realised that I was living alone. Then they were sympathetic.

That is much of the problem isn't it? It's the allowed dependency. Junko mentioned this. She didn't like it. It's wrong really. I don't know what else to do. I've had enough myself. But, maybe it can still work out. I think over the years, the continued contact has been a mixture of compassion, a realisation of how alone I am, a deep kindness from a good heart, and that's it.

So what to do now? I really can't stay. Is it that I would fear the friendship lost forever if the news is bad? Why can't I tell anyone how I feel? What's the matter with me? I think this whole story of obsession would make a good book one day, but I'd only feel satisfied if I knew that she was reading it. That's what I've been doing for ten years. I didn't get the woman I fell for so I've spent all this time trying to impress her and buy her emotions.

Always trying to escape how isolated a person such as myself must feel... until they are well. Is there wellness? Is everything I write going to be of any good to anyone? If that isn't the case, then what's the point. All this time I've acted in this obsessive way and tried to impress her with demonstrations of how deeply I feel for her, so that one day she will finally inderstand that I was never lying and come back. but really, all the time she knew I was never lying, but just didn't feel the same way. It's like if there's some bird doing a mating dance in front of a female bird, trying to impress her, but she already has a mate. It's this instinctual behavior. Perhaps. I lost someone, and spent ten years in a mating dance of gifts and mail and perhaps I should just accept that I am alone?

If only I could give J. the book. I would feel vindicated. I emailed Frank recently, as I mentioned, as the coming pressure made me and I felt that my dreams and the oracle were pushing me towards the same action, that I had been held back from until the time was right. Perhaps a good conclusion would be to find new friends, go away and email her with the good news, that I have achieved the star that I was always seeking and at that time, before the obsession, tried to inspire her towards.

I love touch typing. There's something about it isn't there. Like I'm doing now... there's something about leaning back with your fingers over a keyboard and staring at the ceiling while you have each though come into your mind and your fingers just relate that into words, so quickly and perfectly. This is one of the most useful things I've ever learnt.

No, I'm an idiot. I tried to impress her, with my mating dance, of writing novels with her in them and she's been asking to see them ever since. There's only one way to be vindicated over all that's happened, and that is to actually find the success that she once expected from me. So then what? I'm the best dancing bird? The brightest plume? That's not it at all; not any more. I just miss my friend and want another game of backgammon, and to feel like a normal human being for another ten days of my life.

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Does she like anything about our communication? Is she being kind, or does she like anything about the situation. Is it good to be remembered by a lover for every day of every year for ten years... or is it freaky? She has a life and is a different person. Yes, there is the Hyde Park synchronicity, but so what. I once asked her if I could do magic to bring us back together, and she said yes. So, is it the best thing, or should I just let it go as a painful piece of magic gone awry?

Past all the magic and the obsession... she is a lovely human being. People in Japan are taught to feel obligated to do many things, and I'm sure that this was much of it... I just miss my friend. I really wouldn't care if she was loving someone else. I sit alone here in the transitoriness of my situation, and I just want my friend back, if only for a moment. And I know that she doesn't feel the same way, and I know the feelings were never fully reciprocated on her part. But I would give up everything to have just five minutes up on a rooftop over the backgammon board, looking at the stars and talking about following a dream and having a destiny.

I think that if I hadn't have spent most of my childhood years living in a house alone, then I wouldn't have such an obsessive mind. But I can't change what's happened to me, so it is an irrelevance. I've just become this way over the years, and now I have to try and dig some way out.

It would be just so much easier with my friend. If I could give her the book then I would feel that some of the energy which she has put into the relationship over the years has been paid back and that it always meant something. I don't want to feel that I'm letting her down after she's encouraged me in so many ways.

I'm going to go and lie down in a moment. I'm tired of this. I don't want to keep thinking like this. I don't want to think. Perhaps I've always been looking for someone to rescue me. Perhaps I just always wanted a mother and this is what the whole search was about. But that would just be blaming it on someone else. We have to be responsible for ourselves. We have to go forward with our heads held high, looking upwards towards the stars, because when we see the brightest one, then we can know that it's shining for us, lighting up a pathway towards our happiness and fulfillment, showing us where we are supposed to be and the way we can shine into other minds, just like the stars do into ours.

I know that no one ever reads this far, because there's so much similar rubbish on the net, but I ask whatever star is shinning over me, showing me my way, please find my friend and make her happy, however that may be. Make her star shine and guide her. If I can ever be with her again, in any way at all, I am happy. If not, there's a huge hole in my life. I'll accept it because I shall assume it was fate. So I'll do what I do with my time, and I'm sorry I don't make so much money, if I could have just another happy day. But I'll continue regardless. Please don't ever leave me totally alone.

Far far too much to drink; I'm going to bed.

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Next day, Saturday 2004

Leinster Inn, Bayswater, London

It's good to stay away from Anne's place this long. I think I've finally got it into my head that I'm going. I'm really going.

What's in that post? I can't stop thinking about it. Is it that the address was wrong and she wanted to continue by email, in which case I can write and all the problems can be solved. Or is it that she moved and because I never wrote to the new address she realised that I never got her mails? I can explain this with a letter. Or is it that she married, had a child and made a commitment to someone, and feels that it would hurt me to know this? If that's the case, then I can perhaps make it alright by letting her know how my feelings have changed.

I can't let go. I know that now. The thought of following this dream and not sharing it with her would kill me. There are far too many prayers gone out, there will be intervention because there is just too much energy involved.

I did nothing today. I was supposed to go up to M's, but I was awake until five, so that wasn't possible. I won't know now until Monday... unless I look at the website. But it's been so long that I want to read the mail. There's no point doing it now. I think better to do it in Soho. I'll go to Hyde Park, where this whole thing began, then to Soho to look at the website, because I took pictures in the Chinese New Year and they ended up in my major book of magic.

I know deep down that she only feels friendly towards me. This is OK. I told her my web address a while ago, years ago in fact when I had just done it, and she's never mentioned what I've written. I gave her my email and she obviously has it because she said years ago that she might contact me in that way at some point, but never did. I feel this way and she doesn't. It's OK. I'm good with it. As long as she knows the deepness of my feelings of friendship and that I can always know that she is OK in any way that she finds happiness, it's good. Even a one line email once a year, and I can go on and follow my star. I am going to find her now. Now that I know I can accept any news other than her unhappiness, then I will be will. Oh, the joy of finally hearing from her. I will find her. I don't care what it takes or what I have to do... I'd even go there just so I can know that she's happy.

I just looked for her, and the website that M said about in an email just after I broke down, and I can't find it. None of the pages nor their links work in anyway. The only way forward is what's in the mail.

I think she felt obligated towards me. She always did. I think perhaps the phone numbers have changed because there seems to be one extra digit now. I must try the phone to see if it rings, if not, then phone the international operator.

There is a low credit warning on this computer so I will sign off. There's a good chance.................... that I'll be alright someway.

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Next Tuesday Morning

London

Dream: Cancelled Telegram

I was with M. We were in a car but we went over a bump and she had to stop because of the pain. Even though she wanted to go on, I insisted we stop and I went to inform the other traffic that we wouldn't be continuing for a while.

I told M. I was giving up because of Junko, and she ripped up a telegram she had been planning to send.

Interpretation

Dunno. Maybe it means I'm straying off the past today.

I woke up today and realsied it was realistically too late to make it up there, so decided to lay on my back for twenty–four hours. I made it for a long time until these South Africans came in. A couple, they played sex games in the bunk enough me... fair enough. Weird though because they seemed to be hitting and punching each other as hard as they could.

So I went to Kennsington Gardens. I spend more time there now because it's so much closer to Bayswater. Actually, it's much nicer that Hyde Park itself; I just never realised that. If you enter by the Black Lion Gate, there's a little Park Cafe for French fries and a coffee. You can walk over to the little lake, more like a boating pool actually, then it's really peaceful around Kennsington Palace itself. I didn't know that. I always had been in Hyde Park because I thought that the Serpentine was so pretty.

My emotions concerning this keep changing constantly. Today I walked up to the boating lake, then round the palace, thinking. I imagined a person with me. I noticed her in Kerala, Chinese face but with very full lips. I imagined she was bereaved and that we were talking of her loss. This is insanity. I saw her later in Bangalore but never knew her. But in the relevant peace of those quiet gardens, I did manage to find some kind of understanding. I had an imaginary conversation, because this is what insane people do. Don't worry, I didn't gesture to myself. I only did that during the 'brother' inspired breakdown. But it all became much clearer.

It was always one way. I am a very obsessive person. It must be some karmic thing. When I was fourteen I got obsessed with some pop star. I wrote letters to him even though he was dead. I made a gravestone and kept it in my room putting fresh flowers on it every day.

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Then I came up with this seven month piece of magic when I was twenty one, to be married and a normal person living in Asia. My first choice was Brazil, but somehow I got the Orient into my mind. Then I left the country and went looking for it.

Then I met this great soul who offered me friendship and I abused that by trying for more. It was the closest I got to what I was looking for. domestic happiness, understanding, quiet times playing board games.

And it didn't work. She went onto someone else. I was alone, and all of this obsessive energy just, attached itself to this person who never asked me to feel this way.

When I first left Thailand, I was feeling the same way about the woman we had met there, and we had never been lovers. I felt the same way about Nemia. I'm a sentimentalist obsessive person. The reason it's gone like this with J. is that she's so feeling, so polite, stayed in touch for so long, that it's all attached itself, the obsessive energy I mean, to one person... and you mustn't do that. Our emotions are energies within us. We shine them out and they radiate warmth as they reflect on people. When you try to identify them onto one person, what was love or warmth or friendship becomes grasping, obsession and so on.

I accept that she only ever offered me friendship now. She felt so obligated afterwards because this is a part of her culture. Now I've learnt what friendship really means. It means to look at someone and not think which ways that you can get what you want from that person. You think, 'how can I pick them up, how can I make them recognise the good qualities in themselves, how can I make their dreams bigger in their own minds so they are looking up towards the stars.

I fully understand it all now... but I just miss my friend. Of course she moved on and never felt the same obsessive feeling that I did. She met other people, probably is married and starting a family by now, and that would be good as she would make such a good mother, always so understanding of other's feelings, trying to protect and inspire those around her.

I hope so much that there's the chance of true friendship. I've never offered it before because I didn't know what it was. Now that I do I will never forget. Did she ever like anything I wrote? Did I ever make her happy in any way?

Yes, it was all one way feeling. But if you love something, then you let it go and see if it comes back to you. If she's written and it's a simple communication misunderstanding, then I'll have to explain the situation and give an email address because I have no one in England to forward mail. If she moved and stopped because I didn't know her new address and so she realised I always wrote to the old one and so wasn't getting her mail, I'll have to write, explain my healing and see what she wants to do.

If she married or started a family, I'll have to explain the healing and hope she can see me as a true friend, rejoicing in her happiness and feeling able she can share that with me.

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And if she just got tired, of all the obsessive ways that I've acted in the past, ... then I don't know. When I used to sit in Hyde Park all these years ago, yearning for what I found for such a short time. Was it that ultimately I was taught a lesson by Junko's gentle soul, the difference between obsession and friendship? Or did I meet the person who would actually be with me by fate?

Then there's always to let it go... and dream of serendipity?

Thursay morning, three am.

I just typed a load and lost it.

I slept today, and the day before. Because I'm in the cheapest room, it's in the basement. So it's good to avoid daylight when you're down. To sleep, smoke, not wash or eat. I did this one day. After that I got in the routine of going to Kennsington Gardens. I never used to do that. It was always about Hyde Park, and this long piece of magic to try and become normal, to be a foreigner, to have a wife and be a normal person. It was all about obsession and possession.

And now I'm here all this time later and it's just changed. I found someone and have got to the point of realising that everything was based on politeness on her part, and I feel nothing other than concern for my friend. Just to know she OK and following her star — having myself realised the true meaning of friendship.

And that's why I like Kennsington Gardens now. The Serpentine is this huge expanse of water, but there's nothing other than that. Why do people like water so much? You go to the beach and all the deckchairs are facing it, they always face a swimming pool. People even have a little pond in their back gardens. Why do we all like looking at water so much? Perhaps because we came from there.

Anyway, the round lake is nice. If I sit on the far side, then the view accross the lake to Kennsington Palace is particularly pretty. I've thought so much, and realised that I never had anything there. In the whole of my life I had these ten days, and she just moved on, and I should have also. Yes, it could all be fate and past lives and ladeda, and maybe not. So many prayers have gone up, it must mean something. It could just be a lesson in obsession. I think that it was fate that I stay down here so long rather that go up and get the post because while I'm here I've become ready for anything. Whyu would someone keep thier heart open for that long? They wouldn't. I've got to the point of just being worried about my friend. Dear, dear friend. So kind and sensitive, I wish I could give it back.

The sadness is also about a much larger picture also isn't it? I just checked my credit and realised that there's only fifteen minutes left. So I won't get caught out. I think I realise now that all of these feelings are caught up in the desperateness of my situation. I've opened this old box and tried to find

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any semblance of connection to a human being from my past; and there is none. Yes, it might be so there, but I have to accept the strangeness of that relationship, like the strangeness of every relationship that I've ever had, and steel myself for losing this last thing. I'm reading a book about chaos magic from Victoria library and read that time is non–linear and so a piece of magic performed to work now can seen to affect events in the past, and this is because past, future and present are only varying possibilities. I don't know if this is true. I hope so. What did it all mean; my life? was it this great piece of original magic that worked out, or just a lesson in obsession. I'm ready for other. I've been looking for a way forward for so long. Yes, perhaps getting some place and putting chairs there for a game of backgammon, even one. How alone I'll be one day. You must do things for yourself as she always told me... but the fact is that you need good friends to share things with. Someone who delights in your happiness. She taught me what a friend is, but is it too late for me? If I end up that alone, even with the compliments and 'pats on the back' that the Happiness Hike brings me... these are all people who never knew me. Who didn't sit up smiling at me while I paced around a starlit rooftop telling this sweet and compassionate soul to follow thier star and we all have one and jump into your dreams. Is it all rubbish after all. Is my 'brother' and people like him right. Acquire, possess, conquer. I can't believe so much rides on this, and there's no one to tell about it. Even if I phoned some councilor, how would I explain the magic, magic generally. I have to solve it myself. It sure feels like being alone, but they say that you're never less alone then when you feel that way.

So I must be surrounded by half the angels in paradise by now.

Yeah?

Friday morning, just past midnight, either the first or second of July, I don't recall.

Bayswater

I feel somewhat healed. This time lying in Kennsington Gardens was fated in some way; I've learnt something.

I'll tell you another thing I've learnt. You recall the time of the nervous breakdown in 2002. Of course you don't, because no one is reading this. But I'm writing to dear diary. So, yes you do recall. And I was in the church, praying madly for someone to talk to, and exactly thirty days later I met Fiona. Yes it was only a day, but that was all I asked for, and it came exactly thirty days later with all the associated synchronicity.

There's a power in handing over intense emotion into an intent and belief, and perhaps a link to a willed desire. It's so important because it means that I never have to avoid intense emotion. We all do this in some way because there are things we all put away and hide and don't want to face up to the strong emotion... because we don't know what to do with it. But now I do. If it's delinked and free of mental pictures, it can be experienced purely and

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linked to a symbol of the desire of what it is to become in the world. This is such a revelation to me. Life can always be different this way. Yes, it's easy with positive emotion. There are mental pictures or world events that inspire it, and you let them go into a symbol of intent to change your world... but there's also negative, and it doesn't make any difference because the energy is two sides of the same coin. With the negative you can just see its resolution in the world, or link it to some positive that transforms is. So even if you're grieving a person, you can link all of that emotion into a will, into achieving something that even makes that ghost happy. It doesn't matter what it is as long as you keep going forward.

Considering that I've just realised this, I feel incredibly free as I've structured my life to run away from strong emotion. Perhaps this is the ultimate lesson? Don't fear strong emotion... because it's not yours. Just cherish the fact that the energy is there, intensify it and do something with it.

I really feel healed in some way. I yearn for her... but if she's gone, I just feel I can go on, perhaps, because now I face up to it I realise the truth of that situation. She wanted to be a friend and is kind. That is all it ever was. It's still hard to go and get the mail, but I will.

Next Saturday morning, perhaps the third, or at least around there.

Bayswater

It's funny, because I woke up at six am this morning, but only drank coke and slept all day thinking about the same thing. I really have to go for the resolution of this thing. I feel drunk. Always alone. Always ultimately bored. Urrrrgh, I want life to be a cartoon. I never should have returned to England.

Monday 5th July 2004

Bayswater, London

Strange day of contrasts. I woke up and met a woman from Hong Kong. Last night was the football that everyone was interested in and so I got chatting to this boy from Poland, who told me that Poles come here because there's the feeling that they are liked here (he obviously doesn't read Pohm newspapers).

So we talked this morning and then I spoke to this woman. But it's so curious as she obviously has some kind of spasticity disease, and told me about the sight–seeing she is going to do today... but she stays out all night. I wonder what her story is.

So I planned to go home and get the Japanese mail. I phoned M. twice from Bayswater and twice from Euston, twice from Northampton. It was always the mobile answering service. I had the damned record that I had

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to send someone who finally sent me the payment after three months out the blue, so I got packing. I phoned A. and asked about M. It's her day off. I went up to get the post and she hasn't brought it. A was there with the cleaning woman and it was obvious from their behavior that they knew something was wrong. Of course, it couldn't be something human. I remember in Goa when I asked for copies of the mail, but M. brought the originals from Japan and I couldn't face reading them so we were in this taxi and had to stop for photocopying; then she took the originals back.

Each time I phone M. all I ask about is this mail. She knows something is wrong, why does no one consider me human? Why could no one even except that this is ... what it is. No one there knows me. I recall my sister drunk, making all these assumptions about me and I said 'you don't know me' and her looking arrogant, saying slowly, 'I know you, I know you'. But as soon as I got back and met up with her, she told me all her news but never once asked me a single question about what I've done, what I do. She thinks I disappeared and suddenly reappeared and am the same person.

There was some good news. Someone I helped through my other web site, The New Writers Network, actually got published and sent me a free signed book as a gift for my help, and that really is a lovely thing to hear and a wonderful gesture. I'll send him a postcard tomorrow.

That Taiwanese woman turned out to be a Korean... and I think a slapper at that, if you'll pardon my French. It's irritating as she calls to me often. I really don't like it; I'm too worldly by now. If she had have come and done it when I was fifteen, I would have booked a church for the marriage on the first occasion.

People are making an effort to speak to me here, I mean the 'weeklies' who are permanent residents. People are noticing that I speak to no one, that I'm abnormal, and that there's something wrong in some way. They come and say hello, pat me on the back and recall to me as 'big guy' (not in the showers though!!!! :–0).

I'm irritated with M. Sometimes I rationalise it. Yes, they haven't taken care of anything concerning the only thing I care about, but then again... It's always been like this. Like at school, sports days were always horrible as I was always in the last group, likely due to my ruined and misdiagnosed joints. M. came to the one when I was five and thereafter, each year would say she would do her best, but not come.

Look at the main thing. Her marriage broke up when I was around five. She moved in with the new man. He wasn't interested in a family, and not so keen an Asians (none of them were), so I had to go and live with A. a woman who I think M. knows deep down is vile.

So this is all the norm with me. But when I think about it, it's not the norm. It's very rare indeed, than someone just gives their children to a sibling.

Maybe it would be alright if A. had have been normal, rather than a vile bitch. (Yep, drinking now). What's wrong with her. Deep down, it's two things. One, she only recognises her own feelings. If it's something that means

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something to you but not her, then the feeling just doesn't exist. It's not her feeling, thus it can't be real. This was her argument the first time she ripped up all my Christmas cards when I was a child. 'You didn't want those cards, did you?' when the actual case was that she did want them, they weren't hers, meant nothing to her, and so must mean nothing to anyone.

The second thing is that, with her, people are to be owned. It's the opposite of the lesson I've just learned. She can't love with an open hand.

I'm done with the situation; I'm closing my heart there.

Saturday, I think it's the 10th July 2004... wouldn't bet my life on it though.

Leinster Inn, Bayswater

New news.

News.... it must be called news because it consists of new things that you didn't know before.

I only just realised that; my patheticness knows no bounds.

I went to the birth town; it was horrible. It was the third time that I had been up for these last two things from Japan. It turned out that they were in the bags on Anne's stairs after all, but I didn't see them because they were in a separate envelope with my name on in M's handwriting. I couldn't find out because she never (M) answers her phone.

I phoned M in the morning and she said that she would be there around at two. So I had another epic journey up there. I went to A's first and got the mail. She asked if I was coming back and I just said no.

In BHS restaurant, M was there. We exchanged news. A good thing was that, around nine months ago, I helped out this author who came to me via my writing site, to find a publisher, and he did get in.

In the post, there was a gift from him. A signed copy of his book, thanking me for my help. Very welcome indeed.

Well, it was all downhill after that. She asked what she would tell A about me going back. I snapped that I didn't care. That I think it's best if I never sleep there again. I can just go up for a day, seal the box, and see the people I have to leave before leaving the country.

We carried on attempting to make small talk, but it was impossible because there were tears falling down her cheeks. She had to go to the bathroom for a while, but still it was difficult afterwards.

I relented a bit; said I might stay for a while. It was really very hard and difficult.

But what to do? Par mentioned to m e how she has always pandered to her, and I think it's true. I feel like I'm being really hard, but look at the

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situation. She even gave her own children to her. Why? what is this about? All the post from Japan was always addressed to her because everyone knows what A is like. So A is M's big sisters and they were refugees in this country, so perhaps that is what it's about.

But what can you do? Things just are the way they are. Yes, there was a place to live there for me. But she never knew me, A I mean. She's never written anything I wrote, asked me how I feel about anything other than the superficial. If I sat and talked to her, a conversation just isn't possible because she can't discuss anything at depth, it's all small–talk.

I didn't want to go into the details of M's emotions with her. Perhaps it was painful for her to see me rejecting A. I can't help it. I don't, know. I don't say that there's not a lot of love in her that, is there, but none of it is to do with who I really am. No, she doesn't know me, and there's nothing I can do about it.

It's like when I meet Par. He looks at me and feels a certain thing, loving a memory. He knows nothing about me. He doesn't want to know. The memory is better than me. Maybe I should tell him, and her, but they're soon to leave and I'm all done here. Why break their illusions if the end of their lives can be happy if I can play this stupid act just one more time.

It's my situation to though, isn't it. In this whole mess, we're a group of lost souls in love with ghosts.

I was in Kennsington Gardens the other day. I mentioned my conclusion didn't I? I was looking for possessive love in the Serpentine lake in Hyde Park ten years ago, and now pray for open and genuine friendship in the round lake in Kennsington Gardens.

One day I walked up to come home and say the gate to Kennsington Palace was open, so I walked in and saw this sculptured hedge. I thought, oh, way, it's a maze, that'll be fun, so I went to go in.

It wasn't a maze, but a garden. It was hidden almost. All the time's I've been there, I had no idea. But it was so pretty. A rectangular affair, with central fountains, flowers all in bloom around the side, and a pleasant building beyond. I sat on a bench and the cut out hedge perfectly framed the scene, and I sat and ate and fed crows and tamed squirrels, who didn't seem to like nuts for some reasons. When I say 'nuts' I'm referring the food rather than my mental state.

The camera wasn't fixed. It arrived the day I went back but it's still broken. I'll have to go on Monday.

I have the last post with me. I've only glanced at it. One of them is an aerogram. Dunno about it.

I've had an idea. All is energy. There's pure energy, and it solidifies into ideas, thoughts and so on and carries on down into physical manifestation. Goody goody.

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If we gave up all the thoughts in our mind and sacrificed the pure energy of our emotions into a symbol representing out intent, we would be free of rubbish and manifest out dreams.

Dunno if that will work, but it's like returning to the garden of eden from the fall.

Am I whittering? Not sure why, but for some reason, I'm really excited about that idea.

Received via the New Writers Network, someone asking me to update the database.

I note that another author has complained to you about the OWEN ROBINSON LITERARY AGENCY (20, Tolbury Mill, Bruton, Somerset, BA10 ODY). Here is my experience. Last February I e–mailed them saying that I had written the screenplay for a three–part TV mini series as well as a crime novel asking if they would be interested in seeing synopses of these. They e–mailed saying that they didn't handle TV screenplays but would be prepared to provide a ‘critical appraisal’ for a fee of ?0. I decided to proceed and sent the three scripts together with a synopsis of the crime novel. Some time elapsed and they then asked to see the full manuscript of the novel saying there would be no charge for reading this. I sent the manuscript and waited...and waited. I finally asked for a progress report – particularly on the screenplay for which I had paid a fee. I received a message from Justin Robinson to say that he had suffered a private trauma and asked for my indulgence. I was very sympathetic and sat back to wait. Another six weeks elapsed and I again asked about the screenplay. I received a reply to say that he was in Portugal (presumably for the football) and that both the screenplay appraisal and his reaction to the crime novel would be with me the following week. Nothing happened. That was three weeks ago. Since then I have e–mailed him four times and received no replies. My last two messages asked for my money back. As of today (July 8) still no reply.

The Owen Robinson Agency does not feature in your own listings but it is featured in the 2004 Writers' Handbook and I write this as a warning to other authors.

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Received Next Day

UPDATE RE OWEN ROBINSON;

Within the last hour Owen Robinson have e–mailed to say they will be returning my cheque for ?0 today (July 9). I shall report again on this situation as to whether or not it has been successfully resolved.

Received Next Day

FURTHER UPDATE RE OWEN ROBINSON

This morning's post (July 10) brought the cheque for 90 being the return of my fee. There was no covering note. I do not know why Owen Robinson were unable to provide the critique of my screenplay which they had originally offered. It has simply wasted five months during which time I have not felt able to offer the screenplay (or my crime novel) to anyone else. All very frustrating.

Hi,

Me again. This morning I ended up with an unexpected half hour at the computer before I go out, so I did manage to update the database with your information. It appears under the Owen Robinson entry (obviously) and is at this page:

http://www.geocities.com/716948/wn/writerstext–agents.html

You'll notice your identity has been withheld, and I don't store your email address.

My memory was jogged while I was doing this. When I entered the first warning, the company contacted me threatening to sue! I just ignored it as it's free speech/fair comment, but they certainly don't seem like a great outfit do they?

But like I said last time. You have to bounce back, keep going and let success be your revenge.

Best wishes,

John.

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Sunday 26th? July 2004, around 1am.

Bayswater, London

Dream

I had this dream quite some time ago, did I write it up? I was in a house with M. and there were some stairs with a sign saying 'politics' on it. I went up and M gave me a load of first class stamps and said I would need them when I'm through university.

Interpretation

When I've learnt whatever I was supposed to in UK, I'll have someone to write to.

You know who I'm hoping that is.

I went back on A's on Thursday. Not a nice experience. I was up really late, and M's phone is never answered so I could never say where I was. By the time I got into Northampton she had left town centre but we had a slightly awkward hour in the White Elephant. It was chit chat really. Her eyes seem to be permanently watering now and I wonder if there is something wrong.

Then I went to Anne's. She talked straight away about her will, but I was so tired I went straight to bed. It was a hard night and I didn't sleep until it was daylight.

I was ready to leave around three in the afternoon, so I went down and sat on the table because I never speak to her and I have to face up to the fact that... there won't be so many times.

There's only a few minutes left. I'll say it briefly. It was depressing talking like this, because the reality of my situation is too apparent.

Main news. She asked about my visas and I said I was having trouble, but the very fact she mentioned it meant that it has been accepted in some way.

Then she wanted to talk about hers. She wants me to meet her solicitor. She said that all is to be sold. Would I come back, though I don't know if that means as an executor. But also, when all is sold, she wants to split it equally between me and Gee, and Gee is an executor. So I can forget it.

The irony.

I don't think it'd make so much difference whether I had it or not. Look at me.

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I'm going to sit in the TV room, at last, as before it was Nora's birthday: the French cleaning woman I don't know but who had the room.

Thursday 12th August 2004

Leinster, Bayswater, London

Recieved via the Happiness Hike

My name is Jordan Michael Whittier, I just wanted to tell you, that I think you are special and unique. Thank you for sharing your gift and helping all of those in need, you are truly one in a trillion. Godbless :)

Hi,

Just a quick email to thank you for the nice things you wrote in your email about me. I'm far from perfect, but it feels good to be noticed and inspires me to try and touch more people. GodBlessYourself also.

Best wishes,

John.

Am I ever going to get away? I hoped to be in Athens by now, but of course there is the Olympics there now. There's bad news from the North.

I went back last weekend. It's all complicated. I stayed here for about six weeks. Finally I, well, didn't get over everything, just accepted that there's nothing I can do about it. So it was a Thursday. I had already arranged that I was likely to be back then. I phoned M. in the morning and said I was up and would see her later. I didn't have another booking here in London. But M. said that A had had a bad fall and was 'feeling delicate', so 'I'm just warning you'.

I arrived in Northampton. I met M. A little early as it turns out. The story about A is that she was in the bedroom at night and wanted to go to the toilet. She started going, fell against the cupboard and then couldn't get up.

She crawled to the bathroom but still couldn't get up, and so just pulled towels around her, couldn't control her bodily functions and just lie there in her own mess. I know mess is a stupid word, but I can't think of another that won't sound at least equally stupid.

Well, after I had started my journey from London A. had phoned M. and said that she doesn't want me to stay there because she's 'too embarrassed'.

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So it was a Thursday, there was no chance of a booking in London, there's nowhere North to stay so I was finished. M. said I would have to go there anyway.

I stayed there a full week. During that time a nurse came and took blood from here. Then the doctor phoned and said she would have to go in for an examination. Tuesday I packed up to come back, thinking I'll stay in Picadilly for a change, but it was full so I had to come back. Thursday I had an Internet booking, so I went over to see M. while Carly took her to the quacks.

I bought a mobile in the week. I looked at consumer magazines, went on the Internet to see which ones people were using in India, then bought the cheapest one that can be unlocked.

Anyway, we were in the cafe at Beatties, this was my idea as it's so hot in out usual place. We talked generally, mostly playing with out phones. Then, while M. was playing, hers went and it turned out to be Carly.

The quack...

... sorry, my credit ran out. I just went and got more. Anyway, Carly was on the phone and said that the quack had found some kind of a stomach tumour. 'Don't necessarily assume that it's cancer', but 'she mustn't be left on her own'. So, Carly was saying this to M. because I've never spoken to C. due to her close association to G. M. immediately made arrangements for her to move in there and sleep in my bed, and I was to continue to London. M's phone went dead because she never recharges the batteries. She had to use mine. I went down and phoned once I'd checked in.

The Sunday before this happened I was at A's. I usually spend Sundays in because there's no bus service, but I thought I'd go down the New Tung Shing Restaurant to see if their chips are the same weird yet delectable thing I recall from my youth.

I got back and A warned me from the door that G. was there. I went upstairs without seeing him, and ate my omelette, which was weird and average, but the chips were just as I recall. I don't know what they do, perhaps they're cooked in the fat they use to cook Chinese things, but they just don't taste like that anywhere else. Exactly the same as I recall going back to the seventies.

I phoned A., to get back to the story, when I got here. She said this thing was discovered during a rectal examination. Now it's thurs and she had a hospital appointment on Wed. M. phoned, and it turns out she's moved in, sleeping in my bed. It's weird. From the phonecalls, I can't really gauge the situation. M's been there the whole time. Brian, M's lifepartner, though it might not be for life as I understand now, had some fight with Carly because, well, I don't know why. Poo, the Korean just turned up. So M. later said to me that she was staying there because she didn't want to go back to the pub, as well as the situation with B. But tonight M&B are having a meal, she's there Friday night, and has no idea what will happen after Friday. My guess is that she'll get sucked back there, but that's just my opinion.

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Actually, I'm thinking back to the conversation. I think she said that she will be there Sat&Sun, but she also said she didn't know. The whole thing is so up in the air. Why am I still in this country.

Other complications/developments. You know that I want to get this will sorted out. I got a quote from a professional solicitor in Wimbledon. ?00 for the basic will. To be executor, ?75 an hour plus vat plus 2% of the estate.

ARE YOU JOKING?

So now I have a few addresses in Leicester, Bournmouth, Birmingham and Portsmouth, because if the London price is twice as much as anywhere out of the capital, then it would be cheaper for me to leave for a day.

I've had a business idea too though. I was hoping to set it up before I go. There are companies that give transients a prestigious London address and forward mail. Of course, if I was in India, then I would need it scanned as well as sent... but to have a 'virtual office' here opens up the possibilities that I could set myself up before leaving. The first step is to find one that can scan as well as send and get the marketing material sorted out. So much, but if I have to be delayed because of the Anne situation, then I might as well be doing it. The address company, even if expensive, might just be a necessary thing as I can't be left without any address whatsoever, and it's better to sort something out now, while everything is reasonable stable.

Did I just write that? See. So I'm expecting things not to stay reasonably stable forever. I'm too tired to explain my business idea. I'm not hugely excited, but if only there was something I could do that would make money. I know M. is feeling the strain. She mentioned the expense once directly, and twice indirectly. With a service that could scan mail, I could run a business from anywhere... theoretically.

Ah f&^%&*%, it's a complicated situation. I just want to go; I hate this. Even with a book published and a great business and everything working out, I hate this. I'm tired.

I can't sleep either. I felt tired last night so I went to bed without a drink. Not good. It's hard to explain what goes on in my mind. Mental pictures of possibilities I suppose, but the sensation of the emotion that they inspire,,,,,,,,,,,,,, it's becoming unbearable.

Wednesday 18th August 2004

Bayswater, London.

Via Happiness Hike

hey dear please send me some good information on excitement

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Hi,

Thank you for your email. I'm not sure what you meant by asking for ‘good information on excitement’. I presume you mean excitement in, a feeling of anticipation because you are expecting something positive to happen. If you are expecting the positive, then you've made it possible by beleiving it possible... and that's about everything there is to excitement.

The best information/advice is: feel as excited as possible for as often as possible.

Best wishes,

John.

The Korean just walked in.

It's a f***ing mad time. Really. It's a mad time. Mad, mad time. OK, the business idea. It would be quicker to say what business idea I haven't had.

Web pages by email. Just write 200 words, include 2 pictures, and you will be a .co.uk. I've thought of that just after the breakdown, but perhaps I could make it work here. I asked a few mail redirection companies. Only one can scan and send. Two pounds per piece and sixty sterling a month.

Go to ebay and in foreign ones, like germany ect. offer to do kids English homework.

Plus all the other ideas that were on my mind.

I've really had enough. I'm sick of thinking about everything. Why am I such a miserabalist? If I could leave guilt free now, I would. My time's running out, I'm talking about the computer now. At least I hope I am. Everything is complicated and heavy and horrible, and I used to be so much happier. I shouldn't have come back. Perhaps it's looking bleak here... and there I would have been in the same situation. I just shouldn't be here. There's no happiness. Yes, clever advice is to try and start some kind of business or have some kind of future... but I want to have a happy day. I'm sick of this.

Bah, just six minutes. I'll go, and whine another day.

19th August 2004

Bayswater, am.

Hardly any time, the credit's expiring. I spoke to A. earlier. More tests in two weeks, but he initially said it wasn't cancer, then back–tracked and said he doesn't know... so I suppose it's a good sign.

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Tuesday 24th August 2004

Bayswater, London

I don't know what to do. I've been trying to think of ways out of the situation generally. I need an independent income, in one sense, though I don't know if that would solve everything... it would be a good amount of worry off my back. I revisited an earlier idea I had back in Kathmandu, No Nonsense Web Pages. But now it would be Web Pages by Mail. Simply read the brochure, fill in a simple form with up to two hundred words, choose a design and enclose two pictures. I even found a place in Picadilly which would scan and email the applications. But how would I send the brochures out?

I'm still looking into it now... but it's hard to see how I could run this. So I'd have to leave here with still no income and no address. I did think of getting brochures printed and envelope and stamp them and ask M or A... but everything I ever cared about, the only thing, they lost. So I have to really find a way to do it alone.

I think while I'm down here, concentrate on a solicitor. That's one thing I can do. Perhaps start thinking about advertising literature and at least ask the London Office what they would charge to send out a brochure. But the brochures would be speculative. It would cost me, or might cost me, more than my outlay. So I could do it myself...

But what would it look like. Someone replies to an advert from a UK publication and the reply comes from New Delhi...

... yep... I still am trying to leave.

Web pages by mobile? Take some pics with the mobile, text address and slogan, and you can be a .co.uk................ I don't have an MME phone. It would charge them more because I'm abroad.

I'm on the verge of just saying to M. that it didn't work out. No one wants to pay for my writing. I can't think of a business idea that I can work from where I want to live. I can't carry on much longer from where I am... so it didn't work out. Let me see the Motherland just one more time. It's exactly the same situation as when I left my home, I have no more, it's just that M. is a lot poorer and I've lost a few years where I could have been writing, following my passion somewhere that makes me happy. I never should have answered that phone. It's made everything worse. I really shouldn't have come back.

Well be warned me' 'arties,... it's all coming to a head. I've been in one country six months. The longest since I left. I won't go back to nothing. Yes, it's very hard to see how this is sustainable... but it's very hard to see how it's sustainable any way. I have dreams and aspirations the same as everyone else, but like everyone else, I run the risk of it not turning out.

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My conclusion is that I should just start waking up to things. Imagine the way it would be if it plays out in the current situation. I end up wholly alone. Yes, there's probably a fair amount of cash. So what. I go and see estate agents, go through all the process, end up with somewhere, and you know that won't be UK, so there's even the extra hassle, then I have to let it and go somewhere cheap to try and earn more than I spend.

Nope. Tired even thinking about it. Don't want it. Apart from... you know ... there's nothing I'd stay for. And considering the way things have changed, there's almost certainly no chance. Even at the time or soon after.

So why do I stay here? What can I give anyone now? I can't be in UK, I can't think of a way to make a business that will sustain me. Imagine being wholly alone in Delhi, the only hope an advert for first edition books. .... Almost as bad as being wholly alone in London with no hope.

Nothings happening here, and nothing looks good. But no matter what, I have to get out and be free in somewhere. So much to get out and be free. I did it once. I'll do it again.

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5th November 2004

I can't believe I haven't updated this for over two months. There's an awful lot that's happened.

It's ten years to the day that Junko and I stayed up all night dancing and then went back to Perth Travellers Lodge and spent the night together. Then we moved in together on the 10th.

And today I finally found the web page she works at.

And a few days ago I opened her mail of Dec 2002

She was OK and still at the same address. So I don't know what happened, but I'll do my best to find her, talk and check she's OK. I feel differently. I hope she's with a good man she loves, maybe even a mother. I just have to know. I always need to know.

There's so much news, but I don't think I should write it here. This gray, horrible page was created for the limbo of being trapped in England. I'll only give you one piece of news, then carry on from another page. The (good) news?

I did it!

I'm in Bucharest, Romania...

came by land... on my way home to India.

I DID IT!

Date: Monday ?9th September 2004

Bucharest, Romania

I wanted to wrap this up in London. I'll do it here. This is the first decent computer I've used in months, so I've been catching up.

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Sunday 12th September 2004

Dream

Yasmine Changes

I was in a bar and saw my sister, but she looked at me like she didn't like me, then covered her face. So I went and sat at a table. Three of her ex–boyfriends were there. They told me that she always starts out nice, but turns funny with people shortly afterwards.

Interpretation

This was shortly after I saw her on the bus and I think she was going to pass me if I hadn't said anything. Basically, she's not that fond of me.

This is one of the first dreams I had and wrote down since my breakdown.

Dream

Around 10 September 2004

At Home

I returned to India. I was at the beach and looked around a hotel I had previously stayed in, but in the end checked into a different hotel I has also stayed in previously.

I looked at my phone and saw I was on the Indian network.

Interpretation

Just looking forward to going back.

Dream

Around 12 September 2004

FreeThinker

I was in a classroom cleaning an infection on my leg, which I have in the real world, while I was studying.

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I was summoned to the head masters office to explain why I didn't study the curriculum. I explained that I do... study very hard, but only that which I wish to and is relevant to me.

Interpretation

I'm an independent thinker

Dream

25th September 2004

As Things Were

I was in a restaurant and I ordered something I'd had previously. A & M were there. Somehow we were talking about them being able to visit me because I was abroad. She had phoned Junko to let her know they would be seeing me soon and she said she would write and a letter was on the way.

I had to complete some kind of business in London before I left so I took a Hackney cab. The journey lasted for ages and when the meter showed ten pounds I lost my temper with the driver for not warning me that the trip would take as long as that, so I could use the tube.

I stopped and sat down. A nam came and used a kind of bin as an improvised seat, which he had actually been performing business on all day.

Interpretation

I think it's roughly saying that I'll have my normal life back soon.

Dream

Sunday 10th October 2004

Time to go Home

I was in London and it was night. I went under a gridge and saw a stark rainbow underneath it, and thought to myself that it was in the wrong place, it should be over the bridge.

I carried on walking and ended up going over the bridge. I saw the same rainbow in the sky, even though it was night, but some people in front of me pointed out that it was in fact artificial and was coming from a big fairground.

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I was then in the day and coming to the end of a bus trip which I had been on for ages. It was sad to leave because I had really got to know the passengers.

Then I was staying with an Indian family. I kept accidentally breaking things and kept falling through the floor.

I went out to a bus station and stopped to play a bell fruit machine. It was a bit complicated and I didn't really know what I was doing. Also, I kept falling through the floor.

I got on a bus and we drove for a while.

We stopped for a break and I went and sat on a sunny wall on the grass. Some children came and played around me. They had a tiny baby that they could fit in their hand, but just left it lying in the grass. I asked them if it was ok to leave it like that. Their mother came and was angry, telling me that the baby was fine like that.

Interpretation

London has no future for me, no pot of gold.

The happy trip was seeing mother, but falling through the floor means I stayed in UK for too long.

The baby is starting out on a new trip.

Diary Continued

I'll write what's happened to me as far as leaving UK, then go to a new page with better colours, as that way this page was always about the blighty jaunt and always a temporary interlude.

Did I mention that I saw Geoff. It was horrible. I was expecting something from the solicitor and I thought it was the postman, so I rushed down and it was my 'brother'. He looked so white and fat. He said, 'Hello mate, is aunty there?'. I said, ‘She's naked’. That's all I said. I was so happy that it had been so long, I saw Junko more recently than I saw him. I decided at that minute to finalise leaving.

I wanted to go to London one last time. All I left in England is in a single suitcase. There's a box with Junko's correspondence in, and I left it to her in my will, so I wanted to get the photos of her printed for the first time. I put one set in the box for her and kept one set myself.

I went to Picadilly Backpackers. On the first night, I went out to Leister Square and there was this huge crowd shouting. Somehow, I got pushed to the front, and ended up about two meters in front of Gwnyeth Paltrow. I took two pictures, then left my compact flash card in Boots!

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I bumped into Yasmine and we went for a drink. She's so changeable and bitter, but still my sister. I think she has no deep insight into herself. She's just got a mortgage and is waiting for a little flat, though was actually in a hotel when I saw her.

The will is finished. What a mess. First I went there to Birmingham, he said he would fax a draft to me in two days. Ten days later, nothing, so I phoned. He was busy. Next day I got a call that it had been faxed... which was pretty worrying as I don't have a fax machine. So it had gone to the library. He phoned them, it was destroyed, and he faxed it again to London.

It was OK but I made changes, a lot of it was vague and misnumbered. Then I faxed back my corrections.

I got a call it was ready and to come up. I went on a Monday. I noticed two spelling mistakes that weren't there before. Then he insisted on cash because 'it keeps the accountants happy', so I was sent out to the atm. I came back and he wouldn't give me a receipt. I signed it and it was witnessed. Then I had to give it back because the witnesses hadn't put their addresses on.

Then we were done. I went home on the bus, well, to the station. Then I looked at it and realsied it was the draft they'd had me sign, with no alterations which I'd requested... and there was a page missing. I typed the missing page myself and hopefully, at least some of my wishes will be carried out. To be honest, I only care about two things, that Junko gets my gift and the Red Cross get everything else.

One good thing, the Red Cross agreed to be executors.

I decided to write a screenplay. I'm studying it now, the format. I bought a pda and lost it, but shall carry on regardless.

Then, when Junko's pictures were developed, there was not much else to do, so I went to Victoria and bought a fifteen day bus pass for Europe starting on the 20th October. So it was basically a matter of going back to Anne's and packing the last of my stuff into the box, saying goodbye to all and going. I'd have a last meal in New Tung Shin takeaway, the best food in UK and that would be it. One last day in London to finish the website I started there, and go home.

Though it wasn't to be.

I went back and emptied the box, all my papers, the will, all spead out. This was a Friday. I turned my back for five minutes and the cleaning woman had been through all that personal stuff and, God, A can have so little awareness of another's feelings that I wonder if she's ill in some way. I can never forgive her for the way she's treated things in my absence. I didn't say anything because it was so close to me leaving.

I kept trying to phone Darren but he never answered his phone, so I never did get to see him.

The last day in Northampton. This had been the plan. I see Dad in the Morning, M. in the afternoon and my sister at night.

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I woke up late, raced to meet Dad. He came with Elizabeth as he was having his car mot'd. We had coffee and they manipulated me to going back to their house where they force fed me huge amounts of Italian food. M. rescued me with a phonecall so I was dropped back in town. He cried when I left... but she, she is, actually, an awful woman. I never realised before (I'm talking about Elizabeth now). I met M. in bhs and all the food had made me ill. I was sweating and tired. So actually they ruined the plan and I phoned my sister, arranged to meet the next day and slept.

I packed the case I'm leaving. There's a last letter in the box for Junko to read should she receive it, and a letter for the Red Cross, telling them what to do with my possessions.

Next day was horrible. It was raining and the sky was almost black. I sorted out some last things and met M in Morellis after a last meal in bhs.

At night, I met Yasmine in Llyods. We chatted. She despises me deep down, but only ever talks about the same thing, how much she hates everyone. She was disappointed that Anne's illness turned out not to be serious. Herself, she only has high blood pressure. She only talks about herself. She doesn't know me. She thinks I'm a person I once was and the few times I ever showed the real me, she became aggressive and rude. Well, we hugged when I left anyway.

I was too tired for New Tung Shing, so went home and packed the box. Went down to talk to M and A. Said Goodbye and went to bed.

Next day I woke up late so lazed all day. I went down laden with stuff, but M. was already gone. I said Goodbye to Anne and left.

At the bus station my bag burst and I had to repack everything. Then I went straight to the station. Down to London. It was depressing. I was thinking of even voluntarily coming back one day.

Then, at seven, I boarded the bus to Amsterdam.

There was this really loud mouthed, common sounding English person behind me. He struck up a conversation with the man next to him. He was saying how he lives in Germany and finds himself always apologising to foreigners over the loutish behavior of the English.

It took about four hours to get to Dover. I texted M. and told her there was a present. I left a framed photo of her ex–husband and the woman he ran off with as a joke... which she thought was funny. It took about an hour and a half and then we had to get back on the bus.

And that was it... I'd left England.

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Date: 5th November 2004?

Bucharest, Romania.

So that was the trip back. Now I was in Calais, on the was to India.

I was seated next to this African girl. The same two men were seated behind me, though they'd been drinking and had a bag full of beer bottles. He was such a loud mouthed person when he was sober, now he was even worse.

We drove for about an hour. The bus was wholly full. In front of me there was a Dutch man of about fifty. The man behind me went to the toilet. Every time the bus went round a corner, empty beer bottles went from side to side.

He came back from the toilet and as he passed me, he looked straight in my eyes and scowled. But suddenly jumped back to the Dutch man and started screaming, ‘DID YOU F***ING KICK ME? WHO THE F*** DO YOU THINK YOU ARE!’. Then he grabbed him and tried to pull him out the chair. The man he was sitting with jumped up and pulled him back and said it had probably been an accident.

For the next hour, he sat behind me talking really loudly about how stupid this Dutchman was and how much he deserved to 'HAVE THE F****** S*** KICKED OUT OF HIM.

They drank more beer, then he announced he was tired. He lay down in the aisle and trapped my feet into the seat opposite me, then when I couldn't stand that position anymore and tried to pull me feet back to my own seat, he accused me of kicking him deliberately to wake him up ‘EVEN THOUGH YOU'VE GOT NO F******* REASON TO’. So for the next hour he sat behind me complaining about the ‘FU***R SITTING NEXT TO THE BLACK GIRL’.

We arrived in Amsterdam at five am in a deserted bus station. There was a cheap place open and I had a perfect brie sandwich; I'd been so hungry.

I had no hotel reserved, but a map. A friendly Dutch woman explained how to use the metro and I got to the city centre. I found the street I was looking for and went to the youth hostel. The man said there was a bed but I'd have to wait two hours. He seemed suspicious of me and irritated, so I said OK and walked up the street.

I passed another place called Kabul and went in. It was run by Afghanistans and was pretty dilapidated, but he said I could check straight in. 22 Euros is a lot but I could sleep. There was someone in my bed to he said take any one. I slept all way and woke up early evening.

I really enjoyed Holland. Lots of little places to drink a coffee. Great cheap Turkish food everywhere. Friendly people and the city itself has lots of

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canals and is attractive. In the dorm you're allowed to smoke and there was this German man of about twenty who sat smoking drugs in the room all day. I mean, he was always there, he never went anywhere.

A woman checked in but they'd given her my bed so I had to move. She went out and came back with a load of drugs and started smoking them. I came back and lie down and she stood up and just stared at me for about a minute with this fixed smile on her face. It was unnerving, so I said hello and we sat and had a conversation. She's an Italian and had been studying pharmacology in Barcelona and now was travelling to decide what she wanted to do.

That night when I slept, she, the German and an American sat in silence at the table smoking drugs, when I woke up eight hours later, two were still there smoking and the German had slumped forward into unconsciousness.

On the last day, I booked a ticket to Barcelona, then went to use a computer. A man came and sat next to me. He was fiddling about and I felt his hand touch me but ignored it because I wanted to book a hotel. He left then another man came. He looked time a tramp but showed me police ID and said the first man was a pickpocket he was trailing and were any of my possessions missing? I checked and said no. I left about an hour later, and notice that my jacket had been pulled down to make access to the pocket easier. Luckily, all valuables were in my money belt.

It was dark when I walked home so I went through a side street to save time. I passed a window with no curtains and only red lights illuminating it. I looked in as I passed. There was a bath surrounded by pink bubble bath. A woman stood by it with one foot on the side, the other on the floor. She was dressed in skimpy leather bondage outfit and had a leather whip. She looked straight at me, winked, cracked the whip and motioned with her lips to the front door, which I noticed was open.

So I turned back and took the long way home.

Everyone was still at the table smoking drugs, so I got ready for bed. A Chinese man of about sixty checked in. He was just a regular guy, dressed casually. He sat at the table and tried to speak to everyone, but each time he asked a question, like 'Where are you from?', they could only moan at him. It was insane. He couldn't work out that these people are were all too stoned for conversation. He just sat there for an hour with a black tea, making a wholly one–sided conversation with people who took turns moaning at him.

Next day I checked out and literally made it to the bus within seconds. There was no time to eat, but it was a lovely bus. Only five people on it, huge reclining seats, clean and modern. I couldn't sleep, but read, and at twelve fifteen we stopped in this huge deserted city. A woman translated for me that we were stopping for an hour and a half, so I went for a pizza slice and realised we were in Brussels.

We arrived in Barcelona about ten. I went to eat but they didn't speak English and I couldn't work out what was vegetarian. The hostel I booked was

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right at the edge of Barcelona and I had to take the metro to the end of the eastern line. I got out and a boy confirmed I was on the right street after I took a wrong turn, then I went down a hill. It was a residential street but I found the place.

I walked in and it was a sitting room with some people eating. I asked how to check in and they said someone would come. He did, was friendly. I had to sit outside for an hour while it was cleaned, then went up to an eight bedded room. A woman was sleeping. I made the bed and rested. An American woman came in and told me she'd been travelling all over Europe. The sleeping woman awoke and said it was her last day but she thinks she's got food poisoning.

I went to the city and this Turkish man was really rude when I asked for falafel, it's like he was angry that he couldn't understand me. I went home and relaxed in the garden. There's a kitchen and everyone was cooking and eating meals. I went to bed.

Next day, M. texted me and asked me where I was. The owner came and said that he's accidentally booked my bed, but he would give me a single room at no extra price. I went to the bus office and as I came out the metro a man asked me where the station was, so I said, ‘Follow me’. He left for the long distance buses and I got a ticket to Florence. Afterwards I went back to the same cafe, as I'd worked out what is vegetarian. When I paid I saw the man from outside and he motioned for me to join him.

He was a Romanian. He'd come that day from Italy. He's travelling Spain looking for work because he wants to open a supermarket in Bucharest. The Romanian bank wouldn't lend him anything, but the government said there would be a scheme in 2006 where if he puts half the money up and employs 15 people for five years, they lend him the other half.

He can never earn enough in Romania, so that's what he was doing here.

It was early evening, so I said I'm going and he wished me good luck.

It was really nice to have a single room so I made the most of it, repacked, charged my phone. Next day I went on the computer to book a room. In Florence they were all really expensive, but there was a campsite out of the city for just eight euros, so I booked that.

The bus was horrible. It didn't stop anywhere. We arrived early the next day and the tourist board told me how to get to the campsite. It was about half an hour going up a hill. I found it, on the hillside. I checked in, was given sheets and a key and she said it's down the hill. I walked down a path and found a field full of tents and went in mine and made the bed. It was small, but a tent. I thought it was fun and felt all 'back to nature' and stuff.

But the romance of simple life didn't last. That evening I was freezing, damp, covered in mud and the toilets were a five minute walk away. It never stopped raining. Next day I booked a ticket to Milan as that's the only way to get to Vienna, which is in turn, the only way to get to Bucharest.

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I checked out after two nights and went to get the bus. It didn't stop at the station but I had to bus right out of Florence, to the motorway, and just stand in the road. I did this for an hour and a half but it didn't come.

I bussed back to the office. I asked what happened and she said 'I don't know'. I asked what the bus looked like and she said, 'I don't know'. She said this to everything I asked, but agreed to put me on another bus, but I would have to go to another city to catch it. I went to the tourist board to ask how to get to the city and I had to go to a separate station. I did this and then it was a one hour journey.

I wasn't sure when to get off so waited until it terminated in a little street. I saw a bus stop with the bus company’s name on but the time table said it was to pick up buses to Rome.

I ask in a really expensive hotel but the receptionist wasn't sure where the bus leaves from but it might be from the railway station. He gave me a map and it was two kilometers away, and I only had an hour. So I bit the bullet and walked. The map was wrong and I got lost, but after forty minutes I asked someone and it turns out it was just over the street.

I went to the entrance and an elderly English man asked if I could give him directions but I said I'm foreign too. I went in to Information and she told me the stop was outside. I found it in the corner and an Italian spoke Italian to me for a long time, but I don't know about what.

The bus came. I put my bags in the hold but they wouldn't let me on and took my bags out and left them on the street. A fellow passenger explained that it was the bus to Rome. So I waited some more, then it finally came. I got on and looked at the clock and only then realised that I was still on Spanish time, which was why I had missed the first bus. By pure coincidence, this Milan bus was over an hour late.

We sat for four hours and arrived at ten at night. The cheapest hostel in Milan was 40 euros so I planned on sleeping out. We stopped at a bus station but everyone left and I got scared. I walked up and there was a street full of busy night clubs. I sat there with all these party goers. It was outside, raining and cold. I was thirsty and hungry ... but I felt safe.

Everything started closing about three am. so I went back to the bus station. After about ten minutes as I sat on a bench, a man of about 25 came and started walking up and down in front of me. He did this a few times, then took his coat off. When he went past, I noticed that the entire rear of his jeans had been cut away, and he had no underwear on... so he was basically showing me his entire ass.

I was alone and not sure what to do. I decided to try and look mean, if he does something then smash a car window to set the alarm off and hope he goes.

He did it a few more times, then went.

The bus station was also a car park. Occasionally people would come from the clubs and use it like a race track.

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It was so cold, I sat for ages. Eventually, after five hours, sun came up and the office opened. I warmed up and was so desperate for a warm coach. It came, the driver looked at me really funny. I'd been camping and sleeping out though, so probably didn't look very nice.

It was comfortable but I couldn't sleep. After five hours we stopped in a really expensive place, so I didn't have anything. I noticed I was the only Asian in the whole place, plus I had flip–flops on and felt out of place.

We carried on and arrived in another deserted bus stop. I wasn't sure what to do. I found the metro and some Turkish people told me which way to go.

There was a red machine and a blonde woman putting coins in. I asked if it was for the metro and she helped me get the ticket, then asked where I was going and told me to follow her. We got to a stop and she told me to get off and change lines. I did this, the could work out how to get there.

I exited. I had actually booked a place. The directions said to turn left from the station...but there were multiple exits, so I had to go up and down four streets but still couldn't find it. I phoned them and they gave me even more complicated directions. I was going to call again and queued for the phone, then realised I didn't have enough money for the call. I asked the man in front of me how to get there. He didn't know but suggested where to try.

Luckily, he was right. I found the street, walked up it and there I was.

All the trouble and effort since I left Barcellona, but finally, it was time for my luck to change.

I went in and it was bright orange, travel posters everywhere, looked good. A really friendly Asian woman checked me in but said it would have to be cash and I could store my bags and go to the atm. I walked back into town and found this Turkish place so had a pizza slice. The base was bare except for occasional pieces of feta cheese and spinach in widely spaced clumps. Though I was really hungry and it actually tasted good.

I went back to the hostel and paid, then went up to the room. Everyone was sleeping and so I came down. The woman had given me a token for a free drink, so I went to the bar and used it for a white wine and then spilt it over the waitress. I stood watching things for a while. It was dark but a good atmosphere. An Austrian woman of about twenty came up and tried to speak to me in German. For some reason, I said, ‘Sorry, I only speak German’. She said, ‘Oh’ and looked really confused. I corrected myself, that I, in fact, only speak English. She asked if I wanted to sit with her for a while but I said I was too tired and went to bed.

Next day I got up and went to eat. I came back and bought a laundry token. I noticed on the coffee machine, there was a sign that said it had won the 'Employee of the Month' award. Also, there was a box for complaints but you have to take a number to use it, and each number was written on a hand–grenade. I bought some postcards and the man remembered my name, even though he didn't actually check me in.

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I went up and sorted out my washing. Two men came in and we chatted, then I went out to the building next door. It was kind of a sitting area, plus kitchen. There was a piano and separate laundry room. I loaded the clothes in and listened to a cassette. I have about thirty cassette diaries I made about 1995. I was going to transcribe them, but it's so depressing to listen to them.

When it was done I went up and showered, then set about cleaning all the mud off everything. The two men came back and we talked some more. One was a Turk who could hardly speak any English. The other was an Australian from Melbourne called Ben. We really got on and were laughing and joking, then they went out because they wanted to try a schnitzel. I went downstairs and saw them when they came back, and once more later on.

Next day was November the second, exactly ten years to the day that I was sitting miserable in Perth Travelers Lodge and Junko turned up unexpectedly at the door and invited me out to the Jazz Club. We played pool that night and I never played since.

I decided that this should be the day that I open her final post and find out what went on. I walked for ages looking for something to eat and ended up al fresco with the best tasting falafel I've ever had. I kept walking onto the museum quarter and took some pictures of this statue that was a male mermaid with a shell full of treasures, and a naked woman leaning over and looking in. It looked good. I walked on and got lost and ended up in St. Michael’s Church. It was dark and romantic, but not the main one I was looking for. I carried on and ended up at the central church at Stephan’s Platz.

I went it. It was huge and also dark. I walked round for a bit, then sat down and pulled out the folder that contained the post. It also had this stuff Mother had put in from Carly. It was some psychic who said she could predict lottery numbers and they wanted my opinion on it.

I opened the mail. There were two from her. In one, she said she was still at the UN. The manager was a French man called Robert and she was really impressed because he negotiated her a better salary. She's also taken up Salsa dancing and Robert and his girlfriend went to LA with her when she was in a dancing competition. Her job is mainly on the web site, helping people navigate and updating. As always she was telling me to make friends. She sounded well and happy. The last one was from December 2002... less than two years.

So I knew I'd have to speak to her.

I don't know how I shall find her, though I have her home number. If she's married or started a family, I truly would be happy... I just have to know. So... I'm looking into things.

There was also a card from Mian three years ago, saying she's phoned my mother. No one ever even told me that had arrived.

I went home happy that at least J. was OK the last I know.

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In the room Ben was there. An American had checked in and the Turk had gone to see the opera. The American was going later so we talked about that. He left, and Ben and I chatted, mainly about race relations in Australia. He was so easy to get on with that I felt I had known him for years. He left to see the football.

Later I was sitting down in reception and he came in with the Turk. Ben said that the Turk wouldn't drink because he had used to 'be like a balloon but the army straightened him out', but he has a bottle of vodka and shall he go and get it? We went to the bar with it and no one cared. The other two played a football game with handles that you have to spin round. Then the Turk played me for about twenty minutes. I realised there was a coin slot on his side and he had been putting in a Euro for each ball, but he wouldn't let me buy him a drink and then went to bed.

Ben said he'd get me a beer so went, then I met this other Australian. I told him I'd really like an Indian flag tattooed on my arm and he said it's weird. He loved Australia but would never have the flag tattooed on him.

Ben was gone for ages, so I went to the bar and found him talking to this other guy, I think American. So we all talked about travel for a while. Two people at the pool table said they wanted to play Ben so he did a shot, then they said it was my go. Creep, by RadioHead came on, which was the song I always remember from when I was with Junko. I thought it's too weird because it's ten years to the day that I last played pool with J... and this is the first time that anyone's even asked me. They pulled me into it.

We were all playing by different rules and Ben got irritated and invited me for a walk. I followed him a little later but he'd gone to bed, so I also retired.

Next day I was still dozing when they checked out so they waved at me. I went downstairs and put my bag in storage and went to eat. It was depressing because, I was missing Ben but now also wondering about Junko. I can't stop thinking if she's OK or not.

I went to a cafe. I have all the pictures of J with me and a little album, so I put them all in with a little note asking her to contact me, just to say she's OK. A woman in front of me was crying her eyes out but I don't know about what. I sent the pictures off surface mail, then went and got my bags, and was again sad to leave such a great place. I saw the Australian pool player and we said hello.

I went out to the correct metro stop, found the bus office but a man said this bus would stop near the railway station. I walked there and asked information where the bus would leave from. He said curtly 'I have no idea, this is a train station'... then angrily told me where to go. I went, was early, came back for a coke, then got the bus.

It was dark and people looked at me unfriendly, but I got two seats to myself. We drove and stopped for food in Hungry, then entered Romania.

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Next day, we were at a Romanian stop but I only had Euros, so couldn't have anything. There was a man playing a game where people have to guess where a ball is from under three cups.

I got back on the bus and looked out the window and saw a fellow passenger, she was screaming and holding out her empty purse. There was a man with the three cups off as people chased him. No one came back and she got back on the bus, crying for the next hour into the seat in front of her.

We went on. In the afternoon we stopped. I still had no Romanian money and there was no change, so I stayed on the bus. I saw the same game being played, and this time, there was an Indian man scuffling with them, shouting that he wanted his money. They all ran off and the Indian jumped on the bus and demanded the police. We all drove off but he kept shouting in English. Eventually his story came out. At the game, lots of people had been betting small amounts of money and winning, so he pulled out his wallet. As soon as he did this, the man grabbed all the cash, pulled up a cup with no ball underneath, told him he lost and the whole crowd ran off.

We carried on and finally arrived. I walked in the street and ended up somewhere I remembered. I finally changed money and got a drink, then went to the station. I got lost and again had to phone the hostel. She couldn't give me directions. I was shattered by the time I found it by chance. It was an old dilapidated house. I had to sit in the dark and cold courtyard for a while, then went to bed.

Next day I came to the city centre and did five hours straight on the computer. I went home and sat reading my book, and spoke to the receptionist. There was an American and an Indian at the table, so we all talked, mostly about the ice age for some reason. The Indian went to bed so the three of us went in. The American fell asleep, then went to bed, so I ended up talking to the Romanian woman. She was going to Melbourne soon to live with a farmer she met, and was worried she'd feel too isolated. I told her she should go, so even if she doesn't like it, she could come back and there's no regrets.

Next day I typed but the woman wasn't working. The other two were out meeting colleagues.

Next day was today. I typed, and am going home soon. So, that is an account of the 15 day Eurolines bus pass experience.

Next Day

Another fun night last night. I went upstairs and washed, then came down. The American is Chris. He laughed because my jacket's ripped.

Chris was leaving for the states at two am. We sat talking, it was really funny. We read the guest book. A woman checked in but went straight to bed.

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At two, the taxi came so we all went outside. It was mad. We were all group hugging each other, like we'd known each other for years.

We finished all the wine he left us and I was so drunk, I could barely stand. I don't fully recall it all, to be honest.

Today I came to the centre and looked in my diaries. They have written their email addresses in. Someone's written that ‘met me at Funky Chicken Hostel, November 5th’.

Night Pafe (Recent Dreams)

I was in a UK department store in my home town, in an elevator. When the doors opened, I was looking out into a whole sales floor that was selling nothing other than backgammon sets.

I was at my old school in England, walking round looking for the

headmaster, so that I could tell him what a horrible time I had when I was there.

Then I was in a house with two people. My phone charger started a fire and the fire brigade had to come round. Somehow it turned into a comedy, like slapstick as they were incompetent in a funny way.

Me and the two other people decided to flee in a car, so they made a big deal about getting me in without hurting me, but then the car fell on its rear, so I was on my back looking at the sky, and somehow, that was funny also.

I was in a house and a really good looking woman made a pass at

me. I responded and we got together, and then physical, but I got close enough to realise it was actually a man, and I was confused as to how I should respond.

There were other people, as well as Ben and everyone was falling in love with someone they'd just met. It was a house oozing romance.

I was in Anne's living room. There was a woman there who'd been

studying some really complicated subject at university. She playfully showed me all the different folders of all the different subjects, and giggled at how shocked I was that she'd learnt so much.

Note: I had this dream while sleeping on the sofa with someone

sitting near me.

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I was walking down a backstreet where houses backed onto a path. There were all these children playing ball games and I was worried I would get hit, so I kept walking down these stairs until I came to a peaceful courtyard. There was a tree there with Victorian cameo broaches of women’s faces tied to the branches.

I was in Marma and had an out of body experience. I knew fully

what was happening, but was weakened in some way and couldn't get out the room.

I returned to my body and was half awake. Then I saw my brother looking really confused and hurt, and had an intuitive knowing that he has no idea how much he's hurt me or how sensitive I am.

Somebody was fighting me and I put up a lot of resistance, but then I

was overpowered and they took me hostage. They said they were going to kill me and we had to walk along a river to their hideout.

The further we walked, the more we kept talking, and eventually became friends.

NOTE: The original diary followed with a photopage which isn’t included

here.

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Christmas Page

Panaji, Goa, India.

I'm Here!!!!!!!!

Dream 23rd December 2004

I was in my birth town in England and phoned Junko. It turns out she was there too and agreed to meet me. I went to this place and waited. She came and we hugged and talked, but then I realised she had blue eyes. It turns out it was her friend pretending to be her.

Then she herself turned up. We hugged but she seemed a little distant. She had been living in the UK for sometime. I asked if we could meet again but she said no because I would turn up with flowers and gifts and be too romantic. I pleaded with her and she said that she would be meeting friends in a place called ‘The Rat’ later and I could come. I asked if she meant the pub called ‘The Rat and Parrot’ and she said yes.

Interpretation

I'm thinking of phoning her tomorrow. I suppose it means that, as much as I love this woman... I don't really know her. And probably irritated her over the years.

Well, I'm finally here. Home. All the times I've dreamt of it in the dark periods... and it is still the paradise I remember.

I haven't really written the news since I left Romania. That's because I emailed it to people, didn't save the emails, and now am loath to type it all again.

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OK. I arrived in Istanbul. What happened, I'm trying to recall. It was Circeci station, so I knew how to get there. I thought I'd go back to Cordial, the bright pink place.

Checked in and there was no one else in the room. So I went down to the bar and met this woman from Virginia called Sallie Henry. She was a professor of computer science at a university. Semi retired and about fifty. We went on a pub crawl. Everyone seemed to know her. She has a second house in Costa Rica, has invested in land on a mountain. It was really fun. We looked round the shops and I kept having giggling fits at the funny things she said, I think perhaps some of my earlier energy was still in me. We even measured me up window shopping for a leather jacket, antelope skin, dark purple with silk red lining. Very nice.

Then she flew out. I ate pizza. Came home and it was freezing, so they promised a fire in the room but it never came.

Next day I had breakfast and the cleaning ladies were really dour, so I put my bags in storage and left.

I went over to Sultanamhet and was on a real downer. I just sat staring into space and felt really alone.

Then I bucked myself up and thought, this is stupid. Check into a dorm and be around people. So I walked over to Orient Youth Hostel and checked in, then got my stuff.

I ended up staying there about three weeks. I kept trying to look into how to get Central Asian visas but the embassies were miles away, plus it was getting so cold. In the end I decided to get an Indian visa and go straight to Bombay.

I met a lot of people in the hostel. Next to me was a South African called Link. He was a professional rugby player taking a year off because he didn't like the game anymore. He was called link because his parents conceived him on an airplane, in the bathroom, on an airline called Link

There was a very warm German guy, very well traveled and easy to talk to.

There was an Australian. I got talking to him because the UK bank had changed the chip on all the cards and cancelled his and sent a new one to Australia, so he couldn't spend the money he's earned in London. His parents weren't answering the phone.

He had a really funny manner. I mean, he wasn't intentionally funny, but just came across as comical. Once I was brushing my teeth in the hall and he came out and said ‘Sh**’. The key is on the inside, meaning we're locked out.

So he went down, came back with a massive bunch of master keys, and then our key wouldn't go in. I sat on the radiator while he tried every single key in the lock. Then he tried our key again and it went in. So he tried for ages but it wouldn't turn. Then he gave up and stood straight. I said,

‘What are you going to do? Will they have to take the lock apart?’

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‘I dunno mate.’

We stood there staring at it, then there was a very gentle breeze through the hostel and it just wide opened.

Another time he was discussing bus times to Vienna to the German guy. The German had just got all the timings from different travel agents, but the Australian had a timetable and they were discussing it because they had different times.

The whole thing got really heated because they were both sure they had the correct bus timings. In the end the Australian restated his postition, ‘There's no way a 2004 bus time table can be wrong, and that's that’. He closed the book and put it down, and just stared blankly at the picture of a huge train on the front of it.

They went and an American called Joel came. He had traveled for a year, and was going back to write about it. He moved from a different hostel because of the snoring, so I told him my nickname was ChainSaw. A youngish woman from New Zealand also checked in. She had been teaching English in Japan with this big school that's really popular because it's logo is a fluffy bunny rabbit, but the classes are rubbish. They employ anyone. Half the people there are Irish, with accents so thick that she can't understand them.

Well, there's a lot more news, but I want to go and phone someone and then eat something. See ya. Perhaps I'll write tomorrow.

Sunday 26th December 2004 (Boxing Day)

Panjim, Goa, India

I'm having a really strange day here. Anyway, to continue the story...

I woke up one day and there was a woman just leaving our room. Joel asked her what she wanted and she said she's wandered in because she was on the wrong floor. Then he went to his bed and his expensive pen was missing. He laughed it off like, ‘Oh, it'll probably turn up in my hair’.

A while later the manager came in, looked around the room and left.

I went up and had breakfast, then came down and brushed my teeth in the toilet in the hall. I came back to the room and shortly after the Australian lady who works in the bar just came in and looked at me and then left.

Next she came back with the manager. It turns out that someone had just tried her door handle, the second time it had happened that day. She said that she rushed to the door, saw my door closing, and there's no one else on the second floor, so there's no one else it could be.

She said things have been stolen on that floor recently. There wasn't much else I could do except say, nope, I definitely didn't try the door, and they just stared at me.

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So I lie down and felt pretty rubbish because now I knew what everyone would be thinking about me.

About ten minutes later she came in and apologised. She said that a few days ago someone had stolen 300 Euros, and she's really poor. I told her about the woman in the room and she said this woman goes around all the time going into people's rooms and no one knows why, so they all think it's her. But she said she thinks it's a guy, so give him the warning they're on the watch out and it'll stop. So as I understood, this was a polite way to tell me to stop something I wasn't actually doing.

I showered, and went and sat in this fast food place all day and just felt bad about it. That night, I went out and phoned a friend to tell her about it. She was sleeping and sounded really tired. I walked home. At the Blue Mosque it was lit up really brightly, but the lights also pointed upwards to the sky. There were hundreds of doves circling it and they were really bright against the night sky. It was quite a striking sight.

That night, I came home and was alone on the bed... and someone tried the door handle. I rushed to it and saw someone's legs going up to the restaurant. I went after him and asked if he just tried the door. He said yes, because he wanted to see if his friend Gregg was there.

In the room, there was me, Joel and some other guy I didn't know, so I assumed it was him.

But the next day I asked him his name... and it was Jeff.

I decided to go straight to India. I went to the embassy and asked the price and he said forty dollars. I went the next day and he said the visa is forty, but you need ten also to fax London for clearance. I gave him it, filled in the form and then would have to change another ten when it arrived the next week. He gave me a number to phone to check if it had been received.

Next week I phoned but the number didn't work. I went there as told at twelve thirty exactly, but the woman told me they were closing early because there were eight applicants, so come tomorrow.

Next day I went, paid the money and he said come in three days because there are lots of applications.

I went to a few travel agents and all the flights were booked. In one, a woman booked me on economy flights for everyday of the week but they were waiting listed. So she booked one first class as a definite.

When I went back (on a Thursday) the economy fare was confirmed Monday, but the first class flight for tomorrow, she'd made a mistake and hadn't booked it. I was spending about fifty Euros a day in Istanbul and so I really wanted to go as fast as possible. She phoned Gulf Air head office and there was another ticket via Bahrain and Abu Dhabi that might be possible, but she wouldn't know until tomorrow.

Next day, I got it.

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The next morning I got up and had to wait for the bus. The man who had tried my door was checking out also, so now the stealing would stop the same time as I leave. There was a really friendly American girl who'd been studying in France. She came and wished me good luck.

Then I left for the airport, getting scared. I waited an hour to check in, then it was delayed by two. I got on the plane and took four valium. It wasn't too bad.

We arrived in Kuwait and it took ages to get out, but Gulf Air gave me a free hotel. I couldn't believe it when I got there. There was a huge buffet included and it was five star. The room had a marble bathroom, studio lighting, huge TV, walk in closet, sofa etc.

I had about two hours sleep, and was actually woken by the shuttlebus driver shaking me. I felt wrecked. The next flight was only an hour and wasn't too bad at all. I only took one Valium. As I sat down the attendant asked if there was something wrong with my leg. I said it's OK but they moved me because they wanted someone 'able–bodied' by the emergency door.

In Abu Dhabi I kept setting off the metal detector. I even emptied my moneybelt but couldn't get through. In the end they Xrayed my shoes and then it was OK. But, all my stuff was in disarray. I later realised the memory card with all the trips pictures on is missing.

Yep, then I was home. At the carosel, one of my bags didn't come. When I found it, it was wide open, but I think nothing missing.

I went outside to arrivals, and there was a hotel driver holding a little plaque with my name on, as I'd booked online. We went and it was a nice room. I had no money at all but went to an atm, then popped into a bar. The beer was one eighty, about four dollars, but came with little trays of almonds, peanuts, sweets, crisps, celery and pineapple. Every time I finished a plate, they filled it. I was eating the nuts and bit on something really hard. I pulled out a little stone and a piece of my tooth. They gave me 50 rupees discount.

Next day I went to the city to find somewhere cheaper to live. I had to have a rickshaw to the station, queue for ages for a ticket, then stand for forty minutes.

The city itself was horrible. I hated walking round there. The train back was unbelievably crowded, I couldn't breath with the people pressed against me. I missed my stop because I couldn't get to the door it was so crowded. I came home and the manager said he's try and get me an emergency ticket to Goa, which he got for the day after next. So I spent one day watching TV, and then left.

It was an uneventful trip down. I taxied to Republica and the receptionist remembered me from three years ago. It was only free for two nights, then I moved to another place with TV and fan and very nice indeed. 40 Satellite channels.

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I phoned Junko this morning. I spoke to her mother, whom doesn't speak English. Then her father, who does. He told me she'd moved. I asked for the number and he gave me it. I asked if it was Osaka and he said yes. I looked at it, and it's twelve digets... so I'm guessing it's a mobile.

:–) :–):–) :–):–) :–):–) :–):–) :–):–) :–)

I've got J's mobile number. ... what if she doesn't accept the call? Why's she moved? Maybe she

had a child or got married and thinks I'll but hurt... but I won't. I just want to check she's OK.

What if she's busy when I phone? What does she do on a Sunday? Why am I asking you dear diary? You don't know do you? OK, they were rhetorical questions...

... there's only one way to find out isn't there? Shall I go and find her... now?

I remember the first day I saw her. She was writing a letter and didn't notice me. I just passed her on the way to the room.

That night I fell asleep praying, ‘Please let me be with that woman. If I'm with her, I'll never ask to be with anyone again.’

And by a series of strange coincidences, I was with her, for two weeks. Then never went with anyone again. I think I knew when I left Perth that I wouldn't ever try to be with someone again. It all hurts too much.

OK, I'm going. Wish me luck.

8th January 2005

Panjim, Goa, India.

Bad. I phoned but the numbers not in use. I think her father might have given me the last digit twice. I might try again on her birthday, but I'm having second thoughts. She knows where I am. If she really wanted to she could say hello. I don't want to bother her. I'm in two minds about it.

I phoned Frank (Hampton Roads). They were in a meeting but the receptionist said to phone back tomorrow. That was yesterday. So I phoned. They don't want it.

I can't believe it. After fifteen months, and the ceo personally asking for it. I was shocked at how much it affected me. I wept in the room. There was so much riding on that. I was so sure it was in.

My hip turned bad too. Very bad. Two days ago I barely made it home. I have to take a step, then rest, take a step and rest.

I managed to get out today and did a little work on my business idea. I can't focus my mind on writing. I can't get an outline and make a start. I

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don't know what's wrong. I felt like, I don't know. I'm going down. Maybe coming to India was a mistake? I forgot how it is to speak to no one all day.

I can't think what to do, about the writing, where to go, how to try and make money.

Yeah, a really horrible day.

Monday 24th January 2005

Colva, Goa, India

New Year is over.

I bought a domain. Also, I found a different free host with pretty much no advertising. So, I think I'm going to continue the diaries there. Ooohhhh, it was a long association with Yahoo... but I have a home on the web now.

Disaster

Absolute disaster, this page has been lost somehow. I'm writing about a year later after accidentally deleting it. I'm not sure if it's the fault of the host or an errant cybercafe computer. The page was at http://lifemagic.freespaces.com/diaries. Do let me know if you know if it's been archived anywhere.

So briefly, I have to try and remember what occoured between being in Colva and getting down to Kerela.

There are three main memories from the time. One was buying nice herbs of a man on a motorbike and becoming paranoid.

Not a main memory, but my sister moved to town and got her second grandchild on January 24th.

Sitting in Goodmans restaurant all evening and being bored. I generally wasn't enjoying myself at this point.

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By far the strongest memory was an experience that was to change my life. I went back to the room and fell asleep. I had a dream. All I remember is an OBE which was nightmarish in some way. Then it turned into a dream. I was in England with Darren, my English friend, and I told him I'd be home for Christmas.

Then I was in a nunnery with Mother. I was sitting on one side of a desk with her. On the other side were two nuns. Mother was talking to me and writing a list of all the places she would go to in the coming years. Then suddenly she turned to me and said that she's sorry she can't be here to see the Feast of St. Steven, then left the room.

One of the nuns said to me that she knew she was going soon and showed me a piece of paper with what I think was a date on it. All I could make out was the letter J and a 4.

Then she leant across to me and smiled. Her smile became hideously huge and gapped. When it did I looked in and could see pure space, like in the sky, and I realised I was looking at the face of death.

I woke up alone in the room and it was awful. I felt alone in the universe. I later looked up the feast of st. Stephen as dec 25. The whole experience was so strong that I realised... I don't know, that I would make some change.

The next page, thankfully still online (and now backed up) follows.

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The Chapter That Doesn't Have Any Particular Theme

Monday 21st March 2005

Cochin Island, Kerela

Well, it's been a little more interesting... but I'm getting frustrated in a way.

The dorm was wholly empty for about four nights. I couldn't take it. I've changed so much; I think I can never get used to and go back to the long periods of not speaking to someone.... which is why I might do what I'm planning to do.

A couple of nights ago a guy called Simon checked in. He's an art student studying just near Elephant and Castle in London. He's into photography and came over for a break as his sister has been here doing aid work for years. We sat up on the stairs and talked for about an hour. He's nice. Father died when he was young. He's originally from Somerset.

Yesterday, a Dutch guy came. I went up and sat on the patio to give him some space while he unpacked.

A German woman came up to me and said how she loves 'rooftop culture'. She said she came to India alone when she was sixteen because she was accepted in this school which is run by an organisation started by Nelson Mandella in 1945 to study social science as she wants to make a difference in the third world.

She's in a room there with someone from Cameroon, Korea and England. She asked me a lot about travelling. Really pleasant girl We chatted for about half an hour, then she said she'd see me either later or the next day.

I went back in the room. The Dutch guy was gone, but Simon was back. We talked a bit, he asked me what Kovolam was like. He also mentioned that his sister had been commissioned to write a book about the Indus river, and so was off to live in Pakistan.

I got the impression that he was enjoying the trip less because he wasn't meeting people. He's got some friends in Varkala, but he hasn't heard

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from them, so he's thinking of visiting his sister. I'd love to have a normal family like that.

I think that I've accepted that I can't get back into this life, not right now. I miss meeting people. I had a look back earlier to what I wrote in London, and I know I can never be happy there.

But I'm not here, to be honest. I think, a lot, that my solution would be to actually run my own hostel in Europe.

I started writing some vague plan, but got really into it. Then I had a look at house prices and thought about a loan, realised I couldn't get one as they need three years of accounts.

So I went on a downer... until I realised that there's still a chance to get some money, as a grant from the European Social Fund.

After that, I found a book about writing business plans, and what I'd already written was already like that, I just needed to add a few things.

I have a number of target countries. I was deciding on Spain. I found out yesterday, that for either a residence permit or work permit, you have to submit a medical report from an authorised centre. I'm not sure, if you only need it for a work permit, but not self–employed business license... then maybe it's still possible?

It's so hard to find anything out. I mean, the nitty gritty. What's the minimum wage in Spain, what's the average price of a three bedroom house in Belgrade? How much would a weekly electric bill be if I had 24 guests in Cluj?

Yeah, it's demorolising, to not be able to find this all out. I think my plan is to do as much as I can here, then go and ask the relevant embassies in New Delhi, go to Gujarat to look for this birth certificate from 1900, then think about leaving.

Am I the most unsettled person in the universe?

Saturday 26th March 2005

Cafe de Net, Cochin Island, Kerela

Done it again. Got to know someone, and just earlier they left.

I think it was the day after I met the German woman. I was sitting on the steps and some English woman asked me if it was my phone that was charging.

I can't remember exactly how it all came about. I think that evening I got talking to two people on the rooftop, and the guy in the bed next to me came. He'd already moved into a room because of the mosquitoes. Actually, I recall now. He'd been travelling with a woman for a while but she was then leaving the next day, and I got talking to her.

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The English woman joined us and we all got talking or something. It went on really late. It was nice, the guy is called Andes, and was kind of naive and comical in some innocent way. He was 22, the woman was my age. Nikki Lichtenstien, a recently qualified vet from Cambridge. We talked about lots of things, including my idea for a hostel, and how I can't sleep at night unless I drink... and it's been that way for a long time.

Next evening they were both there and called me over, but I wanted to shower. They came in and asked me to eat, so I said I'd join them in Elite restaurant.

I went up and it was all green lighting. The service was really incompetent, to the point of being funny. They had been sitting earlier with this dour guy who walked out because it all took so long.

Earlier, the night before, Nikki and I had talked about our time in Puri and Nepal, where we've both been. Andes had completely changed his plan due to this.

Nikki talked about herself a bit. She lives in a co–op, so it's like a room for fifty pounds. She has a dog her parents are looking after. She's Jewish, and going down to do work with animals in Kovolam, then Chennai, and going back to England in June.

After this we went down to Salt & Pepper, took a few pictures. I told them about my web site.

In the evening, we went up to the rooftop, and Simon joined us. We all chatted, and Nikki really got on with him. I think we ended up going to bed about three in the morning.

Next day, Nikki and I had decided to go to Vypeen Island, to this deserted beach which she had read about. She asked if I needed to drink first thing in the morning... or just at night.

So she woke me up. I had no coke so she took a tonic to the restaurant for me and brought it back opened, then went down to wait for me in Kashi Art Cafe.

We talked more and I had lunch. In this coop she lives with this guy who had ME and had to use a bed pan, but now he's better, he still uses it. I don't recall everything, mostly it was an exchange of travel anecdotes.

We left there and walked down to the fishing nets. There was a basket of fish dying in the sun. I felt really bad for them, but photographed them anyway.

We went to the boat, gave some money to a beggar and went over to the island.

The rickshaw wanted too much, but the bus was waiting, so we went on this for about forty minutes, then got a rickshaw. On the way she said she'd been expecting too much and was getting the feeling it was going to be disappointing.

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We got there and it was just a sandy beach, not wholly deserted, but not many people and all local. There wasn't even shade. We just looked at each other and laughed, then went and sat in a restaurant.

I think we talked for a couple of hours. She told me about this French guy she traveled with in Morocco who turned out to be a bit of a psycho. She mentioned that there was darkness under my eyes, which people mention to me every now and again for about five years, and she said she understands that this means kidney malfunction, and that I should see a doctor. But mostly there we just talked generally.

We went back to the sea for about ten minutes and she got her feet wet, then laughed and said, 'Right, done the beach then!'. I got some smokes and she had a big bag of crisps. I said to her that it was her turn to get the rickshaw, expecting a load of trouble haggling like I'd had, but she just said to them, 'Charas, for 20 rupees?', they said yes straight up and she burst out laughing.

We got back and she said she wanted to see a violin concert, will I come, so I said OK and went back to shower.

After I'd showered, I sat on the stairs. There was a large group of people on the rooftop but it was dark and I couldn't see them. Nikki then spoke to me. It turns out that Simon's bumped into his friend from the south, a drama student, and he's made two more friends who are with him. So we all went down to eat at the place next to the Kathakali centre. There were actually seven of us as Andes also came. That's the most people I've sat down with since... China?

One of the guys was ill and he was with this woman. Not sure from where but was about to start a degree in Manchester. I talked with her about the time I was poisoned in Thailand, and she told me about Munnar. She had this strange infantile voice. I couldn't work out if she was together with the ill guy and she turned and touched him and asked if he was OK at one point. But I noticed when she mentioned the fact that her hair was dyed, he expressed surprise.

They weren't interested in the concert, so Nikki and I went alone. It was 100 and we walked in. There was about five other people. It was a violin and two drums. We watched for about two minutes, then I turned to her and said 'It's awful isn't it?' and she agreed, but wouldn't leave until the song finished. It was kind of ironic in a way. While waited I asked if she couldn't fake some severe illness so I could carry her out.

We left and didn't know were the others were... because they had some... really nice cigarettes. We almost went to Salt & Pepper but decided that they might have gone back to the rooftop, so we went to ask, and yes, they were there. So I went to the shops, then went up.

The woman passed me... a nice cigarette. There were two or three going round. I went really quiet and relaxed. Nikki had some kind of panic attack, but it passed. After about an hour, the three new people left, so I, Nikki, Andes and Simon talked. It was nice because Andes just lie there like a

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statue, but occasionally would say something. Simon and Nikki really got on, and talked about places they'd been. There was a moments silence, then Simon asked Nikki, 'So you're going to Kovolam tomorrow', and Andes answered 'No, I'm staying here', thinking the question was for him.

They went, but he was nearly locked out (Andes) because he has a room downstairs.

Next day Nikki was supposed to be leaving, so she came to see me in the morning and said we'd say goodbye about three. I went down to eat.

At three, she was on the rooftop talking to Simon. It turns out that there's some special celebration at the synagogue, so she's staying an extra day.

I went to lie down and was shattered. Simon came when it was dark. He said he was doing a conference call with some friends, and that Nikki had gone out with a French Guy.

I went and ate at The Courtyard. I came back and was on the roof a long time alone. First Simon came up. The drama student was with him, and they had nice cigarettes. The student turned out to be really nice, softly spoken, and I had a good chat with him. Then Andes came up, then Nikki. We didn't talk as long, and all went to bed. I realised how well I'm getting on with Simon.

Next day, which is today, I woke up and Nikki came in. She said she's not even going to get to Kovolam today, but decided to just get on some bus and spend a night in the backwaters somewhere and arrive tomorrow. The woman from the animal shelter will understand, because it's not like a paid job.

So she gave me her email, plus two phone numbers and said I can go up to Cambridge when I get back. She said, 'lay off the grog, or at least take it easy. It would actually be nice to see you rather than take you to the hospital', she also told me not to be glued to the bed but to move on.

And that was it, she left.

I've been feeling really weird generally. I think I'm so unsure about the hostel, the one I want to start I mean. Sometimes it feels like a great idea and I can't wait. Other times it just feels impossible, like all I'd need to do to set it up, and then being in one place and having to run it with all of its hassles all of the time. I basically feel like sh*t about everything.

Wednesday 30th March 2005

NetCafe, Princess Street, Cochin Island, Kerela

Unbelievable time.

I was on a downer after Nikki left, and it's hard to recall all that has happened since then, and in what order, but for dear, dear diary, I will try.

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Nikki left the day before Easter, though Easter's never been a big deal for me. That night I ended up on the roof with Andes, Simon, the drama student who's called Binnie, and also William, whom they were earlier travelling with, and he was being visited by his brother.

Can remember very little of it, except it was fun, and Simon had some nice roll ups.

Next day I woke up and Andes was lying beside me, and Simon had strung up a hammock and was swaying in it. They were ... sharing a cigarette, so I was basically doing this from the moment we woke up. Binnie and Edward joined us for a bit then we all went down to the water.

Binnie had the idea to play hunt the Easter egg, but there were none, so we all had a mango instead. William and Binnie went off to get a haircut, Simon showed me how to buy nice ciggerettes, and we came back and just lie smoking them.

Binnie came for a bit, but then left with Simon to go and get a book they had seen.

Alone with Andes, he kept talking. He asked if people in China smile more than people in India, and I said in China it's illegal not to smile. Cue giggling fit.

They came back, and we basically had a 'Sunday morning', as Simon referred to it. At one point, he dropped something and I watched him doing everything he could think of get it rather than move. He looked over and saw that I'd noticed him, and we laughed.

They went for a bit to phone home as it was Easter, and I was alone with Binnie for a bit. It's nice, he spoke openly. He said how his parents just got divorced, he wants to go to drama school.

We went up on the roof and when everyone was assembled we went down to this cheap food stall, then walked up and smoked and played cards all night on the roof. Really good fun.

We met two other French women who were working for Le Guide Routard, the French guide book. Edward turned up with a woman about my age called Rachel. She played some cards and we chatted for a while, mostly about travel. She's been all over because she's an artist.

She left, as did the French women. The latter came back and said there's been an earthquake in Indonesia, so we went back and watched some TV with them, then went back up.

After some time it was only Simon, Andes and myself, and we played Texas Draw poker for matches, and the whole day was just brilliant. One of the most fun days I've ever had.

Everyone had planned to be leaving the next day, but no one did. I went out and ate. The shop owner told me there was a three day strike starting the next day to protest about VAT.

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Next day, not sure. That was yesterday, yeah? Wait, I'll just check. No, it wasn't ????? I don't know. Edward left I think but we did basically the same thing, but just started later.

Yesterday was weird. They bumped into another two boys they went to school with, Simon and Samuel, then a third one, also called Ed, checked in. So there was nine of us up there playing. William treated us to some Bombay Sapphire.

I had one time alone with Andes, I mean we both stayed up slightly later. He told me about his mother, and she's very superficial all the time. Also, she has one sibling that she really favours.

Today, a new guy called Renee checked in. Simon and Andes left together. I'll miss them. Andes used to just sit and watch between all these people, like observing them because they were interesting in some way to him.

Simon and I might be in Delhi the same time. Andes seemed a bit quiet, but we shook hands, though I don't think he'll be in Delhi long.

I went over to the mainland earlier. I came back and bumped into William here in the NetCafe. He's going, but Binnie is ill and going to rest for two days. He asked me to keep an eye on him and make sure he drinks enough water.

Busy time eh? So tonight, there's Ed, myself and Binnie. Plus the new Renee of course. So strange that someone should turn up just as I would have been alone there otherwise.

I had absolutely no emails though.

Tuesday 5th April 2005

Cafe de Net, Princess Street

Dream

I was walking along some local street and some kids started teasing me. It turns out they were a 'gang' from Gujurat. When I told them that I originate from there, they were really friendly and helpful.

Interpretation

Perhaps I'm supposed to go to Gujurat?

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It didn't work out the way I thought before. Just after I finished on the computer, Will was here. He said he was going and goodbye, and can I keep an eye on Binnie, because he needs to keep up his fluid intake.

Later I went out and Will was still there, actually deciding to stay another day to look after Binnie. Will stayed in reception all night, but I went up and spoke to Ed Foster for a bit.

Next day I went down and Ed was there. He said that Will was ill now, but Binnie better, so the former would stay, the latter leave. I went out and ate, then came back to see them.

Again it's changed. Now Will's taken an Imodium, and so they're both going. We chatted in the room for a bit, then were joined by Ed and went to Art Cafe.

Then it was all goodbyes. All except Ed and Andes will be in Delhi in June, and so we could meet. We swapped addresses and shall hopefully stay in touch. Yesterday Simon wrote, and also Nikki, though I haven't read them yet.

That night I spoke to Ed on the roof, and he left the next day.

Next evening, there was an Italian there. About my age, he's basically drifted the whole of his life and keeps thinking of settling but never does. He did try to start a business but realised he wasn't ready yet.

Last night was completely alone. It's strange, to get these bursts of meeting people. It's strange that people are always going also.

The whole thing, knowing all these people, was about ten days. I keep remembering things about it. I didn't wholly fit in in some way. Like Will's brother would thank me for rudimentary things that he didn't thank other people for. Though Binnie seemed relaxed and I think wants to meet again. It's very much a class thing I think; they're very educated and didn't really have the same experience of childhood that I did.

I remember being with Binnie and we both knew the same waiter in Salt & Pepper, and were hugging him as it was his last day.

Apart from the lazy Easter, cards was the most fun. There were three main games. One was like trumps, except there are twenty rounds. You start off with ten cards, next round nine ect until one, then that's half time, so you go back up to ten. The trump card is pre–chosen each game. You have to predict at the start of each hand how many you will get. If you guess this, then you get ten points as well as one for each trick. I won both times because I realised it's better to guess low, then throw the hands.

The other one was s**thead. Again, each person puts a card down. You have to respond to the card before you. Generally, you have to put a higher card on, but two beats anything, three is invisible (so you play to the card below it), a five has to be matched by another five or a suit. A seven has to have a card below it and a ten clears all the discarded cards. You start with three cards and pick one up each go so you always have three until the pack is gone. If you ever can't put a card down you have to pick up all the discarded

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cards. When your cards are gone, then there are three face up cards you can play, which you were able to change at the start of the game. Lastly, when these are gone, there are three face down cards you have to play by guessing. So the point of the game is to have no cards.

The last game was Texas poker. Loads of fun. Two cards and a round of betting. Check to put no money but will match if there is betting later. Raise to keep the betting going, or check to match and go onto the flop.

The flop is three community cards, and then a round of betting starting with the person who last raised.

Fourth card and betting. Fifth card and betting. That's it. Really good fun.

Of course, this is all past. The dorm's empty, I don't know about the hotel itself. It rained heavily the past two days. There's hardly anyone about. I'm still on the business plan, though all the people I've met were certainly a diversion. I really must go. No where excites me though. I Don't really want to be alone anymore; I always want someone there. But then there are all the goodbyes aren't there? I feel empty and directionless in the dorm.

Yasmine sent me a text that made no sense yesterday. I think it was mocking my Asianness and disability, I didn't think so much about it.

Didn't hear from M or A since all these people arrived, so I have something to talk about.

Yesterday, I downloaded some songs. Apparently there was a virus in one of them and the computer's stopped working. He just came over and had a go at me.

(?)Friday 8th April 2004

Dream

I was with Anne and someone else. She snapped at me to come and help her and made some accusatory comment about living full on for ten years.

Then I was watching a huge whale.

Then I saw a little white seal on the beach. I was watching it and suddenly it was attacked by a dog. By the time I got to it its eyes were all damaged and it was blind.

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Interpretation

I think that's really interesting. I think it's about writing. How I used to want to really rise in the profession. Always have done. But since I got back to India I realise I want to do more than one thing. Like the more modest seal, I was blind to not see it.

Dream

I got to Delhi with Binnie and the others. We all boarded a boat and were going onto somewhere.

Interpretation

This will pretty much be what happens. Simon wrote and said we can all meet up there, then we will each go onto new futures.

M&A phoned Tuesday. Not so much news. Renee, my cousin in Belgium with a similar health condition to myself, has had to give up work due to the pain. Nothing else.

I've been alone in the dorm. It's an unusual thing I suppose. Not unusual. I lie there and think of the mad times and the people who are gone now. The goodbyes get to me. Of course, if I end up with a hostel, there will be even more of them.

Sunday 10th April 2005

Fort Cochin, Kerela

It's absolutely dead here, wholly off–season.

I feel so strange about the hostel. Sometimes it's all I want. Other times, it feels impossible. I've never taken any kind of responsibility, and I can't imagine it. All that needs to be done. It would be a case of just going with a vague business plan, faith and not much else. But I think I might have to. It really is non–sustainable.

When Simon was here, he used to share some ... nice cigarettes, plus he showed me where to buy them. I've had them these past two nights. I have one, then go out, come back and have two more, then go to sleep.

But that's it; I don't drink. These past two nights I haven't needed to. This is the first time in many years I've gone to sleep without alcohol.

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But it's not like alcohol; it's almost like a healing thing for me. I lie there and am wholly relaxed, and usually a little happy. But my mind isn't deadened or fantasising. I'm wholly in the present. The night before last I was thinking about J and that situation generally, but wholly lucidly. I just saw it in a different, honest way. She didn't want me, and I felt an honest sadness, but in a way that was, not dreamy. I could see and feel.

Last night, I thought a lot about my childhood. Of course it's always been the fact that when Mother's marriage broke up, I went to stay with Anne for a bit, but it didn't work out when I went back to M's. Her partner didn't like me, so I ended up being brought up by A.

But last night, smoking.. cigarettes up on the patio, I saw it lucidly and differently. I realised that it isn't really normal. Most people don't grow up with an Aunt. M paid Anne a monthly fee to have me, which I now receive. I suppose the sense of rejection was lucid to me last night.

I remember when I was up on the roof with Ed Foster and he was telling me how glad he was that he went to boarding school because you end up living with these lifelong friends.

So G. got private school. There's a bitterness in a way because my state school was so bad and damaged me and made the eleven years they had me that should have been the best of my life, the worst. Nowadays, before I usually drink at night, it's my school days that I'm flashing back to as I pace up and down the room.

OK, so we all got something. Y. got a normal family till she left, G. got boarding school, and I got to travel all around the world. I wouldn't swap with those two. It's just that last night, I realised there's just a bitterness, more sadness actually, underlying everything.

I feel different. Wholly. I don't just mean recently. The nature of consciousness feels different since I left India that time to go to Europe. I feel uprooted. Things are more real in a way, but in a way that makes me feel sad and at sea.

I think my relationship to alcohol is different to other people. I never drink in the day. For me the whole thing is about getting to sleep. I first started having trouble sleeping in my teenage years, and I've never mastered it. I can't stop my mind and the flashbacks. Alcohol solves it. I drink, a lot, just before I sleep, and I'm fine. If I don't, I'll stay awake. It's like a torture to me, to lie there in the dark, alone. The very worst times is if I wake up very early, like five, and nothing's open and no one's about and there's nothing to distract me, and it's too early to drink, I must wait and fill my day with meaningful activity. Those few hours are awful.

But, with... this other thing that Simon gave me, it's just gone. I can sleep. I stopped alcohol dead and feel fine. I wake up early in the morning, though not too early, and I'm enthusiastic and I get things done.

Can it be a permanent answer? I don't know. My life, feels free this way; I know not what it has in store for me.

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Thursday 14th April 2005

Cafe de Net, Princess Street, Cochin Island, Kerela

Ach, it's a weird time.

I can't remember when it happened; I think it was Tuesday. I wrote to Nikki a while ago and received a reply by return but never read it. I was thrown out of Cafe de Net for a while for accidentally downloading a virus. In this other place, they have something wrong with their cable and so it never worked long enough for me to actually deal with my personal mail.

Anyway, I was up in the dorm, I heard someone say hello, and Nikki walked in. Apparently, the mail said that she was travelling back with her friend, Leeander. So, there she was, and her friend whom she'd met at the animal shelter.

So, we went to Art Cafe, talked a bit. They'd had a good time, and had cancelled the Chennai plan. We went back up to the patio and smoked a bit, then went to Salt & Pepper and talked. It was OK.

Next day we met in the Art Cafe. Nikki asked me to go to Mysore with them. Leeander turned up. She's getting married in a month and had bought a photo album. I didn't really click with her. She's extremely white (fair enough) but describes her parents as bigots. I tried to get specifics from her, as she said her father doesn't like 'Pakistanis'. She seemed to assume that all the dark people in England are Pakistanis, though she admitted that if he should meet a Sri Lankan he probably wouldn't know and think they were Pakistanis.

Anyway, in the Art Cafe, just as Leeander arrived, they looked at each other and Nikki shook her head, and Leeander said 'It's because me', to which Nikki said nothing. I asked what they meant, but they just said 'Girl Talk'.

So of course, I surmise that it was about if I was coming to Mysore.

That evening, I came back and they were in reception; they'd had pedicures. I sat for a while watching TV but then went up without further comment. I could hear them meeting some guy who was living next door.

Next day I didn't see them, but Leeander was watching TV when I went out and said hello, and I returned and she was still there; though we didn't speak.

I passed them this morning, said hello, and they're leaving this evening at six. It was really uncomfortable because no one mentioned me not coming. Of course if they did, then I could say that it isn't about Leeander. I'm getting into stuff here. In the email from Nikki, which I actually read yesterday, at that point, she was still planning to go back to Kovolam and so was asking if I was still here.

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I felt like an outsider with them also.

I saw Simon's friend yesterday, for... imported cigarettes; it was really frightening, but I'm OK.

Just before Nikki came, I found a book about Yoga Nidra. I've been interested for a while, while I was researching Life Magic I came across this. But I really want to try to achieve success in this, especially so that now I realise my addictions are actually sleep related, then success in this would solve a large part of my problems (I actually wrote questions instead of problems by mistake to start with, which might be telling).

Another insightful night last night. No alcohol at all.

I realised how much I think about J. I always know I did. Sometimes when I'm down some memory of a moment together will surface and there's so much yearning in me I wonder if I'm lighting up in some way to the people around me. I already know that I think of her for at least a little while each day, and have done since I last saw her. I think last night it just sunk in ... how much all that actually is.

To change the subject slightly; the business plan has gone about as far as I can take it. But there's such doubt in my mind. When I think of all that has to be done and what my life would entail; it feels almost impossible. I don't know if I could do that. But if I don't... what else will I do?

I paid some rent yesterday; I've been here 45 days. He said I can have a single room for the same price, which will be nice to practice the Yoga in. I'll have to move, as soon as I finish, ... my experiments.

I know I always whine about this, but I want to say it once again anyway. I'm a weirdo. I had this surreal time more than ten years ago where, for two weeks, I was normal, lucid and happy. Nothing compares to it. Is that it? Are there lives like that, a little oasis of happiness on a sea of disappointment, and I only get to stand on its shores once?

This all seems morbid and depressive... but maybe if I think about it enough it will lose its power...

... SO I HAVEN'T THOUGHT ENOUGH ABOUT IT EVERY DAY FOR THE PAST TEN YEARS?

Yeah, OK, it was just a thought.

Sunday 17th April 2005

Park Avenue Hotel, Princess Street, Cochin Island, Kerela (Cafe de Net closes on Sunday).

Yesterday, I had two of... ‘Simon's cigarettes’. That's it. I had one the patio, then one in the room because there was a power–cut. Then I went out to eat and came home. I thought about having one more, but lie down and fell asleep, then awoke at six in the morning.

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I'm angry in a way. In the daytime, I have nothing. I never have. I always wake up, live my day, then go to bed and consume a large amount of alcohol to sleep.

Now... just stop to think about it. What would my situation be like if alcohol was illegal... and ... other things legal. I'd be thinner, richer, more healthy, more effective; so would everyone.

The world's gone mad; what's wrong with everyone?

There's a philosophy of misery about the West. It's like the argument against euthanasia... actually, what is the argument against euthanasia?

I can't remember the statistic exactly, but it's something like, if you take the average person and work out everything they take from the state in a lifetime, like healthcare, pension, benefits ect, something like two thirds is taken in the last three days of life.

I can't imagine anyone being against euthanasia. It's like trying to imagine someone arguing to legalise bestiality, murder or pedophilia. Only the mentally incoherent would want this.

The only argument against euthanasia that I can think of it a blanket 'thalt shalt not kill'. So it's a religious thing?

But the UK is supposed to be multi–cultural. That means that people from different cultures live together but rather than make a melting pot of culture, or forcing people to live according to native culture, they have our own culture but live together as one people.

Bu****t.

So, if it's truely a free country, you could say, fine, I choose atheism. So there's no God saying I can't end my life in I'm terminal.

Sorry dear, no you can't. They'll force you to live according to their belief. Not only that, you have to pay for the expensive religious beliefs of all the other Christians.

Look... take some stupid piece of medieval superstition like... well, there's lots, like christianity, judaism, islam etc (deliberately not using capitals).

OK, for the sake of illustration, let's take Islam. Say some guy went to the UK government and said that the word of God states that his daughter has to have her genitals removed, so he's off to Iran and he wants Tony Blair's blessing. Not only that, but will the tax payer fund it?

The answer would be: ‘No, you backwards a****le, not only are we refusing to fund a backwards, medieval superstition from a culture we do not belong to, but if you do it anyway, you'll be jailed when you get back to London.

Good, so there's something we all agree with Tonyboy (as he likes me to call him) on.

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Next scenario, a Humanist (capital intentional) lies dying, less than three days left. Enter Tony. Humanist says:

‘Tony, according to the culture I've decided to create and adopt, I believe there is no reason for my suffering. On the basis that it takes so much energy from the people caring for me, plus over a hundred thousand pounds a day to keep me alive for three days tops, could I please say something meaningful to my family, then spend my last moments in meaningful contemplation before my chosen end, rather than screaming my guts up in agony.’

Tony: ‘I'm sorry. Two thousand years ago Moses went up a mountain and... what did he do? Er, is he the one who was going to kill his son as a birthday present for god, but god only wanted a goat... or was that Abraham? Anyway, whoever was offering the gift, God should have been more grateful. Never look a gift–horse in the mouth. Anyway, no, it was Moses. god said never kill in any circumstance.

Now it might well be the case that almost no one actually practices the tenets of Christianity anymore... like, who's actually truly entitled to wear white to their wedding day? But it's the spirit of the thing, like spending hundreds of pounds on unneeded electrical goods at Christmas so that children can be occupied rather than bother adults who are trying to get drunk.

What I'm actually saying is, although no one actually has a religion in UK anymore, except the dark ones, I don't know what they believe, it's something from Pakistan or wherever. What I mean is, in England, we were always made to go to church at school, so it must be right. Once something has been done a certain way for a long time, that must be the right way, no matter what.

OK, I'm being stupid... no I'm not. I'm being sarcastic; it's a valid argument. Remove superstition and there's no argument that comes to mind.

It's not really about that. Not really. In the west, perhaps only the UK I'm not sure, there's misery philosophy. You have to put in a 'hard' days work. It doesn't carry respect if it's creative and you love doing it. Everything is a competition and a test. You have to have a slow and painful end because... it's always been that way, so that's how it's supposed to be.

Think of the kind of trouble at chucking out (closing time) in the average uk pub. Vomiting, fighting, loutish behavior. But it's always been like that, so it must be OK.

Think if it was something like Amsterdam coffee shops instead. People sitting talking, giggling, too relaxed to fight and damage to the body and cost to the state, almost nil.

I think people believe in living gods also. In the west, someone dies and immediately they're covered, then hidden, and there's a ritual where

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they're in a box, never open to view unless they've been made up and look nice. So people have no idea.

Now take one of these anti–euthanasia puritans and leave them outside A&E in New Delhi Hospital. Let them see someone screaming themselves to death in the last days.

In England, people don't see it. They think that medical 'professionals' are gods, and at the end it's all sweetness and light, and the painkillers will make it dreamy and light while they wait for the angels.

Strange though, that's not how I remember my uncle going when I was a kid. As I recall, they moved a bed in the living room and he sprayed vomit and sh** everywhere, screaming intermittently for two weeks while white people walked round with fixed smiles on their face, excitedly talking about all the great things we could all do when he ... 'ge's better' to the stupid twelve year old who knows damn well he's not getting better and prays for his demise.

That's it. Got wound up. Sorry. I'm off to the patio... to see if Simon left anymore.

Tuesday 19th April 2005

Cochin Island, Kerela, India

Same again last night, just two and bed. Well, yes, one before I went out, and once when I was in bed.

It's not like alcohol though. Not better or worse, just better for me.

I think with alcohol, there's a sense of well–being and so on, but also total escapism. With, this other thing, there's the mild feeling of, being there, the mind is lucid. I'm feeling really strange in the daytimes now. I wake up before eight in the morning, but I've spent most of the night thinking about the thing I've drank for ten years to not think about.

Friday 22nd April 2005

Cochin Island, Kerela, India

Dream

I was sitting somewhere looking at a rooftop. There were people occasionally sliding down it and collecting in a guttering.

I looked again and noticed that there was an extension to the downwards slope, so occasionally someone would slide about another five meters lower than the others and end up in guttering even lower down.

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Someone remarked to me that this is where people who don't want to live go.

Interpretation

I woke up from this and when I sat up I felt something really painful at the back of my nose and slowly and painfully slide down my throat, and after that I had a bad cold. It's obviously saying that I've brought it on myself by being morbid.

I think it was last Tuesday that M&A phoned. All is well. It was a bit of a shock as I was in the shop and it was a bit earlier than usual.

My sister sent me a text; a joke about the Pope's demise. Not sure if she did it accidentally, or if all is forgiven, though what I did I still don't know.

Still sober, except for one day a couple of days ago. I woke up, but couldn't smoke anymore because of the cold I've picked up. So I had a few drinky–poos, slept, woke hung–over, and realised how much I hate alcohol now.

I keep seeing herbal guy, did this morning... but I hate dealing with, these things.

Yesterday I put one of the cd's I brought from UK in, with Life Magic on, and accidentally put a virus on the computer. It's the second time I've done that; the owners going to be really mad, it's the second time I've done it. It means I can't ever come here again, though it was pretty much time to move on I guess.

I wanted to put the pictures of my first trip online. I mean, from 1993 when I left until I returned. It turns out I didn't bring as many pics as I thought, but realised that I basically only have some pics of the friends I met along the way.

The friends I had some feelings for. It's a sad story, only three, and only one was truely nice. Oh dear.

I left England 22nd February 1993, and met Suntaree 25th February 1993. We were only friends, and even then, not so close. But I'd never been abroad alone, I'd actually never even slept away from home, so it was good to have someone to hang about with. Everything was new in those days, new food, culture, experiences. I really missed her when I left because I'd never, just had fun like that. She used to work for the government. I wonder how she is now? I used some software to make a little gallery. She's with her sister. There are also a few pictures of Hong Kong, and people I met there, which is where I went on leaving Thailand.

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Also, a while later I met Nemia. I was with her about ?ten weeks which is a record for me. It wasn't, meant to be I suppose. There were some OK times I suppose, but we didn't really get on or click in any way. I found out later that everything we'd based our relationship on was lies anyway. I was duped... There was still some degree of 'happiness' I suppose.

That's it. I have all of J's memorabilia and correspondence, but for some reason, it's read only, and I can't get it online. I'll manage it at some point, but not now.

Every time J ever wrote to me, she always ends in saying, 'eat well and try and make friends'.

I remember when I first left Perth. I'd been so close to her that I resolved not to spend so long alone, to stay in dorms and meet people. I didn't tell anyone, I just realised that such isolation was causing me problems. J must have realised it intuitively also. But I went straight to Chang Mai Holiday Guest House, got food poisoning for a while, travelled a bit, came to India, drank —– stayed alone and ate badly.

That was a mistake; I should have listened to her.

But you can't change your past.

I was thinking recently though, how meeting people is also trouble. Yes, it's lonely alone. Yes, it's good to open and be understood and accepted. But thinking back to all the people I met recently. There's also, trouble. Like with Binnie. He's nice, but I felt like such an outsider with his friends and Will's brother. It was a race and class thing; but also, I am just weird and I make an awful lot of people uncomfortable by just being me. I can sense it. I'm different and there's a sense of standoffishness with them.

Cochin Island is full circle for me. When I was here a couple of years ago, it's where I made the decision to go back to Europe. It's where I did the long piece of magic that took me there and back. It's where I designed the new home page.

Now I'm here again and it's where decided I couldn't write just now, that I wanted the hostel, and where I started having second thoughts. I know when I leave here, I'm going to go in a new direction; I just don't know how or where. It's also here though, that I discovered, how to sleep.... ;–).

It's frustrating. I really want to put J's correspondence online. I feel different somehow, once I've included or discussed something in the diary. With this virus yesterday, I can't open any programs at all; only windows explorer from the desktop, if not that then I wouldn't even be writing this. The man will find out later, and so I truly can't come back here. And if I can no longer use this fast cybercafe, then I may as well move on; it's too tempting to keep seeing herbal man and end up doing nothing. I don't know where to go for sure; I don't know where to go when my visa finishes. I don't know what I should do about anything. It's only two. I don't know what I should do with the rest of the day. Go and shave and use the oracle I guess. I'm practicing Yoga Nidra at the minute.

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Wednesday 4th May 2005

Colva, Goa, India

Yeah, finally managed to leave. Not just like that though. First I had an emergency ticket but couldn't get on the quota, but made it out a couple of days ago.

It's funny, as I was in Art Cafe and saw this waiter I knew from Colva. After that I moved to Ernakulam and stayed back in Biju's for three nights. Then I came here.

I remember the first time I went to Cochin, around 2002. I was doing a lot of thinking there, broke down in some way. It's where I realised I couldn't stay out of Europe for ever and told everyone I would go back. So I did that piece of magic, came back, and then returned again.

But this time also, I did a lot of thinking, and made another decision.

After leaving Cochin, I was in Ernakulam, and of course, drank. The night before last I was on the train. There was no alcohol, no ... 'nice cigerrettes'; and it was all perfectly clear to me then.

What I mean is that, I think I just realised something in Cochin. It might have been because I smoked 'Simon's nice cigarettes' so much. It's nice, but my mind stays lucid.

That night on the train, I had nothing, and I realised, clearly, why I at least need something.

I lie there alone, and I feel so much self–hatred and disgust with myself that I wish I could pull my face off and set fire to my torso. I feel like a monster.

I'm very different, very diseased, just me. It took me a long time to realise. I didn't know as a kid. I was lonely then, but didn't know I'd have to stay alone forever. Yes, it was obvious that there was something wrong, but I thought it would be OK. I really wanted to find someone, a partner to be with and start a family with and just fit in somewhere. I did college and was still alone, and so hit the road, expecting it all to work out in some way.

It didn't of course. Yes I met Junko Imanishi. Yes that was normal, and happiness, my only happiness, but unsustainable, because I am me.

And over time I realised I'm never going to be normal, and I can not make anyone happy.

Each night, alone, I'm too aware of it. It's so clear. I only really, deep down wanted to be with someone. I found her and couldn't keep her. It's strange, so long ago and I know I'd never even try again. And at night, I just think the same thought again and again. It's all I wanted and I'm never going to get it.

In Cochin, I realised there's one way that life can be sustainable.

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Smoke.

Like yesterday, when I arrived. The mental pain of being sober on the train was so painful, horrible, inescapable, that I was just craving a drink. I got here and had one with breakfast, and then a few, and then a whole bottle, and didn't sleep until early morning, and woke up tired. My kidneys hurt most mornings and I feel drunk for a few hours. Not hung over, drunk. I can't stay here living like this.

But earlier when I smoked, my days were productive. I only had around two grams and just slept. I woke about six. I started eating well, looking forward to things.

I faced a fact in Cochin. Unless there's a miracle and J turns up, a book deal materialises and I live happily ever after, the fact is that it's the only way I'm going to be happy in any way and maintain health. I have to structure my whole life to be in a place where it's either easy to buy, easy to grow, legal or all three. That's just the way it is. Life is so bad without it, and so much better with it, I only need it at night, and then not so much.

This is my new direction. I'm going to make a life with it. I know I won't find anyone to love, and will never be truly happy. But if I can smoke at night, my days can be productive and bearable.

Not much other news. I wanted to go to Hampi, but the trains only on Saturday. I got a text from my sister saying happy birthday.

That's it.

Friday 6th May 2005 (My Birthday)

Colva, Goa, India

My birthday today. No one said hello. I wrote to Junko. Then spent the day thinking about smoking.

Next day

... of course, there's always the thought, if I can only ever be happy with this, then what's the point of being alive?

Sunday 22nd May 2005

New Delhi

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Yep, back 'home'.

I think that Delhi's like meditation. You have to try and walk down the street and watch your breath and the calmness in your mind, and if you can keep it — you've at least made some progress in this life.

Some dreams in retrospect, as I've been dreaming an abnormal amount recently...

Dream 17th May 2005 (in Colva)

I was in a department store, I think it was Beatties in the town I was born. I was on my knees near the sales counter in front of a machine for kids that they blow through and a bubble comes out and floats off. I was putting in loads of liquid and blowing really hard so that a multitude of bubbles would be produced and fly off; occasionally hitting someone and irritating them.

Then I saw two women sit down to play a coin–op game which I had previously been playing. I still had some credit, so I went over and pressed the refund button, and a few coins came out.

Then I was with Mother. She was telling me her long term plans, where she'd be this year and then that.

Then I was in a small, dingyish yet airy room (but dusty) and was with Mother. There were two Nuns in front of us, behind a desk. Mother showed me a piece of paper and said she was going. The paper had a date on it but I couldn't make all of it out. The first letter of the month was a J. The date was the 4th.

She went and I waited. The Nuns were looking ominous, so I asked them, ‘She's gone hasn't she?’. They nodded and I wept. An old Nun lead me aside, sat down and knelt me beside her. She was old and looked compassionate, but then, although the rest of the face was OK, her mouth changed. It was hideously long and slightly parted and there was pure black space inside her mouth; it was grotesque. She told me that this (me being shown a date) was truely a miracle. She said that before Mother went she had told her that she wouldn't be here for the feast of St. Steven on the 24th September.

Then she hugged me. I could suddenly feel something radiating off her, a sudden oppressive, sinister feeling, and I knew I was being held by death itself.

Then I was on the Kettring Road, near Scrooge second hand clothing shop, in Northampton. I bumped into Darren Tierney. He was with Gabriel, Simon's ex–girlfriend, and had a mohekcan haircut and punk attire. He apologised that his phone didn't work and said that he would be free to see me Christmas day.

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Interpretation

This was a horrible dream, because of what it so obviously means. I

had it the first night I'd managed to fall asleep sober in very many years. When I woke up I was alone in the dark and quiet room as I'd only slept a couple of hours. I was very scared, mainly because of the memory of death's mouth.

The first part, me blowing bubbles, shows me wasting my time, which is what, it turns out, I've obviously done with my life. Then someone else is going to play the game so I get my refund, meaning this life I've lived has to now change completely.

And the rest is letting me know it's this year? As I'll be in UK for Christmas?

So the dates? The paper can only be June 4th or July 4th (US Independence day). I checked for a St Steven's day. He was the patron saint of bricklayers on account of being stoned to death (stoned???). It's on Boxing day, i.e. December 26th. So, why the 24th? I didn't know anything about St. Steven until I looked it up just now by the way. (Awwww. I just touched the cpu and got an electric shock).

The only other thing to say is that the church in Vienna, where I last read J's post was the church of St. Steven. So maybe M. won't be here when I hear from her? Or maybe M. goes then? This is too horrible to think about. Perhaps the whole thing just wants to reaffirm my idea to go and make a try of it in Europe?

‘With a royal diadem, your sacred head was crowned, for the struggles you endured because of Christ our God,

O Stephen the First among Martyrs; for refuting the fury, of the angry Judeans, you did see the Savior, at the right of the Father.

Him do constantly beseech, for the souls of all of us. (4th Tone)’

– Apolytikion of Saint Stephen the First Martyr

Dream

I was with Junko in a park after all this time. I was being really affectionate. She was a little standoffish, but pleased to see me.

I was in Anne's lounge with this furry kind of creature. It had a tiny baby the size of my thumbnail. She was trying to take care of it but it kept sticking to her fingers meaning each time she handled it the already broken limbs kept breaking more. The creature said that she was too clumsy to help it. I tried but it kept sticking to mine.

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I went to the kitchen and got cake. When I came back it was dead. The creature and I cried, begging it to awaken. It did and I fed it a little, and it grew a little bigger, but was still small and pretty broken.

Interpretation OK, so I'm the broken thing sticking to Mother. The point is, it didn't

die, but got a little better.

Yes, everything's coming to a head. I'm going to make choices in Delhi.

News...

Back in Colva, I met this guy on a motorbike. He had some, 'special tobacco'. I was scared and hadn't been planning on buying, but ended up with a sizable packet in notepaper.

I took it home. It looked about twenty grams, but was finely chopped, with some of it almost being powder.

I smoked it the next day, an awful lot. There was something funny about it. Abnormal taste. I felt... a little happy, but not great. I went out to Goodman's restaurant and felt weird.

Then I was ill for a long time. A bad fever, lost my appetite, constant pain in my right side on standing and vomiting. It went on for about a week. I met this old Scots guy from Preston but was feeling too spaced to speak to him.

Eventually I was well enough to go and get a ticket. I went to Meeting Point travel and the girl told me that I'd never get any ticket without a months notice, so said to go to Margao to use the tourist quota.

I went all the way there and queued. The man said there was no tourist quota but I could get a general ticket, but then he went to lunch and the woman who replaced him said I wouldn't be able to get it but would have to go to Vasca to use the tourist quota there as Margao hasn't had one for years.

Next day I took the bus to Margao bus park. I was still ill and my side was hurting. I changed for a bus to Vasca. This took about an hour and then I didn't know where I was. I wandered about and found the station.

There was a huge queue. I waited. They have a self–service machine now for passengers to check availability. No one can use it, it kept crashing. When it did work, no one could work out what it was saying. They all stood around calling advice to the hapless user. I could see myself, that when there was no waitlist, it would show nothing, but they didn't get what that meant. Also, it would take a long time to process things and people using the keyboard would look at that instead of the screen and not understand that their

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keystrokes weren't being logged. So they would then stare at the screen waiting for something to happen when nothing would.

Eventually it was my turn. I specified a lower berth class 3A for the day after next, got the ticket, got out and got a shuttle bus ticket. I sat and waited for the bus. I went to the counter and the man shouted at me because I'd missed it. He made me pay again, and I realised that the buses don't have signs on.

I got to Margao bus park and my flip–flop broke. I bought this in Hungry and have walked kilometers in it. The asphalt was so hot, everyone laughed as I hopped to the bus. In Colva I tied it to me with a plastic bag and that was my day.

Next day I was sitting at breakfast, looked at the ticket, and realised that it specified a middle berth. My side still hurt and I have trouble getting in this when I'm well. It was a three day two night trip, so I spent the whole day going back to Vasco to change it. I upped it to lower berth class 2A. When I got the new ticket, I checked it and realised it was boarding Vasco, when I'd specified Margao, so changed it again, then I sat out the station. My side hurt and the plastic bag was making me limp severely.

That night, A&M phoned. All is well.

So, I had my train. All went well. I was in with three soldiers but they were OK.

We arrived in the morning. I went to eat, then went back to Prince Palace Hotel, where they remembered me and gave me a discount.

It's really been like a homecoming. The waiters, touts, drivers, shopkeepers, everyone remembers me and came and said hello. I've never been as remembered as I am here.

I was looking forward to having a cinema day, but as far as I can work out, there's no way at all to work out what's on. Never mind.

Not sure what I'm going to do here. Make a decision I suppose. I've had a good think. As far as I can see, my options are:

Stay here in Asia

Go straight to England

Go through Central Asia, then overland to UK from here

Go to Nepal, then go through Central Asia from there

420

I had encountered at least one of those curious mirage–plants about which so many of our men told stories. Anderson had warned me of them, and described their appearance very closely – the shaggy stalk, the spiky leaves,

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and the mottled blossoms whose gaseous dream–breeding exhalations penetrate every existing make of mask...Although everything was spinning perilously, I tried to start in the right direction and hack my way ahead. My route must have been far from straight, for it seemed hours before I was free of the mirage–plant's pervasive influence. Gradually the dancing lights began to disappear, and the shimmering spectral scenery began to assume the aspect of solidity. When I did get wholly clear I looked at my watch and was astonished to find that the time was only 4:20. Though eternities had seemed to pass, the whole experience could have consumed little more than a half–hour.

In the Walls of Eryx, H.P. Lovecraft, first published in Weird Tales 34, No4 (Oct 1939 P50–68)

Thursday 9th June 2005

Ajay Restaurant, Paharganj, New Delhi

This is insane. What a day. I'm hemmed in in this mad Internet place, can't move the keyboard, can't hardly type. Not much time. New ideas though. Change of plan. I'm giving up on the day; I'll say another time. Sick of this though. https://www.rx–pharmacy.cc www.noprescriptiondrugs.com!

ChanGinG .....................................

Monday 13th June 2005

Ajay Restaurant, Main Bazaar, Paharganj

Some dreams of earlier...

Dream, about a month ago

I was in a dorm with the Italian man I met in Cochin, i.e. the last man who stayed in the dorm. We were raided by police and they found his stash and the police said he would get five years. I thought the police would then be really horrible to me, but the one in charge said that we are related as he's from Gujurat, and he was really friendly.

Interpretation Funnily enough, I bumped into that Italian man a couple of weeks

ago here in Delhi.

I think the dream means that, now I've found a large part of the solutions to my problems, I'm safe, protected, somehow when I need it.

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Dream

I was in art cafe in Cochin and some reviewers from Lonely Planet guidebooks came in.. They walked into an adjacent building thinking that it was Art Cafe and the owners were really worried that they would get a bad review.

I walked to the back of Art Cafe and it was a kind of showering. Two dogs ran past me into reception and I noticed that they were bleeding from their anuses profusely.

Interpretation

Should have found my answer earlier.

After the above dream, I kept waking, but not totally, and could slip back into a dream at will and also come out my body (nope, hadn't taken anything if that's what you're thinking.

Dream

I was on a large passenger ship and something was wrong. In the lift with some other people the ship kept rolling to the right.

Then I was checking into a hostel with some people, including Nikki. It was night and we slept. Next day we went out and I was smoking a 'fragrant cigarette. Nikki told me not to outside, and then I saw a policeman and I dropped it (Delhi's no smoking policy), then I beamed a huge smile and exhaled all the smoke.

Interpretation

My ship was rolling and going nowhere, then I found an answer, but I must be careful sometimes... but not too careful.

Dream (This one about ten days ago in Delhi, and followed by very lucid out of body experiences.

I was on bus number 44 and got off, then realised that I'd left my carrier bag with unspecified contents on it. I returned and was surprised to find it was still there, I think had been handed in.

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Interpretation

44 is the dialing code for UK, so perhaps it confirms that I can continue my life–story from there?

I think sometimes dreams just confirm what you've already worked out for yourself. Like when I broke down in 2002, then went to Nepal and was struggling with the ebook. I had a dream that I was in an airport watching a British plane and an Asian one. The latter took off eventually... which I took to mean, stay and try to make it in Asia... but now I'm thinking, no.... I don't know, honestly...

So, the news... and it's pretty significant...

First of all, I bumped into Gupta, the rickshaw driver who used to drive me home every day. I got to know him, so that was nice. All the rickshaws have digital meters now, but none work. Also, the buttons are on the passenger's side, so they can be reset. Passengers cheating the drivers, there's a change.

I told Mother about a month ago that I want to start a hostel, in Amsterdam (you know why). I might be OK at it; I've only ever lived in hostels, like looking after people, have all my ideas in place and, well, in my mind I think.

She was really enthusiastic about it and told me to go for it. I started looking for a land route to Europe and decided to go via central Asia. I had meant to see it coming to India but it was too cold, but I still had the Xerox's of the guidebooks I got from the libraries in London.

So I went over to the embassy of Kazakstan. It was surreal. They only let one person in at a time, so I stood in the street for two and a half hours. Eventually I went in and this Oriental looking person was the most talkative person in the world. He wouldn't let me go, giving me advice about travel agents and stuff. Even when I stood up to leave mid–sentence, he just carried on.

After that, I went to Tripsout travels and they said it would be 17,000 rupees not including tax, to Almaty. I went another day and Sunny was there, with his black dog, he sold me my ticket to Egypt two years ago. He said, if I will leave at 2am. and go via Moscow with Aeroflot, than I can go anywhere in Europe for 16,900, INCLUDING tax. So, I decided on that. I really couldn't be bothered with an overland trip now.

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My white shirt is missing from my bag; I haven't worn it since I left UK, so the room boy in Cochin took it, Simon used to complain about all the things that went missing also. Plus I had no trousers. I went right down to South Extension, to the shop where I always buy jeans. I walked in and said, ' pair of jeans, like I'm wearing'. They showed me upstairs and tried to get me to buy some designer trousers for 7000 insisting they were jeans. I went downstairs and they tried to get me over to the Lee jeans as I'd originally wanted, but then I was offended, so walked out. I ended up with a really nice pair for 800 in Connought place, nice material, little bit soft.

There used to be a little girl here who used to beg by holding my arm as I walked along, and not letting go until she got a coin. She saw me again recently. I'd been walking too far and asked me if I have polio.

Also, there's a beggar with his feet back to front, only about fifteen. They banned begging round here, and the other night I watched him lie screaming on the floor while the police beat him with everything they had. It was horrible.

But everything's illegal now. Like I used to go down and buy omelettes in the evening, but it's illegal. I was standing there buying one, and the police came and shouted at them to leave. The streets are dead at night. They ask you not to smoke tobacco in the streets. They banned all psychoactive drugs, it was in the paper. It's a blanket ban but there are stories of mothers with autistic children who are falling apart because the medicines the children need are illegal. It's insane, the whole place is becoming a police state. I blame in on Sonia Ghandi/Dikshit/Congress.

Of course, when I went for a strip of Diazapam for the flight... ILLEGAL. It's OK, I've been here so many times, I 'know' people, and managed to get 20 Alprazolam, a short acting benzodiapine.

I've grown generally disillusioned with India; perhaps not forever, but for now. I'm not supposed to be here. Even the people at Prince Palace try and rip me off each time I pay. I'm sick of it.

Anyway.... the plan is, in two hours, an airport taxi comes. I check–in at 11pm. At 2am. the next day, I fly for 8 hours or so to Moscow. Two hours there, and then a 3 hour flight to Prague. That's as far as I go. I'll stay there a while, finalise the business plan, and head over to Amsterdam.

My conclusion to this trip.

I think that whenever you say NEVER about anything, then because the nature of the universe is fluid movement, then unless you change, you invite these painful lessons. I said I'd never return to England, and ended up breaking down when it was time to and I couldn't. I said after Junko, never... and, actually, I'm still working that one out. Anyway, Never Say Never.

Well, I'm going to eat something. I'm getting scared of the flight. I've already finished a new photo page and designed fully, a new diary page, for

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Europe. I won't link to it until I'm safely there. Just in case. However, if I get there all in one piece I'll add a link just below this horizontal line.

I'm alive!

Note: photopage which followed removed here.

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The Lucky Green Elephant

Palmovka, Prague, Czechoslovakia, EUROPE

Friday 17th June 2005

Yep, didn't crash, still here, in Prague.

I have to try and remember what happened since I wrote last. Let me think. Hmmmm. I was in Ajay. A boy came and said the taxi was ready. It wasn't outside the hotel, I had to walk ten minutes. Plus it wasn't mine, it was shared with an English woman, who was really angry as she too had been duped. We drove off for about half an hour.

I went through security, then found the check–in desk by chance. The man seemed to be know and had basic instructions on how to use the computer before him. I went through there, then immigration, where I was snapped at because I was leaving on the last day of my visa, even though that's wholly legal.

There was then a lot of sitting about. On time, we were called and I got on the plane. It was really, really nice. Very modern, Aeroflot's really improved. I took three diazepam, had dinner, slept and pretty much woke when we were in Moscow. I had a bottle of Vodka, but didn't need to touch it.

There was only half an hour to connect, so I had to race through. There was time for one smoke, and I got really dizzy, then onto another plane. It wasn't as nice, but not so bad either, and, to be honest, I quite enjoyed parts of that.

I got to Prague, straight through immigration, bags OK. Then sat outside and had a really nice smoke, two croissants from Ajay and a diet Sprite. I went back in and changed $20, bought bus tickets and went to the bus stop. I pulled out my camera to take a picture of the airport, and after all this time, it broke and the on/off switch fell off and I couldn't retrieve it. I haven't had a great look at it but I don't know if it will work.

Rode the bus, then the metro and got to the right place, but then was lost, so sat on a wall for a while. I had a quiet, reflective moment. It was so much cooler, quieter, nicer generally; I was glad to be there. I walked on for a

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bit and got lost, but then asked someone, this guy, who insisted on walking me all the way to the right street. I found the hostel, A1 hostel, Prague.

The guy wanted cash only, of another 3% with a card, which isn't allowed, but he took my passport and said I could pay later. I went into a four bed room, public toilets with no locks on any of them, but all clean. There was one guy there who's gone now who I never met.

I went into town and looked around and it's very nice, then I came back, drank and slept.

Next day I went to look for the Nikon office. I changed metro lines, caught the bus, then realised that my bag was missing, my shoulder bag. Not so much in it, except a magic scrapbook with pictures of my intended hostel, and all of the benzodiapines.

I found the Nikon building, it was a total maze. I was up and down lifts for about an hour; there were no signs anywhere. Finally I found the place and he said it will be $80, just for a switch, so I'll have a look and see if I can do it myself.

Oh, Mother phoned the day I arrived. It used the last of my credit, but worked fine. Now the phone is finished.

That's it really. The hostel is no smoking, so I sit out in the rain, but I did buy stuff and am doing some cooking. It's the weekend now, so the'll likely be someone in the room, which is nice I suppose, as long as I can use the kitchen.

The general plan is to, refine the business plan to make it as Dutch specific as possible, and then go there. I might have a week in another hostel just to meet people, I'll see after the weekend.

21st June 2005

Prague, Chezk Republic

Dream

I was in some shopping centre looking for people I used to know in England. Everyone had gone, but then I saw an old schoolfriend, Simon.

I had bought a load of clothes, but someone told me I'd spent too much money.

Interpretation

First part, nothing. The rest is relating to the increased expense of Europe, and that I'm thinking of getting two shirts and a jacket.

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Well.... It's quite a good time here actually. I settled in the hostel quite well. It's sunny almost every day, and there's a patio to sit on. In the evening I make rice and pasta dishes.

Met a few people up there. One night, there were these two Irish girls. Can't remember now. One of them was called Elaine I think. We chatted about different things. They told me about how the budget airlines work. You have to check yourself in apparently. Once we were talking about planes, we mentioned how shocked we were at the Schapelle Corby verdict. Maybe I should write to someone? I wrote to Howard after Mark Scanlon's wife came on the message boards asking for help... and he only served two years, from a life sentence.

The night after that, I met a Sweedish group. They had driven down via Poland and were on their way to visit a friend in Malta. They were really friendly.

I found a nice KFC to sit in, and got some nice stationary to write letters. I forgot to mention, but I wrote a letter to Junko before I left Delhi, and this other one to say I'm here.

I seem to be losing everything. The camera just about works. I've sellotaped the button to keep it in place, but to operate it, I have to remove the sellotape, put in a loose plastic disc, and keep wiggling it and hope it will turn on. The batteries are nearly flat. My spare lithium is in the bag I lost and the charger doesn't fit into the socket.

Yesterday, the dorm was full, so I ended up paying nearly twenty five US for a single. I'm back in the dorm though. I did get talking to the receptionist though, for about half an hour, because I wanted to know how everything works there. He does a long shift, eight in the morning to eleven at night. Past eleven, there's no one there. People enter via a locked gate. If someone wants to check in later, then they email and the boy stays longer, and gets paid the extra hours waiting for the guests.

All the beds are put on hostel world, so if someone doesn't advance book, they have to leave. That's not how I myself was going to do it. When I take a booking, then the plan had been to take the bed off hostelworld and put it back when they leave, in case they want to stay longer. But actually, I think it's better to have all the beds online, as long as you make it perfectly clear that you have to advance book. I'd feel bad asking people to go when it's full... but that's just the way that hostels work.

Their computer doesn't work. So when he takes bookings, he has to go to the cybercafe and deal with it there.

All of the people I've met, I asked how they found the hostel, and it was hostel world every time. I'm near certain I can fill my own place each weekend at least. So I must get on with it. I've found this cheap place to work, which the Irish girls recommended. I will make the plan Dutch specific, but

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also include addresses to go to when I get there. For example, the place where I apply for a business license, plus ask them the regulations for a hotel, what the paperwork. If I get it all worked out here, where I need to go, then I can get as much sorted out as possible. If I get a really good map and a yellow pages in English, list the things I need to buy, then I know where to go to get them. If I check in somewhere friendly, I might get lucky and get some good advice. Then get a local paper, or some expat paper, and try and understand what is being offered for rent. I was thinking of using a relocation consultant, but the more I think about it, at the very least, I would be able to do 80% of the work myself, perhaps even all of it.

Look at me. I'm excited. I was sitting there in India, realised I didn't like it anymore, decided what I wanted to do, jumped in, and here I am doing it.

Why doesn’t everyone do that?

Thursday 23rd June 2005

Prague, Chezk Republic, Europe

Ohhhhhh, it's nice to be here.

It was so definitely the right decision. I look back to India and don't feel wistful at all. The first time I left to Europe, there were times when the travel was hard, like in Turkey, and I would cry and miss it as much as a man misses his spouse. But now, I just remember the heat, the constant rip offs, aggressive police. I wanted the passport so much, and it all, that yearning for the culture, just slipped away from me. I'm certain that I'm not supposed to be there. I think everything happens for a reason. The time I had over Easter, which made me imagine a different life. But before leaving, I was planning to go to Nepal and then come back to Delhi, then I changed it to doing Central Asia. But I had a series of dreams and OBE's which specifically told me what to do. I feel I've been moved, and I feel grateful and honored for the guidance, and I pray that it is always there for me.

So, what have I been doing? Nothing. No, not nothing. I had a really productive day yesterday, I worked on the business plan, working out the extra information I will need, spelling corrections etc. I've found this great place to work, recommended by the Irish girls. It's good to go to department stores and look at all the things I need for the hostel. At night, I make nice pasta dishes and eat them on the patio. It's just good to be here, and I'm really getting on nicely with the receptionist and am learning a lot about the way things work in the hospitality business.

Expensive though, a hundred Euros lasts only a few days, three actually, and I really, really need a jacket for when I go up to Amsterdam and start making business contacts. I need to spend this money to eventually start up and accumulate though.

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Monday 27th June 2005

Palmovka, Czech (actually spelling it right now) Republic

It's still nice to be here. Very, very nice. I'm loving it.

Haven't actually met anyone. Stayed in for a few days. The nice boy has gone, and there's a less nice girl, but it's OK. I've really worked on the business plan, and I reckon I'll be ready in two or three days. The plan includes everything, tax planning, possible locations, floorplans, contacts.

Had a strange day yesterday. My legs were really hurting, so I ended up sitting outside the metro, just thinking back to the nightmare I had about mother back in Delhi. I was thinking the J could be July... well... that was what was bothering me.

Been looking for a jacket, but just can't get the arm size I need (damn genetic disorder).

I do enjoy cooking stuff. There's only a saucepan, but it's fun. Boil in the bag rice. Pasta with cook–in sauce and parmesan. Mashed potatoes and sweetcorn.

I've just been looking back over the diaries; I'm really proud of them. I think you can really get a sense of how I've evolved and changed and done, through the changing diaries. I'm especially pleased with the overall design of this page. Very, very happy.

Anyway, no other news, but I think ??? (and hope) I'm on course with the plan.

Tuesday 28th June 2005

Palmovka, Prague, Czech Republic

AOK. I spent almost the whole of yesterday on the diary rather than the business plan. I went home and made a LOT of pasta, which was nice. I sat and thought about the computing needs of the business. When set up, then for the first time ever, I'll have a PC for my own use, and I can use it to further reduce my possessions.

If you recall, after eleven months of culling, by sale and destruction, the only possessions I have in UK now all fit in a single suitcase... which is how they are stored.

With my own computer, I can further digitise and thus reduce everything. So, the computer will have a scanned. In the suitcase, there is a box of photographs, it's quite big, but I can scan all of that and destroy.

Also, there are all the slides and negatives I ever took. Of course, the best I can keep, but I would think that's less than fifty strips. All the rest, scan

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and destroy. Many of them are just snaps. I'll get an attachment for the scanner.

I can't remember so much what else is in there. Everything I ever received from my friends. I think, apart from the most important, I should just digitise and destroy, because, each is stored in separate plastic box type folders.

If I can just get it all down to, legal documents, and the box with all the Junko stuff in.

All future possessions will belong to the hostel.

A box of Junko Imanishi is all I will own.

Nice thought.

I'd better get on with things then...

Forgot to say, had some mail from people. Simon sent a circular with

a picture.

>DEAR GOD

I promise I will never waste my food no matter how bad it tastes and how full I may be. I pray that He will protect this little boy, guide and deliver him away from his misery. I pray that we will be more sensitive towards the world around us and not be blinded by our own selfish nature and interests.

I hope this picture will always serve as a reminder to us that how fortunate we are and that we must never ever take things for granted.

Let's pray for all those suffering around the globe and send this friendly reminder to others... Think & look at this...when you complain about your food and the food we waste >>>>>>>>>>daily....... .

Nikki wrote:

Hi John,

its nice to hear from you even if it has taken weeks, but i forgive you.

Good photos, (me very stoned) its nice to see someone elses photos from india for a change. Well ive been back for approx 6 weeks and its taken nearly that long to get back into the swing of things. So you're planning on going through russia to come back to england, well i look forward to seeing you but it maybe in scotland as im hoping to get a job there. Im glad you finally left cochin, i bet you only did it recently... So the moth died it did a very good impression of a dead moth then. Im glad you're well. Are you going to Gujarat to try and find your grandfathers birth certificate?

Ok, well write again when the mood takes you. I'll send some photos myself one day soon

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Love Nikkix

Binnie too (lovely to hear from him!):

Dear John,

What a pleasure! The pictures were certainly a happy trip down memory lane. Your plans for the future sound good; I think that Amsterdam is a wise choice, I'd imagine (like you said) that there is a high demand for budget hostels and I think your kind of home type hostel that I'd previously pictured on a cliff (don't ask me why) in Spain, would fit in equally well in Holland. It will also be easier for me to visit!

Curious that you had that feeling; Simon went home early, as I'm sure you'll know if you e–mailed him. If not, he had some problem with his knee and got flown back business class to hospital by his insurers. It seemed a shame for him, but i think he was glad to get back, in a way.

Will and I are apart at the moment – I'm north of you in McCleodGanj (Dharamshala) and the dope intake is almost equalling cochin! We leave exactly one week after you, on the 21st. We'll be in Delhi on the evening of the 17th – will you have moved on? It would be very nice to see you again.

If not, good luck in your trip back to England. what is it 11 years, one month? Fuck me. All the best with the hostel and let's stay in touch so that we can have a cochin reunion (Anders might even materialise!) over in Amsterdam.

I'll reciprocate with some of my photos soon.

All the best,

Binny x

Friday 1st July 2005

Palmovka, Prague, Czech Republic

Wow, I've actually finished the business plan, which actually began with me in Colva in May, jotting down in a notebook the things I'd need if I were to start a hostel business.

Not so much to say. I've spent the rest of the time researching how to grow 420.

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Monday 4th July 2005

Palmovka, Prague

Dream

The dream was some kind of a story I was watching but not involved in. It involved a beautiful young woman who was going about an idyllic life having fun, then she went home to her mother.

Suddenly the tone changed and there was a sense of regret. Her mother apologised that she could never have true happiness or love because of her. The girl lay down while the mother turned into a vampire and started sucking her blood.

Interpretation

Could be random, or it could be a comment on what a drain I am on everyone I meet.

7th July 2005

Central, AMSTERDAM, Holland

Yep, got here. Back in Prague, all the Hotels in Amsterdam were full. I managed to get one day in a place, and the next two days in a campsite.

The day I awoke, it was one pm and raining. I'd wanted to go and look at jackets but then wasn't in the mood. It bothered me that I'd dreamt I'd got one and regretted it. I went into town and Phoned Anne, and all is well, so I went up to Tesco and looked at one, bit the bullet and got one.

The trip over was uneventful, then we arrived at Amstel. I had a coke, and came to central station. There hadn't been time to write the directions, and the plan had been to wait until the tourist board opened, then buy a map and ask. But I was able to scribble a little map from the public information board.

The room was busy until two pm. so I stored my bag and had a little walk about. Then came back and showered. There were two friendly Japanese women there who gave me the key as they left. I sat alone with a cigarette, and then showered.

Then went off looking for a LEGAL COFFEESHOP.

I felt really intimidated. I mean, I was going to do something that would get me a year in India. But I went anyway. I walked around for ages looking for the right one.

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First I went in Grasshopper in Centrum. I sat down and wasn't sure what to do. Then some other people came in and walked up to a sign that said 'Menu'. Suddenly, a window lit up showing all the drugs on sale. You had to buy a one gram minimum and it was fifteen Euros; which is expensive.

So I walked on to a shabby Middle Eastern place, Coffeeshop Ben. I asked for the menu and it was a printout. He asked in I wanted grass or hash, so I said grass. There was only ten Euro deals for 1.7 grams and I said no, so he said he'd do me half. I asked which the best one was, and he said skunk something–or–other, so I had 0.8 grams and a coffee.

Sat down, opened it up. Oh God, that's nice. Smells citrusy. I just sat there with it before me, pulled it apart, rolled it, breatheeeeed iiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnn.

My goodness, is it twenty past four already!

Yeah, it was nice, but I don't think I should go for Indica variety again. It was nice and I enjoyed myself... but it's too heavy.

I really looked at its effects. There was no paranoia like that rubbish in Colva.

Here, my body felt very relaxed; I didn't want to get up to everything. There was a slight inner–pressure at my upper digestive tract but the sensation was pleasant. I was able to listen to the music and pick out the individual instruments. Everything going on around me was slowed and I was happy.

But I made a conscious choice to think about things that hurt me. I thought about all the injustice in the world, and everything seemed mentally clearer to me. There were occasional 'sudden understandings', where I could palpably feel other people's pain.

And that kind of lead to me thinking of what's wrong with me, and my own pain. And, it was, my understanding of my condition, more lucid and clear, and painful in a different way. It's hard to explain because it's going to come across to you that I wasn't enjoying myself, and I was... look, I can't explain it, just go and get wasted (legally in Holland please) on some Indica variety marijuana.

I went home and I had about half left. I ate a bag of chips and my sensations of taste were heightened. At home, there was no one there, so I smoked four more, almost all except for one bud, then I lie for sleeping.

Though I didn't actually sleep, I kind of lie there, but I wasn't tiered enough for sleep, even though I was shattered. I was happy, but very aware of exactly what's wrong with me, in a very lucid way.

I woke up the next day, today, about six. I felt, still a little the same. The breakfast was fantastic, free and unlimited. I took a picture of the dining hall, and the little piece of plastic that I was using to turn the camera on and off went flying off into space and I just couldn't find it. So that's broken now.

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I think I've always used alcohol to forget who I am. When I drink, I fall into a fantasy world, being someone I'm not and can't be... and I'm happy like that. I relax and stop thinking about the real me, and can sleep OK.

With marijuana, I don't fall into fantasy. I still feel happy, and I feel this happiness generally about the world around me, in the present moment where ever I am at that time. Everything is very clear, slowed and lucid.

I can generally control my thoughts. When I then choose to think about myself, then the same clarity of thought crosses over, without fantasy or lies, and I see who I am. This rarely happens when I'm sober because either I don't allow it, or I'll distract myself somehow. When I'm drunk, they give way to fantasy. Because that happens, the fantasy is soft enough for the thoughts to slow down to sleep. If I'm using marijuana, then the thoughts are still there, but my body's relaxed and I can fall asleep OK.

Good enough for me!

I could, now, go and see some quack, confess everything, and god knows what they'd put me on, but it would be something. Something I have to have my little piece of paper for the chemist to give me, then go off begging for more if it works and I really need it. Of course, nothing works, it's incurable. The medical profession likes to pretend it can cure anything, and lies when it can't; it's a multi–billion dollar industry of course.

But I've found my answer. It's over there in Centrum, and Neiwmarket, and RLD and where ever there's the sweet smell of coffee. I'm not running away as I thought. By doing this each time, I'm just facing up to everything in a way that is relaxed. I'm even starting to think of answers now I'm off it, so the next time I do it I don't face the lucidity of hopelessness but have answers I can choose to think, thus experiencing giggling fits rather than staring sessions.

Anyway, I've got the bus to London tonight, and a night in a new Youth Hostel in for a night.

I'll tell you a funny thing I recall. The first time I got sick, I mean when it hit me, was in 1997 and I was in Puri, on of the few places where Marijuana is legal in India, but I didn't like it. Now I'm using it as a cure. The other thing is, I lived those two weeks with J in a Youth Hostel, and now after all this time, I'm creating one.

Right, my bags in storage. Better get on, and make sure there is absolutely no trace of marijuana on me at all, as I'd get paranoid crossing the border.

If all goes well, the next post should find me back in London, happy and gay.

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Saturday July 9th 2005

Mocha Cafe, Charing Cross Road, London, England

Yep, here I am, all in one piece.

I left that cybercafe in Amsterdam and went to get my bags. I changed from flippies to shoes in the common room and there was a TV tuned to the BBC news. There had been all these bomb attacks in London, 40 dead, 700 in hospital. I didn't have time to watch.

I went to the train station and posted a letter to Junko, then went over to the bus station in Amstel. I put my last little bit of marijuana in the bin and checked in, then sat in Burgerking for a while, then boarded.

We went a little way and the Dutch driver started talking about the 'tragic attacks'. I say it like that because he kept overusing the word 'tragic' (not that it wasn't tragic). He said that there will be extra security. Passport checks in Belguim and France, a French and British check in Calais and another check in Dover. We were supposed to be there at half six in the morning, but the roads will be packed as the transport system is down. He'll do his best to get us there before ten. When we stopped for a break he said only ten minutes, then I'll drive off without counting... which he did (though all were aboard).

At Calais, it was cold. There was a special building set up. There was about three people before me at the French half, but to enter British immigration, there was a huge queue. It took about forty minutes to get through. I started to get scared. What if they ask me what I do for a living? What do I do for a living right now?

In the event, a black woman asked if I was cold, saw an Islamic stamp (Jordan) in the passport, checked my name in a computer, then let me through.

Outside, a Jamaican asked me where I was from. I looked at the building I had just left. Nuts. You could just have waited outside without going in and no one would know.

We got on the boat and I found the smoking place. The Jamaican had a couple of beers and started dancing and singing round, shouting hello to everyone, but he seemed really nice. I was cold.

We got through to Dover and the driver couldn't believe it, but immigration and customs were completely closed, so we just drove straight through.

We arrived in London and the driver said 'We are haf hour early because I little exaggerate... OK, I very big exaggerate... anyway, we here.'.

The Jamaican started to clap, and this turned into a round of applause.

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I went to the underground. Because it was before 9:30 I had to pay the rush hour charge on the ticket. Someone stepped away from their bags and the Underground staff asked him not to leave it unattended. But the man turned and called him a f***ing N***er because he'd snapped aggressively.

I took the district line to Stamford brook and the directions from www.hostelworld were perfect. Usually I have to ask someone. It was a huge place in a suburban street that looked like a converted convalescence home. I left my bags there, then went to the cafe in Picadilly that has Night Cafe by Van Gogh on the wall. I sat there for three hours, I was SO tired.

Then I went to Prince Charles Cinema and saw something with Bill Murray in. It was OK but I kept falling asleep.

I went home and checked in. I decided, as tired as I was, to wash everything I own (then forgot my hat). I went down to the shop, ?.50 for everything, but the hostel is 'cashless'. So, the room key is actually a credit card with magnetic strip. You have to put coins in a vending machine to 'charge' it, then in the bar, shop etc you use it. It's a scam really, because they only refund more than ?, plus it generally encourages you to spend more. I didn't have change so went to reception but the receptionist had just made a mistake and was doing a chargeback, so it took ages to get change, then the shop had closed.

Eventually, I got powder and the tokens, then went up and did it. There was a Japanese woman with her daughter who couldn't worked the dryer, so I did it for them. I went out for a smoke and said hello to a Russian guy who was travelling with his family. Then I got drunk, lost my key and they issued another but said would bill me ?. Went to bed, woke up, found the key. Checked out, breakfast was open, but everything had been eaten.

I went to Tescos and had a cheese wrap. Then I went to St. James church, which I always do when I'm in the area. A man stopped me at the door and looked me up and down and asked if I was there for the conference. When I said no he said I'd have to leave. This is bad. They even rent out that place to authors flogging self–help books. But if a place is a religious sanctuary i.e. been blessed as such, it isn't really OK to turn people looking to practice spirituality away.

I came here to this really really fabulous brand new cybercafe. Next, I'll go cinema again, then.... awwwww Gaaawwwd, to Anne's.

I'm on a downer to be honest. Not a major one. Just, I don't know. To be back. There's a sense of sad acceptance in me at the moment. I've always travelled hoping to be normal, to meet someone and settle, write, be happy. Now I just, I suppose, accept that I can't because of my illness. What I always really, really, really wanted in life was to be successful as a writer and settle with a family. But now I accept that I can't have that. I write eccentrically, about things that will be mainstream in the future but aren't now, and I have to many health and identity issues to meet a life partner.

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The hostel, mine, will be OK. I'll still write and can use the profits to self–publish. I can get back into painting. I can make another difference in the world by trying to involve the young idealistic travellers in the charities I like, The Samaritans,Lepra and of course, I've been supporting The Red Cross since I was a teenager.

I spent a lot of time thinking about my... health issues, and the change I'm making in my life. Sometimes I think it's great, other times I'm scared of failing. But I thought, whatever, even if it helps one person other than myself. I thought It makes all the difference, if you make a difference, then realised that it's a good catchphrase.

Though when I checked out this morning, on the blackboard behind reception, it said:

No matter how hard life gets, nothing is harder than the diamond inside of your soul

Friday 15th July 2005

Kettring Road, Northampton, England

This is a new cybercafe, but it's really expensive. I had planned to write a lot. As it is, I'll just say that I'm back, and I hate it (obviously).

I arrived at Anne's place, and just went straight upstairs like I'd never been away. Mother came on Monday and we met in BHS. We talked about the business, then went to The Old Bank (which used to be called The Rat and Parrot).

I used my debit card and realised that the overdraft is nearly a thousand pounds in debt; and hated myself (obviously).

I bought a jacket in Prague. I was looking at lots and weighing up the choices for as long as I was there, then went back as I was leaving to get the one I wanted. Then I put it on here and realised I grabbed the wrong one and it doesn't fit at all, so I hated myself for that.

I want to be away and not poor.

I mentioned to Mother, that getting references for the landlord or rental company is going to be hard, especially if they check them. It's just a matter of getting my foot on the ladder someway.

I hate being here (obviously).

... I think tomorrow, if I can get up, I'll start moving the money into one main account, ask them at the bank how I'll move it to Holland, and if I can keep the accounts with a Dutch residential address.

I need a telephone book, but I don't know if the Dutch embassy will have one. I'm going to need to go to London to get some books out. Hopefully, I still have my library card.

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Oh God, I miss my camera. Mar gave me some money Monday and already, it's finished, I have to use the card which is almost maxed out. I have to get out and make money.

I hate this (Oooohhhh, SO obviously).

Saturday 16th July 2005

A new cybercafe in town, Kettring Road, Northampton

This is a great new place, because it's only a pound, and I can print from it, which is a lifesaver. Also, they leave you alone in the room, so I can use cd's, and from what I can work out, there's no nanny software; I can download and run whatever I want... which means that tomorrow, I could bring down all the pictures of the Junko stuff; I've wanted to put that online for a while, but the cd I was travelling with was corrupted.

All the stuff I left behind is in the blue suitcase I got in London, of which I'm pretty sure I lost the key. I can't work it out because I always kept them in my money–belt. I'll have a proper look today and if not, break the lock off.

Hopefully, this place is open tomorrow. I've got quite a few places I can write to for help concerning my business endevours. The Job Center actually have a section on their website about working elsewhere in the EU. Considering that I've never worked in UK and never paid tax here, I don't know if there's any help available... but it doesn't hurt if a letter goes out. Also, I can type up more detailed property requirements and sent them to rental companies so that I have something lined up to view once I get there. I found one rental agency that was particularly good. Also, if I get a letter off to ACCESS with my unanswered questions and to see if they can do anything to help me. There are some really good contacts on the links site there. I just read that a landlord can ask for proof of income before renting... but then this is... I don't know. Perhaps if I could show that I have access to six months rent and a bank reference?

I just noticed that the guy here has written the wrong time down... hopefully that'll be on his computer.

If I can get a load of letters sent out on Monday, then see Mar and go to London for a bit on Tuesday for some researching, and when I get back, there could be some replies? I can go to Amsterdam the following week, so that gives me a chance to reply and make some definite contacts.

Also, if I write to Darren. I've got a Virgin sim card now, so I'll give him the number and hopefully he'll reply and we could meet some time around the weekend. The thing is that, there's a good chance that he's going to know a dealer. That would save an awful lot of time and money, if I could have contact with them myself, I could just go whenever I need it. If not, then Yasmine will know where.

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Oh, I bumped into Yasmine, I think the day before Yesterday, in Sainsburys. She'd just come from a funeral, the guy who owns a local night club. She's OK. Is going to Pontins for a holiday. I'll likely see her over next weekend. This, hopefully, is my last week without any... you know.

And of course, Nikki owes me some from India. Only three... but better than nothing. Then again, she knows someone...........

The overdraft's nearly maxed though. I only hope I can last the weekend.

I'll try and have a productive day tomorrow, and really start getting on with it.

Wednesday 20th July 2005

Cybercafe opposite Radio Northampton, Kettring Road, Northampton, England

Actually, I think I'm going to the toilet now, though I was going to stay longer.

Just one thing. There's a rat in the little bedroom. So what, right? Wrong. It's a huge deal, pest control are there etc. etc.

So she wants it that there's to be no food upstairs. I've emptied all of my food out and have it with me, and now can't eat there. I'll have to eat small food in town or in the park and not save any.

It's not really about the food. She really wants everything downstairs so she can be in charge, see what I have etc. She was always like that. As a kid, a teenager, I wasn't allowed to flush the toilet, I'd have to say when I'd been so she could do it.

It's good that she's intolerable to live with because it will just make me work harder to establish myself in Amsterdam.

Ooooh, it's good to play the glad game.

Thursday 21st July 2005

Picadilly Backpackers, 12 Sherwood Street, Picadilly, London

Well, I did get away at least.

I was really dreading going home that day of the rat. She'd asked me to take my food that was in the room and put it in her cupboard. I said no, and took it with me. Now, I knew there would be something when I got back. Not an argument... but as Mar put it, she does like to talk about absolutely nothing, for a very long time.

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As it turns out, it was caught. She hadn't gone and looked, but said that she could hear it struggling to get out. She's paying her gardener to drown it. Actually, I think rodents, even the larger ones, are good pets. Clean and loyal. In a way, it was a good thing, not playing pollyanna, but because I thought it was going to be all this trouble, I did book London, and here I am.

So, I woke up this morning, packed and came downstairs. A said that there had been trouble in London. Four more bombs. I came anyway, but M was texting me all the way.

I arrived, went outside for a smoke, came in and the northern line plus Victoria were down. So I walked over to Euston Square, all closed because one of the bombs was a Warren Street, the next station. I came back to Euston Charring Cross Branch because northern line was going as far as Bank.

When I bought the ticket, the man told me Picadilly line was also down. I'd have to go to Central line and get as far as Oxford Street.

The trains were absolutely packed. An old Irish man got on and started shouting at an Asian Youth. He said, 'Why do you people come over here to this country and start ruining everything?' 'This is my country, I was born here.' 'You don't look it!'

This was all being shouted.

I took a wrong turn on Oxford Street, but ended up in Golden Square, which is round the corner. My legs were in agony, I could barely stand up. I managed to check in after sitting down for over an hour, then showered and had a rest, then came to type this.

One thing. At Northampton station earlier, I bumped into Darren, as I knew I would at some point. So, we finally swapped numbers. He said let's have a drink, but I wanted to get on. I'll see him after I get back, now definitely on Monday.

I might write some more later if I get bored.

Friday 22nd July 2005

Picadilly Backpackers, Sherwood Street, Picadilly, London

Nope, didn't write any more after all.

That little yellow graphic above, the file's written as 'hanko' which I assumed means marijuana in Chinese, but it actually means 'personalised stamp'... which I always thought from my time in the Orient, was a chop.

The symbol at the top of this page, I 'think' it's from taima.org, which I assumed means marijuana in Japanese. But taima actually means either a

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timer, or offerings at a Shinto shrine. Marijuana is mariwana in Japanese (I'm using an online dictionary. Hemp is asa, asanuno, nawa, ama, or mafu.

As the French say: you learn something everyday.

The police shot someone today in Stamford station. As far as I can understand, in the back as he was running away. There were all sorts of scares and many lines were still closed from yesterdays mess. Tomorrow, I have to go to the new place, only 9.50 a night, but right up in Hendon Central. If the Northern line's still down, I'm in serious trouble. I'd have to walk from Golders Green.

I slept on the sofa last night, in the TV room where I am now. It was really comfy, but I don't think I slept so much. I preferred it there because I always wake up in pain and it bothers people, plus I think I snore.

So I went out in the morning and sobered up, then sat with tea. For some reason I was thinking it was Saturday. When I realised that it was Friday, I decided to sort out some of the banking issues. I was only five minutes from the Picadilly brance of RBOS, so I popped over.

I explained the problem. By their fault, opening my bond was delayed by three months, and so I was refunded the money I lost into a separate account. Now I'm setting up abroad and likely won't be here when it matures in September. Can I nominate a Nationwide account.

Yes, I can. We sorted it all out. She kept on explaining the things I had to do. When I asked questions, she seemed to think I was angry about something. Then spent a long time apologising that ID is needed and that it's the same for all customers, even though I had ID with me ready and of course fully expected to show it.

But she was friendly enough. There was 90 in the savings account, instead of 30, and neither of us can work out where it came from. I withdrew it and kept two quid there. Now, when the 2500.00 matures in September, it goes to my Nationwide account.

OK, so what I'm doing is making as much money as possible liquid to take to Holland. I went to Amex and cashed all of my travelers cheques except USD 60. 980 US was 490 odd Sterling. I went to Nationwide and paid that into my ISA, together with the Scottish money.

Then I saw the advisor. I explained that I opened the bond in Cheapside, and was told I could make one withdrawal up to five thousand pounds without penalty. He said he doubts it.

He looked at the computer. They only offered this bond for two weeks, so he had to find someone to get the T&C. It turns out it's a 90 notice required. So I did that on the full 2100.00 and it will be paid to my instant account on 20th October 2005.

So overall, there's a lot less than I thought. I still have the shares to sell. I think, at the moment, I might be able to get five grand Sterling.

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So I went onto Victoria library and looked around. They have the Hindi tapes I was desperate for when I was here last... but I have no way to copy them now. I suppose M could? Maybe Darren has some kind of player? Or Nikki? I dunno.

They had some books about Amsterdam, but they were all from 2000 (year) so I'm not sure how relevant. I read that the government owns most of the land and buildings, generally you pay two months as deposit, there's a distinct legal difference between commercial and residential properties, and if you use a finding service, they charge two months rent. Most accommodation is found by word of mouth because the market is so cramped in every segment.

It's all a bit depressing, to not have enough money and to be facing so much in setting this up, potentially project–threatening obstacles.

Well, it's a bit later now. I had a drink, because marijuana is illegal in the country in which I was unfortunately born, then I went to smoke because this hostel doesn't give personal choice. I walked around the block and sore some police incident with people being body searched, got some red hot fries from Burgerking. I met this really nice Spanish boy. He'd just been thrown out of the 'attached bar' on Golden Square. He said that he doesn't care about the no–smoking rule because he puts a plastic bag around the smoke alarm and just smokes as he sees fit because... he's paid for the room and wants a personal choice.

OK, I don't really love being in the room. In England, with all the walking I do, a whole bottle of spirit isn't enough to make me sleep without waking up in pain and disturbing everyone.

It's a funny situation at the moment. I'm in the TV room, and the computer I've been allocated is just a bean–bag type affair, and so I've turned it so that my bag is by the wall... but I'm staring into space as I type this.

There's a few things I've noticed in my consciousness recently.

One is that I spend a lot of time in flashback mode to my first experience of hospital. Considering my health problems, there's obviously something very, very wrong with me. I remember when I was five. I woke up and when I tried to stand, there was a agonising pain in my right knee and I collapsed in pain to the floor. I was taken to the hospital and they x–rayed me and said that there was nothing wrong (I later diagnosed myself at 30 and realised that in the first stages it needed a CT scan). So I was deemed to be the kid that tried to get a day of school by lying. I was taken to school in the afternoon, where the people who were paid by the state to educate me and look out for my welfare, held me up by my arm until I would put weight on my left leg.

It was weakened from that first attack. I remember as kids, from five to nine, there was an assembly every morning. We had to sit on the floor for

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half an hour. I used to dread it. I saw a film on TV where a POW deliberately broke their leg to be excused from something, and it worked, and I used to get a brick and hit my shin as hard as I culd to see if I could break it.

When we went to the upper school at twelve years of age, there were chairs at assembly. I was shocked and overjoyed, and mentioned it to the children around me. .. They looked at me like I was mad. They hadn't been in the same pain I had been in all that time, and I only realised it at that time.

I was so alone and utterly disregarded at that time, I had this serious condition and no one noticed, and the only time I had ever complained I had been punished... and as a five year old, I just assumed, in the logic only an alone five year old can possess, I assumed that what happened to me happened to everyone, and so even though I was in pain, I never mentioned it again, what was the point.

But I notice now, as a thirty four year old, I'm haunted by the same image., no, I mean, the same experience.

It's hard to recall this, as I spend so long flashing back to it, and it still hurts. Sometimes, thirty years later, I find myself in the middle of a room, or even the street, with my arms held up against my head, and I don't know how long I've been like this, but I was back there, with the same smells, intensity of emotion, as alone, wholly reliving what happened.

When I first got to the hospital, I remember Mother met some mother she know, who's son had shut his finger in a door.

When it was my turn, they said I was to be x–rayed. I was separated from Mar by a woman who put me in a wheelchair and took me into a room where there was only me and her. She was about forty. She lifted me up and put me on the table. I remember (often (relive)) a very bright light. She asked me to lay my leg on the table flat, as I had it arched. I tried, but there was a sharp pain... so I lifted it up again.

She looked so angry, and shouted at me to do it again. I tried, but only half–heartedly as it was painful.

So she raced over, and forced the whole limb flat against the table with all the strength she had, plus her body weight.

And this is the thing, I was British, in a British school, and even then, thirty years ago, I know there was no point telling anyone or doing anything. Powerless. I just waited until the pressure went and lifted it up, she pushed it down, I cried but only from the pain, I knew that there was no chance of anyone coming or even if anyone came, anyone giving a damn.

At the end of it all, we had an x–ray. A lady 'doctor' said there was nothing wrong, and that I had particularly strong bones. Then she told M. that it was particularly important I go straight to school or I would learn a malingering habit. So I was taken back. The teacher, Mrs Touchener (maybe I remember the name wrong, dragged me round until I would walk, then left me in a chair.

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A large girl with a hare lip took me under her wing, and took my work to be marked. By the time school ended, I could walk, it had passed.

Looking back, everything was weakened. I couldn't get up and down off the floor, and still can't. I couldn't run so far, or do things like push a car. I'd wake in pain sometimes. But it never occurred to me to tell someone. I just lived like that. Who would I tell anyway. I was five and they said I was lazy.

Then of course in 1997 it hit my hip and soon after all joints, and here I am. I diagnosed it myself in 2000 when I was in Nepal. I've always had a lot of improvement with carefully thought out homeopathy, which relies on modalities. Some branches of homeopathy have a leaning towards physical diagnosis and I wanted to look into that, to see if was better than my own casetaking (which was pretty good). While I was surfing the net in this pursuit, I came across a medical condition, with a range of life–stories, medical photos, physical and mental symptoms, and I recognised myself straight away. This is me.

It was hard, because it's a horrible thing, so I just forgot about it for a few months. When I was in India, I looked into the chance of getting a test done. It's much better there. In England, you have 'your' doctor, ‘Have you seen YOUR doctor’, but in India, you see whoever you want, then keep your own medical record with you. Payment is in arrears, and if they treat you like some piece of s**t on the side of your shoe, you walk out and they don't get paid. That's it, you have the paying power.

Anyway, it's a genetic disease. To test chromosomal make–up, it needs a Karyotype of something, and I couldn't do it in Goa. But the joint problem I have is a rare complication. So rare, if I did have this, then because all my symptoms from birth are textbook, then I would have this problem. So I went to see someone, actually an oncologist, but that was coincidence, and ordered my own bloodtest. He said, when he saw what I wanted, ‘Do you use a condom when you use prostitutes...’ Pause. ‘I don't use prostitutes’. ‘OK, do you use a clean needle when you use hard drugs?’

So, the guy obviously had a problem dealing with foreigners and a few stereotypes to boost. There are a lot of raves in Goa, and the press are full of the antics of this place.

In the end he ordered the bloodtest I was specifying.

It came back a while later, I took it to an orthopedic surgeon who ripped me off, asking for 200, then claming I didn't pay.

But whatever, it was clear in front of me.

I sent it to Junko and forgot about it. I didn't want to throw it away because it was the answer to everything that was wrong with me... but it was so awful, that I didn't want it with me.

So all I could think to do with it was to give it to my only friend in the world, and feel like less of a monster because her sweet letters would still keep coming... and they did and I pushed it out my mind.

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Anyway, sitting here alone in London drunk (of course) I wanted to say (here, because I can't tell anyone else; it's insane). There's not a week that I don't have a flashback experience, to the point of losing reality, of the hospital... specifically the xray. Someone in a nice uniform I thought would help me, hurt me, and no one really cared.

But, there's not a DAY that I don't flash back to two weeks in Perth with Junko Imanishi, forgetting today, just like I'm there.

Sunday 2? July 2005

Charing Cross Road, London

There are really good headphones in this brilliant cybercafe, so I'm listening to beautiful life.

I don't know if I mentioned it. When I was in Picadilly, I slept both nights on the sofa in the TV room. I had a lot of lucid dreams and an OBE that seemed to last for hours. But all I can remember from the whole experience is being in the little bedroom and mother coming in and telling me she was already sick now and might not get better. It's difficult to explain, but it was very lucid, and somehow we both knew we were out our bodies and speaking soul to soul.

Last night I was in Hendon. I dreamt that I was with Mother in a cafe and she told me she was ill now, and that her liver was really starting to hurt.

Wednesday 27th July 2005

Kettring Road, Northampton, England

Drea

I was at Anne's house and a big package arrived from Junko, and I squealed in happiness.

I was in a car with M&A, in Booth lane (a road that is between my Upper School and the place I went to college (Northampton college). I was really ill and knew I was dying. I told them I would be dead in four months.

Interpretation

Another one... like in Colva, and then Picadilly. I'm definitely being warned. That would make it December, would it be me or Mar? Maybe me as a metaphor for Mar... or vice–versa. This is horrible because I can't tell anyone about it. Thursday 28th July 2005

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Koki? Internet Centre, Kettring Road, Northampton OK, let me get this out the way. Yesterday, I wrote to some organisation that regulates Dutch estate agents with my... Extended Property Requirements and also wrote some new letters. Of course, I lost my letter today, in the post office, so I don't even know if it's been sent.

I was going to type a lot... of course, but I'm off to the cinema I think.

These dreams and stuff about mother are ominous and leave a heavy cloud over me. I'm trying to get set up... but it's so hard to get anything done.

Good news concerning marijuana. I must update from leaving Picadilly and going to Hendon as I guess stuff has happened. Now, I must go. Friday

29th July 2005

Kettring Road, Northampton, England

Right, let me recap what's happened from being in Picadilly. I left and went to the place in Hendon. I wasn't expecting much, but was pleasantly surprised. The boy was friendly, and the dorm wide and spacious.

I went into the city for whatever. I came back in the evening and the only place you're allowed to smoke is in the cellar, so I went down there for a bit. After a couple of hours it was full of long–termers. A German woman came and shook my hand, and then left, I'm not sure why.

I went and sat out alone at a bus stop to avoid the stuffiness. There was a young, well dressed Asian man who sang to himself.

Back inside the cellar I was alone. I played two games of pool and numerous of darts by myself.

A guy my age with very blonde hair came in. He was Dutch, so we chatted about Amsterdam real estate and he promised to keep an eye out for my hostel.

I think nothing else much happened in London. Then Hendon place was strange. In the reception was a regular property management company. So in the morning that I left, I sat in the cellar while these two office workers paced up and down talking about the problems with their tenants and landlords. Strange, as I'll be dealing with people like this soon.

I came back to Northampton. Because I had slept on the sofa for two nights, then spent two evenings in a damp cellar, I was absolutely crippled. I even thought I might not get back.

I came to the British Home Stores restaurant and mother was shocked.

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I was equally shocked when she produced a bag of marijuana, which she had got off a customer for me. I couldn't believe it.

We chatted, then I limped home. There, I smoked one and sat inside. I had showered first, and somehow blocked the toilet, even though I didn't really use it. A&M were upstairs when Carly, my eldest niece (Yasmine's daughter) turned up. I've never spoken to her because Yasmine detests her and she's close to G. Anyway, she asked if they were in, and I just pointed to the ceiling.

They came down and the three of them were chatting. Carly is getting married to a guy named Richard. English. I went outside for a bit, then sat at the table. It was weird because I had been pulling apart the marijuana when she came in, surrounded by papers and it would have been quite obvious what I was doing. When she left, she said nothing, knowing I won't speak to her. And that was that.

I was stoned, so for the first time ever I actually sat in the lounge for five minutes, much longer as I let M. cook for me. I did it mainly because I wanted them to see a positive effect from marijuana. They misunderstood, and assumed I was hesitant to take food upstairs because of the previous rat, which is now dead incidentally, anyway, the end result of it all was a big deal being made about food, which is one of the quickest ways to wind me up that I know.

Next day, I came down. M had been shopping. I was still bad but decided to go out anyway. Mother received a text. It was from Carly. She attacked M. saying that why can't she just be happy for her rather than critisise her all the time... not that I heard any critisism. Then she wrote something like ‘It's not me who needs critisising over the way I live my life’, which was obviously a dig at me. I asked A&M who it referred to, and they became uncomfortable.

I went to town with M, and we ate at a chip shop called Ramsbottoms or something. It was very pleasent, but the attack from Carly had put a damper on conversation.

I smoked more that night, and it worked, lovely sleep. Did various business letters and so on. Waking early nowadays, and so pleasant. And I really notice how much further the money goes. Tonight, I ?might? just have enough. After that, I don't know, because mother said that this stuff only arrives once a month. So I don't know. Perhaps I should phone Darren or something?

Lovely while it lasted.

Overall, it's a worrying and overwhelming time. So much information to find out. I worked out the finances and I won't have enough for the deposit. I'm nearly five hundred pounds overdrawn on the current account as I received the last statement myself.

And these dreams and obe's are breathing down my neck. How can they twice be as specific as to say December? I'd say it's cruel, except I need

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to know if there's, a time–frame I need to follow. That sounds harsh. I don't know. So much weighing down right now.

Saturday 30th July 2005

Kettering Road, Northampton, England.

The longer I stay here, the more I worry I'll get my awful accent back.

Did some more work. Because I want to approach the charity ACCESS I made a list of draft list of required information and letter. Another thing, it occurred to me that it would be the tourist board which specifically licenses (or whatever (sp.)) hotels, and so I did a letter to the London office of the Dutch tourist board. No more time to speak now. I'd better get on. The grass is nice though. Runs out tonight, haven't touched a drop since Monday. Actually money left over this week, rather that the overdraft shrinking as is usually the case.

There's a definite way, mind wise, to take marijuana, to make it work medicinally. It takes... knowing. I must write something about this.

Thursday 4th August (just) 2005

Wake Up London, Devonshire Terrace, Paddington, London

Not in the mood of writing

Friday 5th August 2005

Wake Up London, 1 Devonshire Terrace, Paddington, London

Wasn't in the mood of writing, am a little more now.

Binnie sent some pictures.

I came down here to this new hostel Thursday. It's OKish. Staff are rude. It's clean. No smoking. Yesterday I got a wash done, then outside met this Australian called Brian. We drank in the downstairs bar till about two. I slept in the TV room because there aren't enough keys to the room.

I found a place to sell my share certificate, but they want the same ID I'd need to open a bank account. After all this time, I still never managed to open a bank account, so it looks bad to sell the shares. There's a place to try in Cannongate tomorrow, if they're open, but if they say no... It's mad really, OK, this is all to stop money laundering, but I'm not money laundering. I just wanted a bank account and to sell my shares. If it doesn't work tomorrow, as far as I can work out, I'm stuck with a completely useless share certificate.

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Anyway, I'm moving to Kings Cross for two nights tomorrow. I met these friendly Americans in the dorm earlier, but I've just had enough here. It's OK, but that's all. The new place might be worse, but at least it's a change. Like here, a woman just had the vending machine malfunction, and asked the staff to help, but the staff said she's not on duty and to ask at reception, which is just plain rude. Last night I got lost looking for the exit and was shouted at.

LATER... 1:20am. next day

Yep, can't sleep... don't want to.

I phoned Anne earlier, to say of the news. Earlier today, I went over to a seed center to see about marijuana seeds. The guy who dealt with me was really nonchalant. He was so disinterested in me that at one point he actually apologised for his blase attitude, explaining that he has to spend all day there. I understand. It was in Bounds Green, The London Seed Center. I got the feeling that perhaps he was just going to sell me anything because I'm going to grow out of season so it won't work.

I realised after I bought it that A won't really help. It's something that I care about and not her, meaning it's nothing and will be likely thrown away.

I spend so much time thinking about my illness. All the time perhaps. I don't know what I think other than I think too much about it. I went to see Green... something earlier, at Prince Charles Cinema. It was such a great film; really cheered me up. Funny but poignant also. Isn't poignant a word used only by people selling books and films, did you notice that? It's likely why I can't spell the word. Did you ever use the word in relation to a moment in the real world that you had with another human being? No, in the real world, nothing is poignent. Just a marketed world.

I was speaking to Mother in BHS recently; I was talking about all my plans in Holland. she made some comment about it's too hard to do it alone. I should have some partner. I'd been talking generally about Binnie, and had mentioned that he was gay. She said that I should have some partner, then added the tag of either a male or a female, thinking of that possibility. Oh.

It's a strange thing, to get to this age with no idea of one's orientation, no history whatsoever. Does it matter; the loneliness is the same. Maybe that's why I like the idea of hospitality, as a career I mean; there will always be people around me without me ever having to get close to someone.

I think it doesn't matter in my case. I'd just love to be human.

... and as much as I hate to show a human side; it's lonely most of all to never be touched by anyone. I'll be careful saying that, because the last time I wrote that, it got me into a lot of real trouble. But it's not anyone... it's lonely to know no one in the world who knows most of your secrets, wants nothing from you and with whom you can hold each other in the hardest moments, of solitude or imparting a mutual strength through touch.

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Monday 8th August 2005

Journeys Hostel, Caledonia Road, Kings Cross, London.

OK, my last night in London this time.

Fucking stupid computer. Stupid, stupid, stupid. In this hostel, the ALT and CTRL keys have been glued down so that they can't be used. So, I just typed all my news, lost it and couldn't press CTRL+Z, and it went.

So, news wise... I just don't feel like typing it again. I'm tiered though. Also, just to keep whining, I have to keep manually typing the paragraph tabs as I can't cut and paste without the mouse... which is just as slow as the keys for me as a touch–typist.

OK, I'll carry on in notepad and transfer it. I might as well as I paid for it.

I kept meeting people in that hostel. I met the three nice Asian men in the room, whom where from California. Then I met a great guy from Australia called Brian. Then one night, my last night, in the bar there were these two women and an older man. The man and a girl left, but I spent about an hour with the other girl. She has been living with her father, her friend did some travelling and she just decided to do the same, and so had left. She was really sweet.

Then I came here to Journeys. I'm on an upper bunk, which is hard, plus the second floor. The staff are friendly, but it's no smoking after 10pm (???????????????????)

'Ad enough though. I can't sell my share certificate without the same ID I need to open a bank account. So it's useless. I just watched a film in Prince Charles, but walked out as I can't help thinking about it. I hate that I wasted so much money on that jacket. It's all money problems now, and guilt.

I've come to the conclusion that I should sign on. Sign on for unemployment benefit. It's bad, true, I'm right back to where I started. They'll ask me what I've done for thirteen years and why I never paid income or wages tax, and why I limp and keep sitting down every five minutes. But what the hell. Nothing to lose.

Friday 12th August 2005

Kettring Road, Northampton, UK

I feel so strange. Worthless. Unreal also.

Dunno.

Don't feel like anything at all. Doing anything I mean. Nothing.

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Thursday 24th August 2005

Ashlee House, Grays Inn Road, Kings Cross, London.

Dream (of a few days ago)

I was in a car in this road which exists in the real world. On one side

is the place where I went to upper school, on the other, is the place where I went to college. I was in a car with M & A and was dying.

Interpretation

Already received the premonition about M... but maybe I'm going too?......

Why do I find it so much easier to write here than in the 'home' town?

Well, I've come down to this new hostel... but it's a darned rowdy place. This common room is mostly populated with sixteen year old Hungarian schoolgirls offering......

It seems a long time since I was last in London, though not so much has happened.

I got back on the Monday. Mother had scored a whole half ounze... but it was chopped. It has a strong sedating effect, but I feel so strange when I take it.

It's hard to write in this strange place. I've been thinking about the same thing for the last... ten days? I'm not sure if it's just something that comes up because it's time for it to come up... or maybe the bad grass, or maybe it's good grass that helps something to come up because it's time to come up? I don't know (sixteen........)

I haven't signed on. I went to the office, but it's a strange thing, a strange place I mean. It's just full of offices and tables but there's no reception and no one says what to do or who to speak to and you're just left there... like some idiot. I mean, my story is so, unusual, I can't feel confident. I feel, I don't know. I feel that in my hostel, the minimum age will be eighteen.

I'm not sure where the C.A.B. is here. It's in Holburn library... but I only know where to get there from Chancery Lane.

The last time I stayed here, I got trapped for so long. Far too long. But now I'm here again; I can feel it happening again. But, it's so hard to get

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out now. Since I mentioned my idea to M. to sign on, she's been all for it. Of course she has. I have nothing and I must be a complete drain on her. It's hard. What if the Job Centre send me for a job I can't do due to my hip... or 'other' problem (talking about 'me mind now, me mind).

There's something wrong with M's eye. She get's her vision with ... I don't know. But each time I see her now she tells me about some glasses she smashed or something she knocked over and feels really embarrassed, and mentioned, things. She went for an eye test. You of course know what I'm thinking. YEAH, RIGHT, THERE'S SOMEONE WHO KNOWS!!!!!!!!!!

She was really impressed with the optician; an Asian, but this quack referred her to a local quack, who referred her to a hospital, so M's waiting for a letter from the hospital telling her when she will go there. That's one of the worst things about quacks isn't it? Not their arrogance, aggression, pedantisism, adherence to socialism. Oh God, don't get me started. Why do people talk about 'their' doctor? It's strange. You have your 'own' 'doctor'. So they are in charge of everything. In India, you go see someone, they do some mumbo–jumbo, you pay them and get better in spite of them... yet in blighty, you see them, they do whatever they want, get paid regardless, then say that if you don't go back to take more drugs that they read about in the bmj then you'll die because they read it in the magazine and they believed it rather that actually read current scientific studies........

Baaaahhhhhh, stop 'me whining. But, then again, these tricksters do indeed get paid by the state each time they can sucker you into going there.

I wish I'd never come back; I should have kept my original resolve. I might have made it by now. Here, I have nothing. I'm doing my best, but it doesn't look good. OK, I didn't have so much at home, but here, I have nothing.

I got the last of the Nikon pictures put on cd. I'll put them up later, well, another time, more quiet, less wrecked.

I'm really changed. I don't know what happened to me.

Fundamentally, I never should have taken that phone call.

Monday 12th September 2005

Kettring Road

Dream

I was in a car going up, up a windy road to the top of a car park. Then I got out half way and had to put a credit card in a lift to get back down. I kept getting the PIN wrong, but eventually started moving.

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Interpretation

I left Asia, came back to the mundane, and now have to... I don't know. Get used to having no life or happiness, which is where I started.

‘Dream’

Not actually a dream. I woke up but was dozing, and I felt my legs being lifted out of my body. It turned into an out of body experience, and I lifted out completely and was looking down on myself in bed. I thought about where I wanted to go, now that I was free. I wanted to see Junko. I could only ever get to see her once in this way, and it was when she was calling me.

But I thought that now I'm making a lot of progress, spiritually, about being honest about my disease (well, starting to) perhaps I'll be allowed it.

I willed myself to move, and was then shooting through the air. I ended up flying down a Japanese street, then I SAW HER. She didn't really know I was there, but I was overjoyed and told her I came just to check she was OK. I flew off, in heaven, shouting 'I love you!'.

Interpretation

Thank you.

Sunday 18th September 2005

Kibo, Kettring Road, Northampton, England

It's not good. I know I haven't written since I was in London. Not so much has happened. My little plants are OK. That's all that is.

I had an idea to start an Internet dating site, so I've done that a little. Everyone is going on at me to sign on the unemployment line, so I've been looking into that. The hostel plan has completely fell through, I mean it's just drifted away. I don't know what to say about it. I can't do it. All the things I'd have to get through, finding somewhere, getting the legalities sorted out, furnishing, accounts. Nope. I can't do that by myself, I don't know why I ever thought that I could.

So I'm nowhere. Right back where I started. I can't stand this country. I hate the people, it's the worst place in the world, but now I'm boxed in and I can't think how to get out. The only thing that comes to mind, now

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that I've lost everything, is to try and get on the dole, and move down to Gibraltar. It's still UK, but close to Spain.

Saturday 24th September 2005

Kibo, Northampton

Drea

I met Binnie in a pub and had marijuana with me. He had some that looked like a fern tree but it was much better and did the job.

Interpretation

Sativa would be better for me... mentally.

I saw M. on Tuesday I think. We went to Lloyds but it was really noisy and she didn't like it so much. The thing wrong with her eye is a cataract and she has to have it out sometime. While we were walking there people were shouting to each other, screeching round on skateboards, screaming at their children. We both commented on how people have no respect for each other. M's not long back from France and she said that you really notice the difference when you're away and then come back.

I do have to go or something though. I really can't stand being here. I've just had enough. But if I go on the social, then I'm kind of trapped here and admitting that this is what I am going to do. And, I can't do that.

In Llyods, I said to M. that maybe I should go to London and advertise a drop off and pick up word processing service.

I haven't got the energy to do these things though. I'm here, and I speak to no one.

... Like today. I woke up, walked down town. Came straight to the cybercafe and said ‘one hour please’. Then I went to a pub and ordered food. I'll say thanks when I buy smokes later. And, ‘OK’ to A when I get back tonight.

So, everything I say today is:

‘Is the kitchen open?’ ‘One fries and an orange juice please’ ‘One hour please’

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‘Twenty Richmond please’ ‘Thanks’ ‘OK?’ ‘Good.’

That's not a bad day. If I get the smokes at Sainsburys, then there's two less sentences. If I eat lunch from the supermarket, two less more. So some days, I can say as little as three sentences.

Which isn't that bad considering what it's like to speak to most English people.

I can't think of what I want to do. I can't think of doing anything that would make me happy. OK, a night out with J. But, that isn't going to happen. I just don't see any way forward.

Note: Photopage removed here.

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Disaster Continuation

I don't know if this is fated or what. I lost the diary I wrote in Colva with the premonition, at the same time as this one... I think because of a virus on a public computer that made me think I was saving an update to text, when in fact I was actually deleting everything.

Yesterday I tried to write a retrospective of what's occurred since September, then lost it because of, I think, the maxima casino software on a different computer.

So now I try again...

Hmmmm, back in September, it wasn't all so bad, though it probably felt that way at the time. I was getting ready to sign on. I got into online poker and played for a bit. I was meeting mother weekly, mostly in Llyods or Moon on the Square. She started hinting for me to sign on, saying there wasn't much money left.

I stayed in a place in Camden and had an interesting time for a few days.

I'm looking through my little black diary now to try and get the dates. October 24th was the anniversary of when I first spoke to Junko Imanishi, in a jazz club in Perth in 1994. It is also my niece's birthday, the eldest niece Carly that is. But this year, 2005, I was sitting with mother in Llyods in Abington Street. She'd had a lot of problems with her eye. I had been with her when she first went to the optician. Now she told me that she was booked in for a scan because it might be a tumour. She said she wasn't telling anyone else. She'd spoken to Carly, but had got upset, both of them. So basically I was the only person she could talk to. I started thinking about not much else then, because I had already had the prophesy in Colva that she wouldn't be here 'for the feast of St. Steven', which is pretty much why I had returned to the UK.

All this time after I was doing two things, trying to find housing and education options, with lots of online whining in–between.

Mother had an operation for a cataract on the 16th November, and went to stay with Geoff for a few days to be away from smoke. Then she stayed with us for a bit, then she went back to work, but kept insisting that her vision was worse. She was constantly on a waiting list for various tests.

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Although I usually move around London, I started staying in Globetrotter in Hammersmith a lot by then. I went to the CAB in Mund Street and they told me to sign on, so I signed at Hammersmith Job Centre on December 2nd. On December 8th I had to go back and see someone called Warman, for a habitual residence test, which I passed. Nikki from India contacted me about then and said she was house–sitting and invited me up. Sorry, it was the 12th I did the hrt with Peter Ellison. On the 8th, I think I saw Carla Warman for the general interview.

This is everything that happened up unto Christmas generally. Other things going on then... I had a lot of dreams about J.... as usual, but a lot of OBE's. There was one where I saw her. I'd been thinking a lot about this illness I suffer from, the genetic disease, and in some roundabout way, there has been some acceptance. I can't remember if this is in another diary, but I came out my body and thought, now I've faced up to this, can I see her? I flew through a tunnel and saw her in a street. I shouted that I loved her.

I had a lot of other obe's but many of them were the same. I came out but couldn't leave the room. So I opened my arms to the sky and asked to be taken. I felt a white light enter me from above, into my head and shoulders, but returned to my palpitating body before it was complete.

It was sometime in December that I saw an advert for training towards an ABTA certificate in ticketing and travel, funded by the European Social Fund, it comes with six months work experience. I applied. I passed a written test and was then interviewed by Reece Bigwood in Clapham Junction job centre and he accepted me.

Mother started getting painful and debilitating spasms in her arm, which was diagnosed as a trapped nerve. She also started getting dizzy.

Nikki invited me up for definite over Christmas week as she was house–sitting for rich friends. I booked to be in St. Cristophers Inn over Christmas, then with Nikki, then at Oxford, in Oxford backpackers for New Year.

I checked in Christmas Eve in Bath and it was OK. Christmas day everything was closed. I can't remember which day it was. Just, I updated the diaries and was alone and glum in the hostel, but then these people turned up and it was fun for a time. I didn't update again until New Years Eve in Oxford, but due to technical difficulties had to save the entry to a mail program, so conversely I still have it. I'll cut to that now and write what's happened since in a new page. I've learnt my lesson about making the page lengths too long!

The following is uncorrected, so there may be some mistakes there, plus it contains some general gibberish I wrote while bored as hell with Nikki.

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Saturday 31st December 2005

Oxford Backpackers, Oxford

(The following written earlier at Nikki's)

It's funny how things turn out sometimes — you never know what's

going to happen. About an hour after my usual festive morose entry, the 'chill out' room suddenly filled with people. There was a non–descript guy, two South Africans and an Aussie member of staff who shook my hand and introduced himself as Shane.

One of the South Africans was about twenty five and came to sit with me by the window. He had something very nice, herbally–wise, to smoke and we sat giggling. He told me that he was a geographer, and explained that his job is to make maps from satellite pictures, so actually he sounds more like a cartographer.

He went back and sat with his friend, who told me he's a soldier based just south of London and would be leaving to Afghanistan in two weeks.

They put on the film Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, to which they knew all the words. I watched a scene where someone, maybe Johnny Depp, was walking through a casino, I remember the line: 'the LSD has started to wear off but the mescaline was kicking in'. I wanted to know what that meant, so asked, and they both became fully animated, telling me it was the best film ever made, about some guy who took drugs everyday of his life.

I gave them some of my own 'herbal smoke', and they passed me champagne.

Shane was lying on the floor, and when one of them started smoking, he became very serious — saying that it would set off the alarms and we would be thrown out.

Previously, Shane had left the room, and came back visibly changed. I'm pretty sure because of cocaine. He had perched on a beanbag, but his leg coordination had gone.

At the smoking complaint, the army South African laughed and said,

'Come one, you're n your underpants; you have no credibility man.'

So Shane said: 'It gets worse', and stripped naked, asked again and again was ignored.

The army man started asking me about Hammersmith, the other had a dissociated giggling fit and I then watched Shane, honestly, lay down and make love to the bean bag.

There were various comings and goings. We were asked to leave because of the noise. There was a bit of playful wrestling, which I notice is a habit of South Africans, then they shook my hand and left.

I sat alone in the dark for a bit and was happy.

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Next day I went out about three. I must have gone up and down every street in Bath before accepting that every single thing was closed. I took stock of my rations: four pieces of bread, four Satsumas and ten cokes. I had a piece of bread and one satsuma, and then went to bed at six thirty. About ten minutes later M. phoned to say hello. About twenty minutes later, two Chinese women next to me came back and slept.

So, there I lay for 18 hours until midday boxing day. I thought an awful lot, and will probably write about this thought process later.

Boxing day I went out, and thankfully, much more was open. I had a coffee at Mickeedee's and them M. phoned to check that I hadn't starved I walked up the Rat and Parrot and had Nachos and house salad. The South Africans came and said hi, but they were the kind of people I can only know when intoxicated.

I went home and was alone in the dorm, and so had a drink there.

In the street outside, there was a really drunk woman, being very dramatic with a boy while another girl shoo'd everyone away because they were 'sorting int out'.

The girl had a really long go at him, then tried to get close, but he seemed quite sober and disinterested and just walked away..

That was boxing day. I forgot, I sat in the toilet for an hour Christmas Day and finished The five people you meet in heaven.

Next day I checked out. I had nothing clean and was thinking of a night in London, but Nikki phoned abut 10:30 and asked when I was coming up.

The coach was three hours to London, a coffee in Victoria, then the tube right out to Aversham, then she picked me up.

We chatted, arrived at a huge country house, gravel drive so big that there was furniture out there, five garages with a racing car in one of them, stables with two horses and three fields.

She showed me to my room. It belonged to a girl and a teenage girl, and it showed, in shocking pink full of teenage stuff. It was strange. The whole house looked like the family had just walked out with their stuff thrown everywhere, shampoo uncapped, underwear on floor. For example, for the whole of the time I was there a child's shoe, single, lay in the middle of the loungue and was never picked up or reunited with its other.

There were three dogs. Hers, Briggs a mixed breed, and two Dachshunds. Nikki cooked pasta and we ate. She insisted that the TV be off while we ate. Then she watched The Quiet American while I went to a separate games room and watched the French and Saunders Christmas Special.

Next day I woke. She has a smokers cough, so I made coffee and went outside. She said she hadn't slept so well and so went back to bed. I sat and wrote about sobriety. When she woke we went for a walk around the

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fields with the dogs and she showed me the horses. We passed a man in tweed who touched his cap to her.

Later she didn't feel like cooking, so we went out for take out. I insisted on paying because she'd made the pasta previously. Later we went to The Merlin pub. She told me about her best friend Nicole, whom she had grown away from since she had children and she had settled for a man Oliver, who she wouldn't have bothered with ten years ago. Then she told me about this self–centred Aunt who had messed up her Christmas plans. I was turning off by now. I realised that if I ever tell anyone my thought process I might be locked up. I was imagining being a war orphan from London, being shut up in this place I hate and don't fit in with. I went straight to bed and she asked if I was happy and glad I came, so even by then it was becoming obvious I was tuning out.

Next day, she wanted to go to IKEA, so I stayed alone. I made coffee and sat out on this trampoline looking out over the fields. I was really unhappy by then; the boredom. I just couldn't do what I wanted.

She returned with a fleece blanket as a gift. Her debit card had been declined because the owners hadn't left her any money.

I went to lie down to warm up and be alone, then she called me down for a walk. During this, she asked me about my leg. I said it was a symptom of a genetic disease but didn't go further.

The dogs ran away. She told me about a dream she had the previous night. She had a ticket to go somewhere on a train but left them on the counter when someone came to show her something. She was led to a platform where someone had nailed a dog to the floor. It still wagged its tail 'because dogs can always be friendly, even in pain', so she took it to the vet where it died... and she felt really angry at the people who had done this.

She said she didn't know what it meant and I was shocked at her lack of insight.

I went straight up the bedroom when I got back and took notes for my diary. I realised how much better I feel when I know all this is going online and anyone can see it, even though no one ever reads this far. At one point I wrote, 'I'm in a foreign prison'. She wanted to watch Eastenders, so I said I'd wait in the pub at the end of the road. I went and it was so good to be out and alone. She came and we left straight away because she doesn't like the smokey atmosphere. We walked on to the Milton Indian Thai Restaurant. She had a chicken dish but I only ordered soup as this was expensive. We pulled a cracker. I had a balloon and the joke was, What martial arts hero lives in a pod: Bruce Pea. My mind was elsewhere and she kept telling me to say something.

Then she said, either say something and have a conversation or we might as well have it take away. You've taken me out so you have to say something. I said I can't just force a conversation. I tried to think of something to say but couldn't, so said I'd ask if it can be take–out. The owners said yes. The bill was sixteen pounds. I looked, and after the total, tax and charge, there

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was about two pounds over–charged, but I just wanted to go so I paid it all myself. She offered ten pounds but I said it was OK. She looked over to another person sitting on the sofa paying for his takeout. When he took all his change from the folder, she said, 'there's someone else with no conscience'.

We walked home. I felt ashamed in a way, although looking back probably shouldn't have as the ADD symptoms do make me withdrawn and 'elsewhere' for much of the time; but at least it was over. I decided that if I ever meet someone in the future and get an invite to something, I'm going to say straight up the condition I have and list all of the symptoms; I'm not much of a friend I guess, and never can be.

As soon as we got back, she said she wants to watch 'The Shipping News', which was maybe why she hadn't wanted to stay. She went to bed after. I went out in the cold to smoke and was really dizzy, even though it was only tobacco.

I was up at nine. A couple of photos of the dogs. They really liked me.

She got up and said she wanted to go to M&S, but I had the feeling she wasn't really going just then. She drove me to the station and I gave her a Christmas Gift I'd got in Northampton before leaving. Then I was gone.

It was really difficult to get back to feeling normal; though great to be out. The tube in took ages. The bus to Oxford left in Buckingham Palace Road. I arrived after two hours at the station and found Oxford Backpackers. It was young and friendly. I went out shopping, came home and showered and had a nice night watching dvds with foreigners in a brash, loud atmosphere — HOME!

Today I went out to Cowley Road but there was nothing there. I came back. M phoned to say hello. I came home and here I sit typing.

———————————————————————

Places I'd Rather Be Than Here

1 — A Coal Miners House Up north, a small and pokey sitting room with a traditional man in a dirty whit with braces, not liking my nancy–pancy ideas — like running water.

2 — Camping on a Snow–Laden Mountainside in a storm With some guy who's 40 but looks 50, with ice in his beard, ear hair, nose hair, eyelashes, with super micro underclothes bodice, micro bodice, standard bodice — and then all the laters of waterproofs start, while I languish there with only a silver lycro jockstrap because when he invited me on holiday I assumed that it would be to the tropics.

He makes soup to cheep us up. He had the gormé delux stuff as he paid for everything, and I get a pot noodle, which he thaws his beard in before serving.

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———————————————————————–

The Intruder

I've broken into someone's house and am in intruder. I don't want to be an intruder, but I am.

This is awful; she got to know me at home in the tropics where I was drunk and myself. So I came to see her here, in a country estate, with horses, icy fields, tractors, dogs and myself, as I am. Stiff and awkward, out of place and desperate to be alone, lost in some hostel or a busy street where no one knows me and no one notices.

Everyone aspires to a country estate, but here, I realise, I don't. Alone in a beg house, with oil paintings of forgotten relatives, children's clothes and books on the floor, uncapped shampoo in the bathroom, a Marie Celeste of a normal white family in the English countryside; I am an intruder.

Maybe I drifted too long, but the rough edges chipped in from rolling down random paths will now never be chipped away.

Alone, I have to leave the house for a frosty corner of the garden, sitting on the edge of a trampoline where the normal children played their normal games, I gazed over the fields, treea and grass, the for from my breath: trying to feel comfortable in the few things I know.

I'll never know for sure, if it's my disease, my past or just who I am

— but I can never be what most people are. I'll never want one little place where I can be snug and live in forever. I'll never have somewhere to live with nicknacks, useless ornaments and reminders of places now lost. Objects to look at and not use. Things to have that can be used for a time, and then become things to look at on a shelf.

I think, deep down, I'll never meet with somebody. Whenever someone is there, the distancing starts. My few possessions are functional and not for shelves. There's no one for me who wants nothing. Perhaps it's better to admit that?

Once, it was all I wanted; the though of sharing everything about each other with someone who just gives a damn. But I don't think that that exists, especially for someone like me. Just because you always wanted one thing doesn't necessarily mean that your life should be spent obtaining it, the point could also be to realise that either it's not right for you — or it also might not exist at all.

What, really, is that wispy phantasm which people are hoping for when they search for love and stability?

I just now realised why I'm so blasé about my health and future, there's nothing to lose. A few times I've found a lump in by body; they come

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and they go and I sigh, because they mean a different thing to me than to the family man who owns the estate. Who did, in fact, nail down this puppy?

I'd love

• to be alone in a bar, with nachos, soda and my notebook, listening to the voices and writing as I please

• have dinner with someone who really likes me and I feel comfortable with, out, somewhere nice.

• for a really good film at the cinema

• to be in a big dorm with 25 beds and all races, ages, nationalities and faiths surrounding me

• to have movey and a ticket to be going somewhere new

• to do an acrylic painting, a still–sife, which I can give as a gift to a friend.

• to see my friend again.

• to have a day somewhere new with a camera and a million cafes to write in.

• to have enough money to not worry about the future.

• to have someone to show me what to do when I'm not sure.

• to not have this disease, but retain a few of its symptoms.

• for people not to hate this disease.

• to know that someday, someone will read everything I ever wrote, and it will make them a better person.

• to one day slip away from life, removed from the NHS, escaped from England, surrounded by compassionate people who let me choose, with dignity, when I leave the earth.

• to eat a pad thai

• to know what's expected of me by whatever put me here.

————————————————— A Million Miles Away I'm here, but I'm not.

She speaks,but I'm paying attention within.

I'm looking around, but the things I see, aren't with my eyes.

My bodie's here, but my mind wont stop, going where it pleases, into

the worlds it chooses.

Sad — because it's lonely, but sometimes it does what it does.

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——————————————————– I yearn... ———————————————————– ———————————————————–

1st January 2006

Oxford Backpackers

I love sitting here typing with the keyboard on my lap, which is how I type, in the colourful little hostel.

Well, for some reason I can't open the web–space, so I'll be correcting this and uploading ot from London no doubt. New Year wasn't so bad. I sat in the hostel, which I like, and had a drink. There's this London guy of about forty. He kept trying to join in with everyone. So there was this party, and he kind of sat in a corner and smiled at all the jokes and talked to them even though he wasn't part of the group. I feel like that sometimes, though I'm rarely the oldest in these places. There's a woman of about fifty. Last night she came in and was reading a book from church Solace for the Lonely.

So everyone went out, and I went to the hall for midnight, looking at the colourful murals in the hallway. This place, like so many hostels, is basically for teenagers or early twenties and I do feel like an outsider sometimes... but other times not. Last night, this Australian woman gave me chips, well, we shared them, and kept coming over and talking to me.

The next day (she just passed actually), which was today, the first, I went out and bought another disposable camera. Then I went sight–seeing. Like so many days this winter, it was sunny and pleasant. I'm not sure exactly what I photographed, but one of the places was a square where Oscar Widle spent time as a student... which is the second time I've been where he was.

So, then I went to BHS and wrote everyone a postcard, including Junko. Next, I went home. I was thinking of the cinema, to see The Producers, but it's seven pounds. So I went on to the pub next door (almost) and had a nice time there. then I came back and it's dvd night. There are a couple lying in a makeshift bed in reception, and the pool table has been made into a bed with two women, including the one who spoke to me last night, watching Madagasgar, which was fun. I went out after for food, but now it's an action film... so I'm sitting here typing this.

I dunno what to say, though I suppose I should say something, as it's new year. This keyboard, on my lap while I touch–type looking away from the computer, it's almost like a loved musical instrument which I am using to express myself.

Oh yes, yes, the meaningful thing I feel obliged to say.

I think this year, perhaps, I've come to accept that the thing I was really looking for doesn't exist. You know what I was looking for. I was looking to be together with someone. Maybe my few days with Nikki just

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brought home how all–pervading this illness is, and it really means that FI'm not going to be with anyone. I suppose everyone is looking for companionship, but if you find it, there must be a mundaneness to it. There's something shameful in not having found someone also I think. All these people sit about and say that they don't need anyone, but everyone knows it's not true; there's just nothing like having that degree of intimacy with another person. It IS failure isn't it?

Oh, this is good. I'm leaning back and looking at the ceiling while I type; it beats any kind of psychotherapy.

But it isn't foing to happen. I've always had this attention problem. OK, so now I know it's a symptom, but the effect is still the same. I recall with everyone I ever got to know at all, I did go inside myself and shot them out without knowing.

So what was different with Junko... Junko Imanishi (of course)?

There's only one problem with it all. If I accept that this is just the way I am and this is how it's going to be for me, there's not so much to carry on for. I don't mean that I shouldn't carry on, but that... there's just not so much fun going to all this trouble to eke out a new life just for myself.

This is what I'm doing; I'm sitting on the edge of a backpacker–world, starting to not fit in, hah, that I ever fitted in, and I don't know what to do. I would soon be like this goy of last night, trying to muscle in with a place, or world, that doesn't want me. If I was only really ever happy in Perth, then maybe I've spent my whole life trying to recreate that?

So what if I don't recreate it? I can do these courses, work somewhere, maybe even do well and save money, but for what? I accept that I can't be with anyone, it's even hard to make a simple friend as I ignore people without knowing, then there will have to be enough happiness for me to bother. ... ... ... and what if there's not?

I think that the only thing to cling to is the knowledge that everything has a reason. Whatever I face, and always have, it must be for the best. Look, I'm still here, I expected to be gone on boxing day. Maybe I should not think about it all for now, but just enjoy the common room.

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Starting 2006 – A Retrospective

Well, the lost page continued over the new year to February, so again it'll have to be a retrospective. It might be a bit disjointed. I warn you now, it isn't good news but I'll get it up to present, and then I can have the healing power of writing in my diary back again.

5th January, I had a career interview with Elaine Barrry at Hammersmith college, where we discussed qualification options. GCSE, A level, counseling ect, and I had some things to chase up.

One day I spent a whole day looking to see if Junko exists anywhere. I found an email for the unep spokesperson in france, Robert.Bisset@unep.fr. J mentioned her boss was a Frenchman called Robert... and I'm thinking... I know his girlfriends name, J mentioned it, maybe he often goes to ... should.....

I got myself accepted on the electoral register in Hammersmith, and then the housing list for in 14 months time (possibly).

Actually, that interview in Clapham Junction was on the 13th January.

I got a letter back from the Job Centre. They refused to give me any benefits at all, not Job Seekers Allowance, not Housing. On the 19th I had an appointment with Clementine Nicolas at the CAB in Mund Street, who told me to pay off my debts and tell them of a change in circumstances.

25th January was Australia Day. I had an interview at Skywings, a travel agent in Gatwick Airport. I thought it had gone OK but the Travel Academy phoned next day to say I didn't get it.

In the hostel, the management left a NO SNORING sign on my bed after complaints. At one point I was in with the staff and was a woman, I think called Emma, passive aggressively shouting about me.

I saw Nikki again. I met two of her friends in a North London Restaurant. DISASTER. I barely spoke, to the point that they became angry with me. I made everyone so awkward, perhaps I should mention to people that CAPD is one of the symptoms of my disease... or maybe I should just stay away from everyone? Anyway, I doubt I'll hear from her again, that's how bad it was.

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I've written in my diary for some reason, that 'FREEDOM STARTS IN A LAUGH', which I think is true. Think of all the things that hurt us once that we can learn to genuinely laugh about eventually. We should take all the pain in our lives and consciously laugh as a spiritual exercise.

I did, as always, send Junko's card, from the same place in Kings Mall as the last time, or was that for something else? Anyway, it went off and it's her birthday next week now.

I had a dream that I was looking at the stern of a boat in the dark. All of a sudden, the divers hole turned and opened. A deep–sea diver surfaced and took off the helmet and it was Junko. I was overjoyed, but she had a baby with her. I didn't care and we went off as friends, having fun. But everywhere we went, Geoff was there complaining about everything.

Of course, there have been other dreams, but I can't recall them to write them down now they are lost. One thing, I have long periods when I don't drink now, days so far. Usually I have some interview so I only get an hours sleep, next day I'm so tired I go to bed early sober and once my sleep cycle is reset, I don't need alcohol.

But when I fall asleep sober, I have these vipassana type insights which are almost painful, awful should I say? One night I was falling asleep in Globetrotter and I had a very distinct clairvoyant image while relaxed but awake. It was a black woman sitting on the bed, pointing to a Tequila Sunrise on a menu, and said, April.

This worried me, as I'd been sick myself. Stomach pain and sensations, but I was laid up in Annes house for about ten days after the Gatwick interview. So bad I couldn't even get out, my leg raised up on pillows and constantly hurting.

But of course, J4 from the Colva prophesy... each time a J went past, January, July ect. I became apprehensive. Then I became convinced it was me going? Then I thought it means J will write? But... my mother's name is Josie... and it's February now.

I hate writing retrospectively like this but I have no choice. I'll say what's really going on.

Mother's hand spasms got really bad so she was referred to a psychiatrist. He asked all sorts of questions, like 'do you think people are ever trying to poison you?'. She got through all that, but then had to do a simple task, write 1 2 3 4 5, and he said it might be a tumour. She was put on a waiting list, but decided to pay and have it within a few days as she's started fainting and fell off a bus.

C & G took her. There was a scan. They said it was a brain cancer, but are not sure how bad and immediately hospitalised her to Milton Keynes Hospital. For a few days they kept bringing students round because she was so hard to diagnose.

I was at Annes' house once. She phones me to speak because otherwise... we don't speak, even though we're in adjacent rooms. She said

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there was word from the hospital. It is a cancer and it's inoperable. They can do things to prolong her, but not for more than a year.

I went to see her Thursday. Visiting times are 3–5pm. but the bus got lost. I found it in the end. She isn't in general ward, kind of screened off near a window which is nicer. We sat on the bed together and she started telling me she has brain cancer, lung cancer, ect. She asked if I wanted to know and I said no so she stopped. But she said that she's instructed the doctor that she doesn't want to linger and to stop treatment when it's time and they've agreed. G also agreed with her against radiotherapy. She told me to think about stopping smoking. She was confused also. The regisrtar came, a horrible African man, took her blood pressure and told her it was high and to lie down, but she didn't understand.

We chatted on. She was speaking finally, telling me to speak to Carly and not ignore her. Try and speak to Anne. She wanted me to speak to Nikki and try and make up with her, though that'll not happen. Eventually, it was five and I had to speak. I said I'll see her next week. She made a gesture of throwing something from her heart to me as I walked away, and I stepped out.

I sat alone at the bus stop and cried. Then I cried on the bus. (I'm crying now). I had to get another bus to the coach depot. I came to London and had to launder all night. Next day I had an interview at Jurys Inn at Heathrow. I don't think it went well, though I couldn't give a s*** to be honest. Then I moved over to a hotel in Olympia. It's a hovel full of dss people, though I have this feeling I'll be there often in the future.

So that's the rubbish, awful, dark times I'm living nowadays.

End of retrospective. The diary proper is continued .

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Don't Want to Say a Title

Saturday 18th Febuary 2005

Mocha Cafe, Charing Cross Road, Londo

Everyone agrees it's so quick, Anne said so last night over the phone. It's strange I can sit and cry as I write about it, but not speaking about it. I mean, I speak about it, but without emotion.

She says it doesn't hurt, but the chart at the end of the bed said it does.

Globetrotter got expensive, so I'm staying in Dumil in Olympia, though I have to say that it's one of the roughest places I've been in ever, I think it's full of dss people, so it might be somewhere I go back too. For just a pound more I can go to Ace tomorrow, which should be within walking distance. That rough, rough place, I don't really want to go home.

I don't know what to do generally; this is very serious. I truly am living on credit card debt now. The social will probably help me when I've spent it all out, but if that's going to be the case, I might as well go somewhere like Vietnam and spend out there. I know that sounds insane, but while I have any savings, it's not just that I get no benefits, but also all the courses I'm planning to start, I can't do those if I'm not in receipt of benefits. I'm of the inclination to just go now while I can... but I have this feeling, that perhaps I should try and stick it out until the winter, so time to complete courses. It's so unbelievable hard to find the information. I've finally got it, you can do igcse's with edexcel, but the closing date to receive applications is next Tuesday. It's horrible, because I learn now that they do the subjects I want. There's still a chance, it could be possible if I pay late fees... but is it free for people on benefits. It would be nice as the exams are in June, all I have to do is stick it out, then I have a savings bond that matures, and I can use that to get away on. Have a long break and return having a new qualification and knowing how the system works.

If I can get this sorted out, so that there's a definite timestamp on my time on this stint in the UK.

G is going to be in charge of everything now... which means I can rely on myself. Everything he does, or would do, would be with conditions. I live my life according to guidance, dreams, obe messages. If I said that I knew

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all this was coming he'd think me mad, he'd try and make me do something sensible that would kill me. No, I don't know what to do, but I know I'm better off not knowing him, for my self–esteem, lifecourse and sanity.

OOOOOhhhhhhhhh, it's good to speak to dear diary again. I got a little camera in the sales, not quite as good as the old Nikon, but at least I can put photos up again rather than with a disposable.

It's hard to think long–term. Let's think short. Tomorrow, I'm in Ace, it looks nice. No idea what the computer costs, but I think as it's Sunday, if I can walk there, I may as well use the computer? Not sure, but I could do with a little more research. I'm signed up for a computer course and the South African guy wants me to meet him Monday where he hangs around the job centre, so I'll do that, but it means making a move concerning claiming benefit again? I am supposed to stay here for a while at least. The main thing is speaking to M. She's not allowed a mobile, you have to use their phone @ 150 a minute, or don't speak. It's cheaper outgoing, but she's too ill to dial. The F****** nhs, they ruin the start of your life and then the end of it, blaming you all of the way.

But even if it's really expensive, I'll say hello if just for two minutes.

I'd better go. Probably can write tomorrow. So, so, so many things to say. I do love you, dear, dear diary. If only I could write everything.

Sunday 19th February 2006

10:10pm, Ace Hotel, Gunterstone Road, West Kennsington, London

I stayed in Dumil B&B last night, was actually there two nights. My God, it was a hard place. I mean I've stayed in hard places before, but this was different. It was rough, full of people on DSS (benefits). The place was dim and falling apart. When I sat in the TV room, this guy introduced himself as Frank and offered to make me coffee, which I declined.

After some time I realised that he keeps coming in and sponging smokes off different people, alternately, including the staff.

There was a fat guy called Jimmy, Eastern European, fat and bald, usually unshaved with his ass out his pants sleeping with his mouth open on the torn sofa.

People were giving each other hair cuts in the corridors. There were mice and mouse traps.

I think it dawned on me there that this is the kind of place I'm going to have to be in for a while. The second night wasn't so bad; I watched some TV. But Frank kept coming and going. Out the back there was kind of a private shared garden which would be nice in the summer. I suppose I could stand it for some time. It wouldn't be forever.

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For just one pound more a night I came here today. There's no kitchen, but it's clean. I've been noticing something for a long time now. I feel OK here, I didn't in Dumil. I'm not comfortable around English people; never have been really, recalling both my parents are foreigners. Here in Ace, I won't speak to anyone, but there's an international atmosphere, and it feels OK; I'm never going to be able to settle here.

I realised how close I was to Hammersmith, so I walked over there today. I had a coffee in King's Mall, then phoned M for two minutes. In NHS hospitals, they ban mobiles and force you to use their phones, which is 1.50 a minute — complete rip off. How can they do this? In an oncology ward where people are terminal, it means only two minutes we can speak.

She was pleased to hear from me and sounded positive. Anne went yesterday and said she was confused; talkinig about the past and things that have finished, but she said it was normal as she can't see a clock and so can only sit and think without knowing the actual passing of time. When G. went that night, he said she was OK. It could have been A&G the other way around, I can't remember.

I went and sat in the William Morris pub in King Street, near the Underground station, which has pretty much become my local I suppose. It's nice to go to the same place sometimes.

I've been thinking what to do with the cash I have, because the CAB told me to get rid of it and apply again. I have to be accepted for benefits or all of the CV help, igcse's, gce, Microsoft Course, ABTA, everything I've been arranging will be cancelled.

One idea that came to me is gold. I know that sounds nuts, but I looked into it. A standard coin of gold is exactly one troy ounce. It costs about 235 sterling at the minute. Because it's not technically a new commodity there's no VAT. If you want less than 50,000.00 sterling you don't have to show ID nor declare it. There's no profit on the sale and resale other than the spread between buying and selling that the dealer makes. So a thousand pounds would only be around four coins. There are also special issue coins which vary in design year to year and are issued by different countries, like the Australian Gold Nugget and the Chinese Panda. I thought perhaps get the Australian one for 1994, the year I met J. and put it in her box which I'm bequeathing to her.

Oh, I forgot...

Dream, of about three weeks ago

I met up with Junko, and we were together and everything was as it was.

For some reason, it came about that we couldn't stay together, but would be forced to make this a finite relationship. I was really upset but

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suddenly came to the conclusion that I would just accept it and concentrate on enjoying my time with her as much as I could.

Interpretation

Yeah

Looking back over my time in life, I've made mistakes.... mistakes which were huge sometimes. But it's more important to come to this life, face up to the lessons and learn head on the things you're supposed to learn rather than to live a long time and accumulate a lot of money and possessions, which is basically stored energy rather than flowing.

I think after I got over agoraphobia as a teenager, I was excited about life, and a bit niave. I thought about what I wanted, and decided on domesticity, a wife, family, house and all of this abroad. I got a bit obsessed, and when I couldn't bring this to me with magic, I went off looking for it. Found what really exists, impermanence, and then spent years yearning.

Now I realise that I couldn't have what I want anyway, because of this disease and its symptoms, and because it doesn't exist.

For example, I now know I have CAPD, and always have had. I used to be punished for it at school. It caused that disaster with Nikki. I just can't function is a crowded social setting. It didn't matter with Junko because it was just the two of us, so intense, alone, but I guess it couldn't have lasted like that forever.... unless she went off with her own friends. OH GOD, stop thinking like this.

The main thing is, to feel guided. G broke down when he heard the news about M. But I dreamt this a year before and have had various obes, visions ect to confirm along the way. I'm not saying it doesn't hurt, but if it had have come as a bombshell to me it would have broken me, but it didn't, I was shown and moved more. I can't stress this enough. Whenever I've really needed to know something is coming or that there's something I need to do, I am always shown in advance, without any shadow of a doubt, in some unmistakable obe. This happens because I don't rely on anyone. I don't see anyone for help. There's just an internal trust. And so I get this... help(?), because, you get what you expect. This kind of thing happens once or twice to most people in a lifetime, because they believe it's a gift and grace and all the other silly things they've been told, yet none of them have an expectation.

EXPECT GUIDENCE**EXPECT INTERVENTION**EXPECT FORSHADOWING**EXPECT THE DIVINE

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Ohhhhh, maybe I'm too intense sometimes. Let me end on a positive little note. I love the camera; I take a couple of pictures a day. Combining it with a diary makes me feel better somehow. Like today, I had to sit down on the way home because my legs were really hurting. But I photographed them on low resolution, and in some insane way, I felt better knowing that dear diary can see my poor poor crippled legs.

I love sitting in parks; no matter what's happening to me. I can just focus on my breath, watch my thoughts — and when I watch them they just recede away, so then there's only sensation left in my body. But I watch that until it quitens. Then there's just nothing but me and the trees around me and the wind on my face and my peace.

All the time in Asia, sometimes silly or wasted, but with the practices and ideas I pursued, I permanently changed the way my mind is. Not wholly a waste.

Next Day Briefly, M's biopsy was postponed for the first time. She was so angry, C. had to go to the hospital to calm her down. It's J's birthday on Thursday. My plan is, buy gold, go cinema. No news of the interview, though I know it's not good. I'm, I don't know. Why do I obsess about someone who's forgotten me, why can't I help it? What's the answer?

Wednesday 22nd Febuary 2006

Ace Hotel, Gunterstone Road, Kennsington, London

Dream

I was on the phone speaking to Zena, the woman who's dealing with me at the Travel Academy. She told me that I had failed the interview at Jury's Inn, and would have to do the course without work experience.

Interpretation

I phoned her today actually, and I did indeed fail the interview at Jurys Inn, though I knew that deep down when I first even looked at the place... though I'm starting to wonder if I could pass an interview anywhere? This guy at Jurys Inn said he hadn't taken anyone on because of the 'low caliber' of the people that are sent.

Like me I guess.

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There's only one woman in the room. She checked in three days ago after me. We only spoke once when she asked me where the bed letters were. Just a sentence; I feel really awkward around her. She's about twenty and from Argentina. We have beds exactly next to each other. Often we're back about the same time and showering and washing, but all in silence. Weird, though I guess she's nice enough — she made a lot of friends, and doesn't seem uncomfortable. I guess it's better to be quiet, or silent, when it's just two in case someone gets the wrong idea.

Hahahahah. No, I don't mean she'll get the wrong idea and try and take advantage of me, I mean if you're female and alone and get too friendly with a guy alone, a guy not as great (and pathetic) as me could get the wrong idea.

This hostel is a lot smaller than I imagined. I thought it would be institutional, but it's actually a converted house, single house that it. there's only one phone, not really enough seats, but it will do I suppose. I waited all night for the phone, and then spoke to A.

She spent some of the day with M. Apparently, they did the biopsy but didn't get enough tissue, and so no one knows what's going to happen or when she can go. She keeps complaining that they come in the middle of the night and do things. Apparently, she's speaking very finally all the time now and doesn't want to linger at all — ready to go from the sounds of it. So... what about April?

I can't remember if I said I'd phone yesterday. I'll definitely do it today. I'm back at Globe for two days tomorrow; not sure how I feel about that. Earlier I phoned the bullion dealers. There's no chance of an Australian gold nugget 1994, it needs to be searched for, so the plan for J's birthday is to buy a Krugerrand, sign on and then go to the cinema. Weird day eh? Sign on as unemployed for benefits, buy one troy ounze of 24 karat gold in honour of someone I'm obsessed with and who never loved me, then the cinema.

I'll go Friday, probably evening. I had my last drink Wednesday, so tomorrow is a week, which I can honestly say is the longest since I was 20. This is one of the things about being alone. I've had this problem all of these years and there's no one to know about it. I cure it all by myself and there's no one to tell and share it with and say 'Yeah baby!'. Same as my hip. I've lie on the floor unable to move, weeping in pain on many occasions, and then it goes, I get up and get on with it and no one knows. I may have an obe and see something in the future, and it's true, and there was noone to tell and so no one will know.

Alcohol was all to do with sleep. I stopped when I had to stay awake all night and then go out, and in the early evening was so tired, I could just sleep, and then the cycle was right. I never drank in the day, now I'm getting used to falling asleep sober. I don't even miss it. But when I sit up, I have to be in a hostel around people, especially when I try to sleep and can't; I feel

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OK in a room with people sleeping by me, I just lie there. Alone at Anne's; I can't bear it and have a drink.

Did I mention I tried St. John's Wort, the plant that cures depression. I don't want to count my chickens... but after all the prescription stuff I tried in Delhi, this is the first effect I ever had. Despite the awful circumstances... it does, mood wise, seem to be getting better.

I'd better get on and start to try and feel sleepy.

Oh, I forgot, thirteen years today since I first left England on my epic voyage. Good move? ..........

Thursday 23rd February 2006 — Junko's Birthday

12:35am, Globetrotter Inn, Ravenscourt Gardens, Hammersmith, West London

Happy Birthday Junko Imanishi, 35 today.

Not so much done today, well, yesterday actually. I woke on time, without an alarm clock as usual, then went and checked out. Not so sure what I actually think of Ace Hotel, it was nice enough I suppose.

I walked over to Hammersmith and tried to phone M. from outside kings mall. It was really faint. There was no answer, so I went onto the KFC inside and had a vegetarian scotch egg and coffee. I came out, walked halfway to Globetrotter, then phoned again. Now Brian answered, he said hello. M. told me that no one has told him how bad it is, he's a quiet kind of person who doesn't open easily. Anyway, I spoke to her. We shouted but couldn't hear each other, and it cut out after less than half a minute. I think she was saying something about having another biopsy.

I walked on towards the hostel. I stopped in Ravenscourt Gardens and sat on a bench for a while. It was bitingly cold but peaceful until I was ready to continue up Ashlar Court; you're not allowed to check in before two pm.

On the way up I passed the friendly Canadian receptionist and we said hello, and I checked in. I'm in 303 again, with a strange smelling Indian, and as usual, people who complain about my snoring.

I charged my phone, then went out for a couple of hours to the William Morris. Only a tomato juice. I NEVER did drink in the day, though today, it's a week exactly since I had one, the longest time in a decade.

I left and went onto the shop, then put some pictures online. It was messy making linking thumbnails and I'm still going through the HTML code now. Then I came back.

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I phoned Anne. She was up the hospital today. They're still testing for how bad it is and how long is left. As far as I can understand, the biopsy didn't work because they discovered that one of the lungs has completely collapsed. A. told her that you only need one. A. said, to me today... well she couldn't really say it. She fumbled over the words, but ended up saying that it's only worse and not better, that it can only get worse but not better. Like when she told me, I directly asked how long, and she palpably hesitated before saying a year, and I knew that wasn't it.

If I hadn't had the warning premonition over a year ago, then I'd be falling apart about now, but at the moment, there's a resignation. It's painful too though. Like when I saw her last. She has a notepad that someone's given her. So she tried to take notes over the various pages. Each letter is nothing more than a faint scribble, like some tiny spider landed and crawled lamely for a moment before returning to a web.

When I speak to her on the phone, she takes a long time saying she loves me and goodbye, knowing it might be the last.

When she sits on the bed and someone speaks to her two or three times and she doesn't know, the cognition is going, and the hearing... and the life I suppose.

What a time to give up drinking.

I'm back Friday, technically tomorrow. I asked A. to see what was thought about me going up on Saturday. God knows what I'll do Sunday. I can't not drink at A's place. Here, if I'm not tired, I've got used to just sitting around all the people here, mostly Australians, and although I don't know them, or anyone, I feel different; it's OK. Alone in the room at Anne's, I just can't be there waiting for tiredness.

I did have one thought. As tomorrow is J's birthday, why not go to Walkabout, the Australian chain pub. There's one in Charing Cross Road I think, though I used to think it was some expedition business. Now I know. Perhaps I could remenise... even a VB dare I say.

I hope that Junko has a good day.

Later, back at Globetrotter

Junko's birthday is in its last hour, gmt that is.

I had a nice day, I guess. I went up to buy the gold coin, but then realised that I wouldn't have time to sign on. So I went back to Hammersmith and did that, then got the money from the bank, and went up to Holborn. There I bought One Onze of pure 24 Karat gold, which I shall put in Junko's box, for 334 Sterling pounds.

I got back in time for a film at Prince Charles Cinema. It was called... something, I can't remember. When I sat down it was Japanese. About, I

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think, the afterworld being full and ghosts encroaching here, and people being lonely on the other side and things I didn't... I don't know.

I did go to walkabout. I had a drink and thought of J, wished her well, and came home.

Date? Definitely Monday, probably 27/28th February 2006

Mocha Cafe, Charing Cross Road, London

I love song Creep by Radiohead. It was 'our' song, as they were playing it a lot in Australia, and I was always telling J. she was special because of it.

Not really a good day, a horrible day really. I managed to not drink, as is generally the case in London now. Then I went to the interview. It was a... quite unpretentious place near Chelsea football ground. I've completely lost all enthusiasm for it, the course generally, but even more so once I was there. I try to visualise myself through the, I mean working there and can't.

The guy was nice enough, and I bluffed my way through with stories about always having worked in hospitality. I asked him what the job would be and he said 'hospitality manager'. This means standing and welcoming people to breakfast, trying to get them to pay for an English breakfast rather than take the free continental breakfast, and then 'sometimes take some plates to the kitchen'.

In the old days, they called that 'waiting'.

Well, I couldn't be on my feet as much as that anyway; I'd be in bed for a week after the first day. I told Zena I didn't want to be on my feet as much as that, she asked if there was any particular reason and I said my leg was degenerated, and she got angry, saying that it wouldn't be for so long, blah blah.

So I'd have to something, trying to cope with symptoms that no one knows I have... because I can't really say as it's not apparent and no one will believe me, just like in '77 and thereafter, and this is just my karma.

It's six months doing this with self–study towards an abta certificate... so why not just give people the material and let them study towards it?

It's a mill–stone round my neck and I'm going to shake it off. But it doesn't bode so well; what else will I do?

But I was looking for a desk based thing.

But I have this pain that no one can see... and what to do?

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I don't know. This guy yesterday told me to write down how I would do the job, like selling breakfasts ect, as a list, and take it back at ten tomorrow for a tour and to be shown what I'd be doing.

So tomorrow I'm going back to say I won't do it, then I'll phone and be hated as a lazy person who wasted everyone's time, and then I have as much as when I reentered UK. Less if anything.

Dear, dear diary.... will you be thinking of me?

What will become of us?

Tuesday 28th Feburary 2006, 8pm

Mocha Cafe, Charing Cross Road

Drea

I was in a supermarket. Some woman before me left her credit card in the reader before me so I called her back. She came and looked at it and said it was an old one and I could keep it. She left and I put it in the machine. The display told me that I could apply for a cheap loan to buy a home. I realised that it was saying that to me because it thought I was her and she had worked long enough to be eligible for that.

Interpretation

People who bum their lives away can't have somewhere to live when they want to.

OK, I did it. I didn't even go, but tried to phone lots of times. A few times from the hostel, then in Bayswater; I ended up just leaving my name. Then I went to Kennsington Gardens. I phoned Travel Academy and said that I wasn't interested. She just sounded deflated and said she'd pass it on. By the time I actually made the call I was actually angry at this weight around my neck.

Then I phoned A. for a long time. M. is OK. They're both mad at G. Apparently he never goes round with the kids, now he's there all the time and it means that I can't see her, and she said it's insincere (can't spell it; tried a few times). M. wants to stay in the hospital in case something happens. She keeps going on for me to phone Carly. I think she worries that I won't know anyone in the world soon; something we both worry about. A. is excited about

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the St. John's Wort because of the change in me i.e. I actually spoke to her recently. I hope she doesn't expect too much.

I spent much of today mourning the letters of Junko that A. lost over the years; I can never forgive her for that.

It's a new moon today, admittedly early in the morning. I went to mysteries in Covent Garden and bought a crystal, some fragrant oil, and a little box from India to keep it in. Then I came to Charing Cross Road and went to Walkabout, the Australian pub in Shaftsbury Avenue where I started a new piece of magic.

That's about it. There's other stuff I don't want to say, I can't, to do with the new magic... but I'm also working on that now.

Not sure what my plan is. Probably stay here until Friday, then see M. Here, I want to get another Krugerrand, well, a lot actually. Dunno what else. I'm staying in Torquay Road in Royal Oak at the minute, but smoke outside and am tired, and so shall move tomorrow.

Wednesday ?9th March 2006 around 11pm

Globetrotter Inn

Not really a nice time. I left here last... Friday I think. Next day I slept a bit late, but had arranged to go and see M. I was looking forward to talking to her. I got the buses down there but didn't arrive until a quarter to five, but decided I'd just stay past visiting hour at five.

She was BAD. I didn't realise until we started talking. It might have been the pills because she told me last time she hid them because she feels doped up, but now they force her to take them.

She was unable to think clearly. There had been talk about her going to stay with Carly. I asked her about it. She became agitated and didn't make sense. She was even aggressive towards her, saying she was f***ing everything up. I realised she was out of it. Each time I said something, she didn't really understand and it made her more angry.

She asked me why I had come alone, and said 'What gives you that privilege'. The way she said it, I was worried she was going to even become physical. She was this different.

She couldn't remember, or recall, words she wanted to say, and so replaced them with the word 'challenges'. She would hold out her hand and want to say that there's to be a scan on Monday, but she said, 'On Monday I'm having this... challenge'. When she wanted to ask how my interview would go, she asked how my... challenge went. It's like her, strong, to choose such a word, but it's all evidence of serious degeneration.

There's a lung cancer sufferer next to her. She seemed agitated and I had to get a nurse, though it turned out she was OK.

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And I noticed M. was talking about me in the third person, saying things like... 'There's never enough food when John comes' ect.

I realised she wasn't following what I was saying, so I just lay back on the bed and listened to her, and thought of how she was in the past.

Her food came at a quarter to six, so I told her I was going. She said come tomorrow but I said Geoff would come, so she said to tell him he can't. I said I couldn't do that.

I turned. She said, 'love you loads', and her eyes went very red while she looked at me. I walked out, through the car park, stood and cried for a long time, then got the bus.

I had no interviews, so I stayed at Anne's for a bit. I made an effort to speak to her, as M. asked me to, but it's hard. I was talking and she accused me of being 'clipped'.

Basically, I did very little up there, mainly sat and thought in Edwards all day. After a few days A. said she would come out the hospital and live with Carly, the social services were going to asses the property, but next day A. said it was cancelled, M. would stay in hospital for good. G. said the nurses started acting funny and he thinks there's not long. I told A. about my year–long premonitions, and she believed me straight away as it's not the first time it's happened.

Later, about ten to twelve I dunno what else to say; it all seems hopeless. I'm only here for a

night, tomorrow I stay in Southwark, Orient Expresso. Then I'm going back to see M. on Friday.

I don't know what to do. Generally. Strangely the magic goes well and my mood is sometimes good; I seem to have more control, and I can only put it down to the St. John's Wort. But, now travel academy has finished. I have no interviews lined up. Hammersmith council refused to house me. I got this thing from the housing office today. The locata scheme, where you bid on properties. Anyway, there are four bands of priority, and I'm a C, 'unsatisfactory housing, housing need identified'. There's a chance I could get lucky, but likely will be not less than seventeen months.

I'm going to buy another ten coins while I'm here. I'll only go north over the weekend. I don't drink in London, and so cost–wise it's not so much more to stay here. But what to do? I suppose, if at least I could get benefits, housed and then do some learn direct course I'm already down for. They keep phoning me but you have to be in receipt of benefits... plus permanently in London. But if I reapply/appeal next week, it could be just a fortnight. I looked in Loot newspaper and there are only a few dss places, but the number is the same on some of them. Maybe, just maybe I can pull it off?

But what's life going to be like, long–term? I never really got on with A. and she is the last person I know. No one writes to me now. I'm not going

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to have anyone to talk to. Even if I did the course and worked, I'd be coming back to a little room alone each evening.

Then again... did I ever have so much more than that?

Perhaps I should just do one thing at a time. First, get the coins and reapply for the benefit. That's one. Then go like mad to find somewhere the housing will pay for, then do the course, then I've done, everything. I can stop drinking now. Smoking wouldn't be so hard and I'd have almost enough to live on... and be getting somewhere. I was even thinking I could start a 'mobile audio–typing' service, drop off and deliver within zone two. I'd have to be down here permanently though.

Dunno. Hard times.

Wednesday 22nd March 2006

Globetrotter Inn, Hammersmith

Dream

I went to Anne's and Junko was there. We lived together for a bit, but she had been in England too long and it had corrupted her, she was like an English person.

Interpretation

She once told me that she wouldn't like England, as a country. This dream sums up many things. I'll never settle here; I hate it. Specifically, I hate the people; they're the most arrogant, sarcastic people on the planet.

I just went back to see what had happened since the last entry. As I recall, I went back Friday, then went to see M. on Saturday, yes, that's it; I recall now.

As I was passing the corridor, I passed my 'brother' and Carly. I felt sickened and phoned Anne. I was shaking as it's only the second time I've seen him, and the first since being here. I explained what happened. How can it happen after the whole thing had been arranged, that it was to be my day. A. said, 'but I didn't think that mattered'. Of course, I was badly shaken by the time I saw M. and she was doped but upset at my state. It was very bad for both of us.

I got back and A. was angry. Apparently the consultant had phoned G. to ask him to go, so he rushed down thinking it was bad news but it turned out to be good, the therapy had gone well.

Next day I was sitting in Edwards. I remember A. telling me how hard it was to get information because M's records are confidential and they

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won't discuss anything with G. or anyone. So I sat and thought, why did they ask him to go down and give him that info.

So I phoned the hospital directly. The consultant is called Dr. Fisher. He made absolutely no call on that day. It was a lie.

So that evening I told A. She was angry. She said she would have a go at him as I had decided by then that I wouldn't go to the hospital anymore. She basically agreed with me.

Next day, she came to the door angry. He had called the hospital, they had said that I had never called and that there was no doctor Fisher. So I said call but she wouldn't. She told me how G. does this and does that and never begrudges me anything. FU***ER, I can't even begin to describe this.

So, always the positive one, she started on about M's will, will I let G. do it or a solicitor will cost ten thousand ect. He's so honest etc. We both ended up in tears and I walked off because I couldn't talk anymore.

I spent the week up there. I sat in either Moon on the Square, Llyods or Edwards until late. It was horrible.

I booked London for the next week and went on the Saturday. We were alone and she was surprisingly well, almost like her old self. I noticed above her bed there's a sign, with her name on and the words: CONSULTANT DR. FISHER, so I photographed it.

I came to London the next day. It was a new place in New Cross Gate near Whitechapel in east London. It was hard to find, wrong directions and misnamed, but then I was in.

Dover Castle Hostel. At first I hated it. The common room was small, rowdy and full of long–termers who knew each other. I went straight to bed below a man. There was an old man of about sixty in the room, weather–beaten. I slept about two hours.

Next day was Monday. I went down and it was OK at breakfast, I was the first. Everyone knew each other, but it was relaxed and rough in a homely way somehow. I came to Hammersmith for the day.

Next day the Irish man came to breakfast. He's a Romany and wholly irritating, in everyway.

I had a vague feeling that they accept housing benefit there as one of the residents had a flat found for him by them, and he only pays a little of the rent.

The gypsy sat drinking 'Croatian coffee', which is coffee and beer, and I realised that he drinks all day and urinates in a bottle at night, in the dorm before everyone.

That day I decided to get some photographs, so I went to the Tate Gallery. I took two, and then realised that there's a woman with a walkie–talkie going round shouting at people who take pictures, so that was pretty much wasted. I got some pictures of St. Pauls but it was overcast.

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I'd been sober since leaving Anne's, but this was another very bad night and I don't know what's going to happen. I'm in mental agony most of the time and, strung together, I'm lucky if I get two hours. It's just the way I am. Either drink of be like that.

I got a call from Learn Direct today. Saida called to say she had checked with the job centre and they told her I was getting benefits now, but at the job centre they didn't know anything about it, so I texted her back and said I will call tomorrow after I have an interview with 'my advisor'.

I came back to Globetrotter tonight until Saturday, after then, I don't know what.

I'm feeling bad though. It got bad recently, in these last few days. Things are starting to haunt me. On the way back to the centre today, I passed a black man with a hurt and bemused look on his face, in shock, standing with a five pound note in his hand while a bag lady screamed, asking who he thought he was. I hated it. Now he'll never do it again.

There's a deep feeling of unreality about everything. Nothing feels real anymore. I'm tired of this.

I'm going to be so alone now, I try and reach out to people on the Internet... but it's not real.

Perhaps the magic's being tested? After all this induced happiness, some doubt has to be overcome to test it?

Or not?

Will I ever not think of J. for most of the time?

Whatever. I'm dieting. I just decided. I might as well if I don't drink as I can lose weight, and perhaps I'll have to stop eating altogether at some point? Get a head start.

I've had less than 2500 calories daily since I came here. Today I had, a vegetarian scotch egg; a tomato juice, rice and lasagna. I saved half the latter in case I'm hungry later. I reckon 1500 calories today.

But there's a slimming aid, Slimfast. A biscuit is 90 cals, a drink 220. You have two meal replacement drinks, two biscuit snacks, then one meal of 600 calories.

• 2 drinks @ 220=440 2 snacks @ 90=180 sub total = 620 with meal total =*** 1220

About half of what I need. I'll stick to it... but can I not drink. Tonight is about the first time I've wanted it, something upset me earlier and I can't get it out my mind.

Yepp, time to starve myself.

I'm going to try and sleep in a minute. I hate it. I'm alone bar one today, but he has no luggage and so shall not be in until morning. I hate being

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alone, even if I don't know the people around me. I just lie there, so full of self–loathing. Sometimes I want to hit me and I daydream and imagine someone is there holding me and trying to calm me, soothe me. I've become this pathetic/insane***

*** Delete as applicable Nighty... and thanks for being on my side dear diary. If only you

could hold me.

Thursday 23rd March 2006 approaching midnight

Globetrotter, Hammersmith, London

I signed on today, all went well I guess. I have to go and see Dillon on Monday with all the evidence that I have no money. I drew it out in cash and it looks as funny as hell. I should really go through this.

I tried to print out the picture of M's board with Dr. Fisher on, but the resolution is too low, I'll do it next week.

Last night was both bad and good. I went to the room and there were two girls checked in. They left and I had a bad time, but then just chanted and kind of got into it. I always mouth my mantras a little bit, but then it kind of just started spinning in my head by itself, and I raised independent happiness, and slept fine. I awoke just once when they came home but it was fine. I didn't get less than six hours.

Tonight at ten the reception women came, a couple and their child are in my room but they didn't know it was shared and are about to check out. I looked at an alternative and said it would be OK, even though I didn't like the look of it. They thanked me profusely, even Emma, who is the one who swore at me and left the no snoring sign on my bed. Well, they even went and made my bed. But now, God knows what kind of a night I'll have.

It's freaky Friday at Prince Charles Cinema tomorrow; I'm hoping to catch a couple of films and perhaps get some pictures in–between; I'll probably get my Oyster capped, but not so long now to printing offer expiry.

I've actually had a great day, mood wise. It was sunny and I went to a new place for coffee, the slough or plough or something. I did magic most of the day and was brimming with happiness. Then I came home and went on a downer somehow; can't work out what it is about the evenings.

I think when I leave here Saturday, I won't do so without making a booking back here in London for the Sunday. I've been sober this whole time. Today, again, I 100% stuck to the diet. I had a 220c. meal replacement drink for breakfast, even though I was up in time for a proper one, two 90 cal snacks, then tonight a 395c spaghetti, 350c rice, two 19c crispbreads and a single low fat cheese triangle, oh, and a tomato juice, but the baby one. I don't know exactly. I only ate half the spaghetti and rice and put the rest in my

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lunch box, and so shall see if I can go without it. I did yesterday. I reckon today I'm on 1800 absolute tops, more like 1450?

I think a lot about the April premonitions; I still wonder if they're about me or M. How can my insides look, but perhaps... I don't know. I'm swinging between extreme pessimism and optimism.

And I miss J. all the time.

Which is nuts.

But I do.

(don't tell her; she'd be angry)

25th March 2006 1:45am I went to bed last night, and as well as the bed being made, there was

a Ribena drink and a KitKat on my pillow, which was really nice. I'll give it to Mother tomorrow... actually, later today, as it's Mothering Sunday the day after. I was out today and it turned out that the cheapest card for a pound is actually my favourite painting, Night Cafe by Van Gough, which I'm sure you've forgotten by now, was actually on exhibition in Paris when I was there, and was in that little cafe I used to go to when I first got back to London.

I spoke to A today. M is lucid and declared that Saturdays are my days and she doesn't want to see him nor anyone. This is what she told me the last time. I offered to go twice a week but she said come Saturdays. So G. was a little premature in taking over. He has to wait until he can do as he pleases with A.

I didn't make it to the cinema. I've stuck to the diet 100% and have been teetotal, but the sleep problem's coming back. As far as I can tell I've started sleeping long enough, but can't fall asleep at the right time. I must preserve though. I'm only at A's tomorrow night, I've booked 639 and a new place, plus Globetrotter for next week starting Sunday. So I'll be sober... even if it means sitting up there all night. I have to, want to see M. than A and I are eating at the Taj Imperial, though I'll just have rice or something.

That's pretty much the news. I'm so happy in Globetrotter, but they've messed up the prices. It goes up and down daily for advance booking. I just booked next Friday for ten pounds, but the next week is seventeen and you have to wait for it to come down. That doesn't make sense, not from a business point of view. Maybe it'll be a busy year here?

Well, I'll try and sleep. Will write when I'm back, more news and the saga continues...

like there's anyone reading this! Are you reading this?

Hahahaha. Text me! 07914629142

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Sunday 26th March 2006

Hostel 639, Kensal Green, North London. About 10:30pm.

Not too bad.

I went up to Milton Keynes. M is well again, although the chemo has made her hair fall out. We had a really good talk. Emma in the hostel actually gave me sixteen pounds in cash after bending the rules because 'I had done them a favour', and it had put me in a good mood.

Sunday 1st April 2006 April Fools Day, about 12:30am.

Globetrotter, Hammersmith, London

Something went wrong with the computer there, though it's hard to believe that it was a week ago, nearly.

I was saying that M's got chemo, or radio or something, all this week, today will be her first day off, so I have to phone to see how she is before I go, she told me to ask for Wayne.

What have I done this week. Weeeelllll. Good news first. S.O.B.E.R. haven't touched a drop. So today it's two weeks exactly. Also, stuck to the diet 100%; haven't slipped up since I started.

I started the week in Kensal Green. It's OK up there. The microwave was down so I ended up baking stuff, but it all turned out nice and I have a new little one pound lunch box to put things in, the food I mean.

The day I checked out there, Wednesday morning I think, I walked around Kensal Green Cemetery, which is behind the hostel. It was grey and raining and I got to thinking... about M. of course. It brought things home of course and I ended up having a little cry there.

After that I went up to a new place in Belsize Park. It was a shock. Right near Ealing. The guy who checked me in was like Jeeves, he had a face just like a butler, manner to go with it, and a perfect pin–striped suit. The place was like, palatial, though the guests were the same you get anywhere. There was a Spanish person with an American accent, the rest were Turks and French. The bedroom was lovely, proper beds, it was more like a hotel proper than a hostel.

I went over to Westminster to take some pictures for my free printing offer. I ended up over at the Millennium wheel or whatever it is. There was an exhibition of Japanese Aimee, which is nice because all the pictures will be sent to Junko of course.

That morning I'd gone to Camden market and took pictures of the amine tee–shirts to show J. how popular Japanese culture is here. It turns out they were counterfeit and I ended up being shouted at because the woman didn't want pictures.

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I reapplied for the benefit. A guy just took the papers, he didn't even want to see statements, even though the forms ask you to bring them. Though he did say that I would probably hear this week.

Globetrotter is now 17 Sterling a night except for Sundays, so I'm only going to be here then from now on. If that goes up I don't know what I'll do as I use this address for my post, and it's really the only place in the borough that will let me stay on the housing list here.

I met this Irish plasterer in William Morris the other day. He was wrecked of course... and not significant.

So, there isn't really any other news. The magic still goes surprisingly well and I spend a fair amount of time inspiring happiness and chanting. My mala beads broke on the new moon, and I have to get something to repair them in N/pton.

Tomorrow, or actually later today, I return and see M. Then I might eat with Anne. Did I say we went to the Indian place. I only had rice and raita so it was expensive. She didn't have so much because it was late. I don't really want to tdo it this week, well, today. Not ever actually; I didn't like the place — but if I don't do that, we'll never speak to each other.

April starts today. I keep thinking about all the premonitions I've had about this month. Back in Colva, I had the J4 message, and here in Globetrotter I had the 'tequila sunrise' vision. That most recent diary page I lost, I spent nearly all the time worrying about what it meant. I was scared to the build up to Jan 4, June 4 ect. April is about the last thing it could mean. But what? Is it me? What's going to happen this month?

All I can do is live it and find out.

I, and I don't want to say it but it came to me when I was in the graveyard... I mean, I can't imagine how lonely it will be without M. I'll be in the world and not close to anyone. No one to share good or bad news with.

... can't imagine it.

Sunday 2nd April 2006 About 11pm

Globetrotter, Hammersmith

Oh, I've only been gone a little while; it feels like ages.

Yes, I slept and woke in good time. Went up and M is fine. We had a good chat. There's a woman opposite her who had to have some procedure done behind a curtain, and screamed through the entire process. Also a new woman next to her. She doesn't like her because the family are selfish. M wanted me to fix her up and audio–book. She asked me last week, to do it this week. So I set it up and it worked. But then when I changed tapes a little piece fell out.

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M wanted to be able to do it herself so I tried to explain it, but when she pressed the button, nothing happened, she thought she couldn't do it hard enough. I realised somehow it had broke when the piece fell out. It was horrible because she's bored and was wanting something to do.

She's been trying to read and practice her signature. It still isn't as it was, the handwriting I mean, but it's better, it's at least recognisable. It still all breaks my heart though.

I had said to A from Euston that I didn't want to eat out, so I left and sat in Edwards. It was 'flirty friday' and I ended up feeling stupid surrounded by nurses in suspenders, so came back and was there for nine thirty. She stayed away until four, which meant that I pretty much had to, but then I still managed to get up by ten and leave on the just gone midday bus.

So then I came back, made vegetarian mince. Emma put me in a room by myself, so I definitely get special treatment. I just checked and it seems, for now as the price keeps going up, that Globetrotter is a set seventeen now. Don't know if that will last, we'll see, but if so then I'll have to think of not keeping my bag here I suppose. I don't know.

I spend almost all my time thinking about J. From when I wake up to when I go to bed. More than usual. I don't know why. It's a problem I should try and solve I suppose... but, I ... I think I'll go to bed soon.

Tomorrow there's an editors job I want to apply for, then I'm staying in Olave House in Earl's Court. The pics don't look great and the reviews say it's cramped and dirty. I don't really mind.

Quite a bad day today actually. Don't know why? There was a lovely rainbow on the way down, then leaving the train I found a load of money. Perhaps when magic gets close, doubts get thrown in your face?

Don't know. Don't know. Don't know.

Friday 7th April 2004

Grenwich High Street, in a Spanish Restaurant, about 4pm.

I just sat looking at the observatory.

All I ever think about is Junko. I just counted today, earlier. We wrote for eight years, and I haven't heard for four.

I think I might be accepting I might never be well, it's obvious. I wake up with vague dreams, them have memories over breakfast. I thought I might ban thoughts as a spiritual exercise.

I'm sick and tired of being alive.

I struggle daily with magic, to try and think of something else, elevate my mood with positive possibility; it's my last chance.

I hate, hate, hate this; I don't want to be here. This country; this life.

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Sunday 9th April 2006, about half ten at night

Hostel 639, Kensal Green, North London

So I wrote on Sunday, and then just had my rubbish day in Grenwich. Let me think what actually happened.

I left Monday. Globetrotter owed me 20p and Emma said she'd put a note for the next booking, and at the time I was thinking that I might not go again because the price had gone up so much.

I think I walked to Hammersmith and sat there all day. In the evening I went to the new place, Olave in Ealing Broadway. A nonchalant Eastern European woman checked me in, but there was no key. I went to the room and there was a Polish man my age who said that he had just come and was hoping to improve his English.

I went downstairs. I wasn't sure what the cooking facilities would be like so I had brought cold stuff. I went down to the common room, but looking in, it was cold and dark and rowdy and pally, so I went for a walk to look for somewhere else.

I walked forever, but the only place I could really sit was a bus stop, so I kept going. I ended up by chance sitting outside the large Sainsburys near Glouster Road Station, opposite where I once previously stayed. It was a miserable time and cold, so I had my six hundred calories and walked back.

Next day I also went to Hammersmith, I think, and then I walked all the way back. In the morning I had had coffee downstairs and discovered that the kitchen wasn't so bad, and so had bought hot food. I cooked and ate at the table, and then went to bed.

Wednesday I walked to the Natural History Museum. The second time I went, it's strange to go back to a place where I was dragged round on school–trips; all I kept flashing back to was being constantly shouted at. I really went because they sell some cheap crystals.

I sat outside near the science museum and the Polish man from the room turned up by chance. We got talking. He's looking for work in a kitchen. His father is a sailor. He lived in Canada for six years and was naturalised. In Poland he had been teaching infants English and working for a car company. But he lost his job; the teaching was just for cash, but it didn't make enough and so he left, because all he has in Poland is his parents.

He said he was leaving the next day, to Brook. I questioned him further and realised it was Stamford Brook, and he's checked in at Globetrotter. I said I would go with him the next day, and show him where the job centre was.

I went home and cooked.... No, I didn't; b/s. I went to the new age shop in Covent Garden, didn't see anything I liked and so went to the church

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after unsuccessful clothes shopping, then I walked to Leister Square, THEN I came and cooked.

Next day I was up early. I sat with a tired looking woman at breakfast, and then went with the Polish man, Vito, to Hammersmith. We chatted. He came across as a quiet, passive kind of man. As far as I can tell he never got married. Just, kind of went everywhere. I checked him in and took him to the job centre. He was pleasant enough, but seemed fairly keen to be left alone, though he was always friendly; perhaps he didn't want to intrude. Before we left he had kept making comments about it being OK if I didn't want to go. Perhaps he had worked out that I'm a secret monster and was trying to save his aura?

In the evening I emailed him and warned him to plan ahead for Easter.

Next day I checked out. I went straight to the train, onto DLR and got off at Grenwich. I saw the cutty Sark and a couple of buildings, then sat in St. Christophers on the High Street waiting to be able to check in. It was OK there.

Everyone was nice to me. I put my stuff upstairs, then went out again. The Royal Observatory was up a hill and it was too steep for me to get to. I went to the Maritime Museum, but a woman snapped at me when I took a picture, so I actually left almost as soon as leaving. It was weird. I'd been looking at posters about it on the Underground for a week and decided to stay there and make a day of it, then ended up walking in, resting, thinking it was great, and then walking out again straight away.

I rested outside for a bit, then came home and showered. I bought a little book about happiness and read it, then went up and showered after the friendly staff gave me free tea. I washed. When I went in the room a man startled me by suddenly swinging the door open just as I was inserting my keycard, so much so that my keycard stayed in the door.

He laughed and asked if I'd made him jump. When I said he had, he joked that he'd been lying in wait all day.

My leg was very bad, so I went down to the common room to eat. There was a film on about a child assassin, Matilda I think. I saw it in Bangkok and Junko once mentioned it in writing, so I didn't want to see it. I went up and read my book in the bar. A. was supposed to phone but didn't so I phoned her from outside and she was asleep.

All is OK with M. She's having a wig fitted Tuesday, a stairlift sometime in the week so she can go home and not to Carly's, and I am still to go the next day (Saturday).

I checked out next day, bought some weight–watchers beans and went for the train. It was down, so a replacement bus to Canada Water, then tubed to Euston and went North to see M.

She was well. She'd had trouble with her audiobook and so I fixed that. The woman next to her, Barbara Poppelhill or something, was attacked in

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her home and was there resting. M didn't like her because the week previous she had, or her visitors had, monopolised the bed. Apparently M. had had a go at her and scared her, saying, 'Stay away from my bed when my son comes on Saturdays!'.

Another time, this woman had gone 'on and on about her pets', and then asked about M's pets. M said she didn't have any and the woman seemed shocked, so M. snapped that she had two children. I said why only two, and she said, 'My daughter's disowned me and I've disowned her'. Apparently, G. had decided that she had a right to know, but Y. had said she couldn't care less.

Then Barbara shuffled off to the toilet. M. said how she never does anything for herself, including brush her shoulder length hair. As she left it was sticking up in a circular footlong halo, and I looked at M. and we burst out laughing.

There's a new Asian woman. M hates her because she coughs loudly without a hand over her mouth. Apparently no one likes her. She was checked in and just lay on the bed for twenty–four hours with her sari on because, 'it takes some people time to adjust'. She had lay there all night crying for water, but no one came because she's not popular.

M. hates the way G. took everything over, including the stairlift; she says it all the time.

I left and caught the train in. I sat in the Rat and Parrot until nine thirty. It got really rowdy and the raunchy (and loud) dressed up nurses were there. I got a book in Grenwich about a man with amnesia. I'd say I forgot what it's called, but that's a rubbish joke. Actually, it's in front of me: Forever Today, by Deborah Wearing. It's OK I guess; it passed time.

I went to A's. She was OK. I went up and slept, rising this morning at eight thirty.

I came here, back to 639 in Kensal Green in London. My bed is on the fourth floor, but cramped, no ladder, full of long–termers and a man who told me to f*** off when I slammed the door. I went downstairs to move, but it's full. I'm in another bed for tomorrow. I can try checking later to see if someone didn't check in, but I might have to sit up all night. I hate this place for that. It's that absurd Karaoke tonight. I hope somehow a different member of staff can get me a bed. If not, it's not the end of the world... I guess. I'll just have to find the least noisy place, rest my head and try and visualise.

I cooked, ate, went on a massive downer thinking of how alone I'll be soon, but perhaps it was just a bad mood about the bed?

Then I came here and here I sit, typing.

It's frustrating. I finally sort my sleep cycle out after a decade, get some kind of a routine, and now I might be sitting in a hard chair all night. Still, these things happen I guess.

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Not sure what I'm going to try and accomplish this week. I must start a new diary page, there are far too many pictures on here, and I've started on the blank memory card now.

Notice above how I mentioned I only ever think of J. twice, forgetting I did so.

Why? She didn't and doesn't want me.

... can't help myself.

Oh god, I'm yawning; it could well be a poor night of feeling sad and tired... but you never know; tonight could be the best night of my life... and if that's not positive thinking then I don't know what is.

... and so to the millions of people who put a stop to their daily routine to follow my fascinating life in awe and envy...

... or actually to the pathetic geek who couldn't sleep, came here by accident after misspelling a search term and even then didn't read this far...

... or to whatever it is that watched over all of us... please have the most wonderful evening.

...

That would be a good end to the entry today. But I remembered, I was alone in the kitchen earlier, considering how alone I'll soon be. I realised that I don't know anyone. I mean... soon, I'll be alive here (possibly) in the world, and I won't know a.n.y.o.n.e.... and I don't know if I can live like that. I know I've never really known anyone... but I've never had no one... just been no one.

Oh, please let me sleep nicely, somehow.

Monday 10th April 2006

Hostel 639, Kensal Green, North London

It was OK. I went and stood in the street, thought about it, decided what the hell and went up. I recalled there had been someone sitting on a chair when I went up, so perhaps I could use that.

As it turned out, there was a chair, and a guy watching TV on his bed really loud, so I didn't really bother anyone, and I got in and out OK... I even went out to the toilet about two am.

Bah, all that worry.

But thanks for letting me sleep.

Not sure what to do today, either go to Leister Square or over to Hammersmith. I'm in Shepard's Bush tomorrow (thank God), so I'll have a think about it?

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Feeling a bit better, yeeaaahhhhh. I'll have to cook twice tonight because there's no cooker at Shepard's Bush... unless I have cold stuff? I had vegetarian shepard's pie, sweetcorn and spinach yesterday; it's good to have a lot of vegetables, because you can get a lot of volume of food for not so many calories.

Monday 10th April 2006

Hostel 639, Kensal Green, North London, about ten to eleven pm.

Not a bad night at all; although today I've walked far, far too far. I went to Covent Garden, bought a small suede bag for my crystals, looked at clothes shops, got a little lost, was shocked at how close I was to Charing Cross, sat and had carrots and cucumber snacks outside the actors' church, went to walkabout, saw Wallace & Grommit at Prince Charles Cinema, looked for cheap flights at Mocha Cafe, went shopping for food in Picadilly, came home and cooked a nut and leek roast, which was nice with tomatoes and mushrooms for less than 600 calories, then I came and typed this. I had planned to do other things on the computer, but it's pretty slow, so I thought I'd keep you uptodate, because I know that you do worry about me.

I had a quick look through yesterday, and realised how many mistakes there were, sorry for that, dear diary, though you know that my words are always heartfelt.

I feel so up and down on a moment to moment basis, it's frightening. Like walking to the computer, I was nearly on a high, nothing is bothering me... other times, in the same moment also, the whole world seems ominous, the universe heavy, dark, forbading... oppressive ——— and suddenly light. It is a strange, strange ... I don't know.

Sunday 16thish of April 2006, sevenish at nightish

In a cybercafe outside Earl's Court Underground Station

Nope. Came home.

Same Day

Albert Hostel, Queens Gate, Kennsington

This is a lovely place I've checked into, unfortunately only for one

night. Very pleasent sitting area, bags of character.

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I'm trying to think what I did since I was up Kensal Green. Well... I moved to Shepards Bush, at the St. Christophers there. It was nice enough and I really liked the area. I was only there one night. I walk and walk and walk sometimes and I have to rest to get over things.

I checked into Globetrotter. Vito was in reception and came and said hello. We chatted for a bit, then went upstairs to find my room. It turned out that we were in the same room. It's weird, it was coincidence after coincidence with this guy.

He'd had a two day job going up north to cater at a wedding. It didn't sound like he'd particularly enjoyed it and had already decided to leave next to Poland the next day. He told me about his time in Canada. His sister still lives there and married some man whom is tough and only cares about money, apparently.

He has been offered a job, with training, in pharmacology, which is actually his training. He said he might come back. We got on quite well. Usually when I meet someone, I'm trying to find ways to get away. I could make him laugh really easily and he never asked too many questions of me. He gave me biscuits and noodles as a going away gift. When I awoke in the morning he was gone and I missed him a little.

I applied for about fifteen jobs, data input, journalist, writer, magazine editor, designer, typist, audiotypist, anything. I never get called for interview. I was only interested in one anyway. I just do it because it's a requirement of the job centre. I never heard back from them concerning my benefit claim, but there's probably a letter waiting for me in Hammersmith.

I went to see M. She was sleeping with a towel round her head. I woke her and she said hello. She was crying the whole time but wouldn't say what was wrong. The registrar came to take her blood pressure, and said there was no reading and that she was to lie down. She did so, and kept asking me to tell A., or to ask her rather, if she's made contact; she'll know what she means.

I got back and sat in Edwards until it was busy, then bussed back. I sat at the table and actually spoke to A. She said she noticed I've been very different since I started taking the St. John's Wort. The 'contact' bit is because M wants stock of everything she owns and then to speak to Scott the solicitor, so G. has to get all the papers sorted out.

G. didn't speak to A. for two weeks, I think they're on bad terms. I asked why and she said because he contacted her asking if he could get moving on sorting out the disposal of M's affairs. A. said no because it was neither his place nor his business. This might go back to the phonecall where I ended up in tears. He pressured her to lean on me. I recall her saying, in reference to me, 'well he's always been like that'.

Whatever. The computer's free here. There's loads more. Perhaps I'll write later.

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Easter Monday 17th April 2006

London House Hotel, Kennsington Square Gardens, London W2

I don't believe it; another free computer! How many hotels have I stayed in London now?

Anyway. I checked out of Albert; it was a good place, just around the corner from the Royal Albert hall and memorial. I was shocked when I went past it that night. All the times I've been in Hyde Park and Kennsington Gardens and I had no idea it was so close; I'd seen it from a distance a few times and assumed it was a church.

I walked across the park. I popped in the Serpentine Gallery; like most things to see in London, photography is banned so I only walked round quick, then left.

I went up to Kennsington Palace and had a think on a few benches as I was in pain and tired. Believe this or not, but I had my last cigarette in Northampton Train Station, so I don't know if I'm defo giving up. I have some nrt gum and herbal smokes, so it's not so different, just cheaper at the moment.

I came and checked in, then went out to the Whiteleys centre for a coffee. All the staff are different, of course. The shops were closed because it's Easter, so I went to Sainsburys Local, then walked past Leinster for old times sakes. Guess who I saw through the window? Mick the guitarist! Loser; why's he still there? I notice from their web page that it's all changed now. They refurbished it, put new pics up, made it 'no over 35's' and their ratings went right up. A bit different to 639, last I was there, old people on benefits were walking round checking for returned coins on vending machines; no one notices but me, and only the long–term poor do such a thing.

So I booked somewhere in the next street for tomorrow night; that way I can hang around Bayswater in the day. I actually don't know if I want to. I mean, after checking in here, I went back to Kennsington Gardens and sat on a bench with my herbal smoke and gum. I was joined by two family outings. An Asian kid had a deformed face and I guessed from the way they were speaking to the children that they were carers.

But I'm always on a downer when I come over this way now. I said it before; it's stupid because I never had any friends here. I lived around people and knew thier names and stories and they knew my name and not my story, and now there are just new people.

I always think of the same thing when I go to Kennsington Gardens now; I think of that original long piece of magic. There's a saying; 'be realistic; demand the impossible', but is that right? I'm not saying if it is or isn't, I'm just saying I don't know.

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I think there are advantages and disadvantages to getting older. One advantage is that you realise that all the people you envied in the media and tried to be like, you don't actually want to be. Some things are fun to fantasise only, and some things are fun to dream about and then achieve, but it takes a bit of life experience, of seeing and feeling how the other half live, to realise the things that you don't want, and the people that you don't want to be.

And perhaps you have to accept some faults of your soul? I mean, I dedicated my life to trying to help myself and be what I can be, but perhaps there are core parts of our being that we cannot change? Again, I'm not saying it's definitely the case, but it might be. Sometimes there are long–running discrepancies between the things we want and the ways we act, and perhaps we act that way to push things away and protect ourselves because when we achieved things in the past it hurt, but as much as you keep pushing, you never stop wanting.

It's all about Junko of course. I KNOW this is stupid, nuts and all of that jazz. Is that the first time I ever said 'jazz' in my diary? I can't help the thoughts. A memory comes back into my mind and I just feel, just recall how different it was to be there, how happy, how different, I don't know, but I'm here and not fluid and I can't be anyone else and she's moved on and I can never know anyone like that but I think, I recall and it was a non–sustainable thing, and it's stupid and it was so different and happy and I don't know if I only want to think of that time or never think again and now everything falls and I don't know what I will do or how I would ever be happy if happy was a little two weeks in a long, dark life and I wonder if anyone else lives like this and I want to stop the thoughts and I want to stop thinking and I want to stop being be and sometimes I sit under a tree in Kennsington gardens all alone for ever and recall a time in a park where she sat with me and all this time later I sit alone and just bow my head and cry and it does no good but I don't know what to do and I've had enough and I don't like being with anyone else and perhaps if I hadn't have gone there I wouldn't have known what I wanted and it could exist, or perhaps I would have got tired without knowing someone was there somehow, but most of all I'm tired. I can't even be bothered to say all the other jazz that goes on. I'm going upstairs to lie in a room with strangers and not so much happening tomorrow.

Sunday 23rd April 2006, just gone 12am.

Globetrotter, Hammersmith, London

OK, update. Not so much really... I think. I came here to Globe on tues. and have been here since. Applied a million jobs. Chatted a bit with the staff, but not much. Emma said I might get put on monthly rates, which would be cheaper in the summer. The weather picked up these last couple of days and made me feel a bit better. To be honest it's weird, the way I feel.

I kind of gave up smoking on Easter Sunday; last smoke at Northampton railway station, and sort of decided on the way down I might

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keep to it. I had some herbal things that I smoked, and took nicotine gum. I stopped the gum a couple of days ago... but I feel weird. I mean, wildly changing minute to minute. It feels like I'm dreaming all the time, even when I'm in physical pain, but this is normal now, it's been that way over a year. Just sometimes, it's hard to explain, not sometimes, often. Worst is lying in bed. I feel like, just so bad, emotionally. I want to get up but I don't and for what?

Yesterday two people I applied for jobs contacted me. One is a new Asian magazine; I sent a CV as I didn't really have the experience that they are looking for, but I said I would like to do a tailored astrology column, and I got an email saying that this is exactly what they want. So I have a deadline of next tuesday to get something to them.

The other thing is a restaurant chain. The job is writing press releases... and something. I'm not even sure plus I have almost no clothes. I'm up for it though. Just rest today, and most of tomorrow if poss. I think. I've done far too much and need to rest the pain off.

I went to see M. today. She was well. Mrs. Popperwell has left and she kind of misses her; and managed to have her hair cut, Barbara's I mean. There were knew people in but no gossip. The chairlift should be fitted this week and she would be home on Wednesday, or from that date at least.

She seemed happy I suppose. She managed to do her own menus, and so I suppose that's something. They put a 'reserved' sign on her zimmerframe so it doesn't get moved and she can take it home with her. I am still shocked when I look at her sometimes, that the deterioration was so fast; basically from the day she entered hospital (????);;;;;;;; no, that's it *actually* (see what you please).

I got an email from the hostel–booking place, the one I chose for my birthday has unexpectedly closed down, so I've had to go to this Georgian mansion type hostel now. Better than London though, I guess.

I didn't tell anyone about Portugal yet; I feel guilty but I can't help it; I have to go.

But now.... I'm off to bed. Very tired, actually, though it takes so long to sleep for the pain.

Don't whine!

Tuesday 25th April 2006, about 12:30am.

Globetrotter, Hammersmith

Not so much news, but not so long since I wrote. I've been here the whole time, at Globe, my mood varies in wild and frightening ways, with a very distressing link to the weather,

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These are the applications from last week. I had some result. A new Asian magazine asked me to write some astrology, so that's what I've done today; I should know soon. Also I got some calls about, did I say, the position of food journalist. I went to that interview today; it was in a restaurant in Kings Street; ironically I was just passing the Methodist church nearby when I got the call.

It was a young man; he came across as nervous, distracted and inexperienced. Basically (I hate that word), his family have a chain of restaurants, they want someone to market them. He has a letter to the residents around the first restaurant, offering them a discount. He wants this edited. Then he wants a press release, he's already written it. He wants alternative ones, which he puts with my cv and forwards to new clients, so it kind of turns into a PA firm.

But it sounds ever so patchy. I don't know. It's like he doesn't know what he's doing. He's going to send over some press releases, and I will have to mark them or something, but money wasn't mentioned.

I'm thinking of making a 'Helm Portal' for the magic. Thursday will be two months exactly, which is about when you'd expect things to start happening. I have three nights in Albert, with an occasional free computer, I must spend the time there finishing this, finalising, to get away and think of things anew.

Thursday 27th April 2006 10:15am.

Albert Hotel, Queesgate, Kennsington, London

Well, I arrived here and had a really productive night getting things sorted out. In the evening I sat in Kennsington Gardens. A group of about ten women with an instructor ran onto the grass before me about half an hour later. I was just reading my book but they decided I was a pervert, kept saying, 'look, he's having the time of his life' as they kept coming closer doing bending etc. and laughed, 'watch where he puts his hands'.

But it wasn't really acceptable, to be honest. They didn't address me directly, to make it a joke, it was like serious insinuation. Only white limeys with too much money with Kennsington pads go around thinking everyone dark is just off a Turkish boat to rape the blonde ladies. An unfortunate form of narcissism, which was arrogant and made me uncomfortable when I had done nothing to warrant this.

Yesterday was productive. I went to St. James and got all the photocopies I need for the trip. Then I went to Kingly Street to replace my bead. The shop I wanted had moved, but I found another just near Carnaby Street. 12p for 2!

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Then I had a tea in night cafe. They smelt me smoking and mopped the floor, thinking I'd walked something in.

Then I bought a sewing kit in Hammersmith, to sew up the magic.

This doesn't sound like so much, but it was an awful lot of walking and I felt satiated.

Wednesday 3rd May 2006 11:42pm.

Wake Up! Hostel, Paddington, London

She's gone

Mother died at 1:30am today.

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Afterward

It's both odd and apt, to be sitting in a pokey little Bayswater pub that I've never been to before, and likely shall never come to again, thinking of something pertinent to say at the end of his far too long indulgence.

Looking back, I ponder if my mother was a good influence on me. We did really get on, but I think most 'normal' people reading this would think that I should gave been given... a better start perhaps, and subsequently life should have been harder.

But anyone can look back and pick out bits of childhood what made life like this or like that -- regardless of what childhood was actually like; it's all a question of focus.

In the same way that I have barely anything that attaches me to England, I feel the same way about life itself -- and always have done.

I recall just before telling M I was leaving, saying that there just wasn't enough for me to bother with here (here!). If life had have been mundane over all these years, I'm not sure I could have lived it. As it is, I had a set of childhood dreams, and pretty much tried all the things I was dreaming of − and am grateful for that.

There are a couple of themes that always run through my life. One is always moving. The other is how much Junko has always occupied my thoughts. My only deep regret in life is not phoning her the original time I had the chance.

Should I have met her? An emphatic YES!

The only mistake I make was 'the decision'. I don't recall it, but at some point, hating England, I must have decided that meeting someone like J. and living a life in Asia would be my salvation, and thus an obsession was born. That was my only mistake: the decision, and the holding, not the happiness.

Only recently have I managed to (sometimes) truly embrace the present moment, and comprehend the present moment and fully accept that each moment is all we can own − and somewhere down the link, I think that's going to be my salvation.

I don't know; but I'll find out; because that's what I do, and what I've always done, try to find answers to life's problems, solutions to happiness, and write the methods I uncover.

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The Future?

I always knew that this period of being alone was coming. In some ways, with still nowhere to live, weighing 70kg. (and falling), and still no income, it's a worry.

But there's also a degree of faith, excitement, fatalism and a freedom recurring in each moment, no matter what happens. In some mad way, if I can make it, I'm looking forward to the next possible volume of this book.

So, back to the computer to work out my new situation.

But really, no regrets.

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Appendix One − Some Writing of the Period

Fiction

A Cure for Nothing

Michelle felt a rush of inspiration; staring up at the white, neon strips, she suddenly understood.

It was a test.

She must have already been through the operation – and now and been left to wake up alone, deliberately, to force her into introspection – to ensure that the new vibrancy of her thought process was absolutely apparent to her before proceeding. This kind of Zen situation was typical of Dr. Hunt, he was even notorious amongst his colleges for his unorthodox and experimental methods.

But would he go this far?

She sat up, looking round the small bare room, her temples felt different as she massaged them. It wasn't the actual theatre but a kind of recovery room, yet it had the same clinical atmosphere, all white plastic, the kind of place she had lived in for periodic episodes since the onset of her bi–polar depressive illness

Until now, where it culminated – ended? – with the electro–convulsive therapy.

But somehow the room seemed brighter, sharper – more alive, like her mind. There was a feeling inside her, like something she had once felt, but now it was deja–vu, it might be, for the first time in years, the feeling of – happiness?

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Her whole face throbbed. When she ran her fingers down it she was surprised to find herself smiling, though that expression had rarely been displayed in her life, it couldn't account for the feeling now pulsating in her facial muscles.

She stood up and ached, no doubt from the motionless hours under the anesthetic, then shuffled over to the mirror. The smile turned into a joyous grin..

No, Yes! It couldn't be? They'd cured her face. For so long she'd begged for surgery to remove her bags, wrinkles, lifeless muscles, and all the things that made her feel like the broken old woman which she was.

But Dr. Hunt, along with all the others, had flatly refused. The government didn't fund cosmetic operations. She recalled their response the last time she had begged.

'Michelle, your beliefs that you're – not beautiful, they're just a symptom of your depression.

They couldn't accept that she needed to be beautiful to feel beautiful.

But they had succumbed, ten years had disappeared in two hours, look at her! Tears fell from her radiant eyes, at the depth of her gratitude felt for Dr. Hunt.

She had to tell him, to fall before him and sing praise for this feeling, this cure, for returning happiness to her life after twenty years of darkness, and his ultimate genius, arranging for her to awaken alone and discover her new joy.

———————————————————————————————

Dr. Hunt was standing by a small table of sterilized operating tools and wearing his full operation garb. His scrubbed hands were held vertically in the air like a stiff child's toy. He glared at the cowering nurses and shouted,

'What do you mean, she's gone!'

They looked frightened and one of them explained sheepishly. 'We were watching her, but she fell asleep. We only left the room a moment. She can't be far.'

He sighed, though the mask hid his annoyed expression. He unplugged the ECT machine and snapped, 'Well we're ready to start, you'd better go and find her.

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They hurried out the room.

Embarrassment

It was Jonathan's fault; though no one would admit it, he couldn't help it – it wasn't his fault.

Of all the celebrity parties ever to be held in London, this must have been the most awkward. The flush guests stood around the plush apartment. Nervous small talk was exchanged as frequently as embarrassed smiles. They all tried to act congenially, but all felt uncomfortable; yet each one did feel the pain of their host.

At any other time, each one of them would have raced over to him with a million questions, asking for autographs – but now they only nodded politely in his direction.

He hated them as much as the press–gang that had caused him this pain. He was the infamous cowboy, policeman, survivor – or whatever the roll called for – of the silver screen. They had once called him the greatest actor since Gregory Peck.

Then they had found out about Jonathan.

He looked over to his son and, though it wasn't his fault, he hated him. He sat there stupidly in the wheel chair, writing, while a line of saliva trailed out the side of his mouth. His twisted limbs jerked randomly, and occasionally a desperate groan would be released as he awkwardly aligned his head to the keyboard, typing the meaningless words of a retard. He loved the computer. It had been specially adapted, and although he was certainly a clinical idiot, the doctors insisted that the periodic key stabbing would be therapeutic.

Why had he been born? Why had God done this too him? Why couldn't he have stayed invisible?

At least there was one compensation: Catherine, his nurse. She seemed to actually enjoy taking care of him, and her vivacious spirit had brought life back to the family. She made the fallen actor feel like a teenager again. He was glad she was there, especially through this media nightmare which the press were forcing on him. The scandal of the abandoned boy – this had ruined his universe. Now, at the insistence of his agent (though she was

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probably right) he had to present him to the world, to have him everywhere, to prove the truth untrue – that he didn't want his son around.

Catherine wiped away some of Jonathan's spittle and smiled shyly at the actors stare.

He glanced to his wife, and looked down.

———————————————————————————————

'The lawyers are asking for the cheque, they want another ten percent. We could...'

'Pay it,' snapped the editor.

The staffer looked up in surprise.

'Pay it?'

'Pay it.'

'You don't want to negotiate?'

'No, this kid's worth it; he's gonna be a bestseller. Listen to this, 'All around me is awkwardness. Of all the celebrity parties ever held in London, this must be the most awkward. Everybody's trying to smile. Father laughs at Catherine. He doesn't think I know, thinks I can't hear one room away, or can't recognise a loveless marriage before me. He smiles at her guiltily. Was it my mother or me that caused this death to our feelings? The people's hero's fall from grace. Just one more scandal, his silent embarrassment is witness to – invisibility has its compensations''.

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Precious Jewels

Xavier would be dead soon. His family round the bed knew it; he knew it. There was nothing anyone present could do to alleviate his guilt.

He suppressed a cough and stopped staring at the ceiling, allowing his head to roll to its side. Around him, the walls were adorned with pictures of the famous diamonds, sapphires, rubies – a million famous stones he had sold, but outnumbering them were the pictures of the rich and famous smiling in his shop, 118 Rue de Saigon.

But there was his secret, his guilt. No one really knew him; to them he was the most honest, trustworthy, famous jeweler in the whole of France.

He looked at the priest fingering the rosary. It wouldn't be long to the blackness now. This guilt has festered too long. He needed God's forgiveness, needed the priest to release him. He indicated to his family that he wanted to be alone.

They hesitated, but slowly shuffled out when the priest nodded solemnly to them. Xavier allowed his gaze to return distantly to the ceiling, but snapped back when he realised that the priest was preparing for the last rites.

'No wait, I want to say something.'

His face was a polished icon of compassion. 'You want a confession?'

'No, no, I don't need that. I just want to tell you something, bad, and for you to say I'm forgiven.'

He looked at the priest, whom consented by his attentive silence.

Xavier straightened the thoughts in his mind. He wanted to be free.

'Years ago, when I started the shop, I had very little stock. There were a few hard months where I hardly sold anything. Bills mounted up until the amounts were more than double the worth of the total stock. I've always been honest, I mean, you know me, a good catholic, charitable, family man.' He was hesitant and looked to the priest; he was smiling serenely – an expert at appearing as a beacon of holiness at times like this.

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Xavier continued, 'I don't know why I did it, In hardly believe that I did. It was so long ago and so out of character that it feels like only a dream now.'

He fell into another coughing spasm, and afterwards was silent for a long time. So long, in fact, that the priest had to prompt him. 'Go on.'

'An English couple came in, they were engaged and wanted a ring. I was desperate; I'd received a number of final demands that morning. I could see that they'd brought their savings with them – and I cheated them.'

The priest waited a reasonable time until it became clear that he wasn't going to elaborate. 'In what way did you cheat them?'

'She, the woman, chose a ring. I talked it up, even though I knew it would take up all their money. I made sure that she really had her heart set on it. I lied about the stone, I over–charged.'

'By how much?'

He sighed. 'Fifty times maybe. I was so desperate. But that's not even the worst part'

'Yes?'

'As soon as he'd paid, he proposed right there in my shop.'

He looked at the priest desperately. Yet the practiced holiness was still in place. 'They looked so sweet, young and innocent. I've always repressed the memory. But now, here, it resurfaces. I keep thinking how they must have always held my little fledgling shop as a golden memory in their lives. And how I must have shattered those memories when they found out what the ring was worth, what have I done to them?'

Again, there was a very long silence, but this time, Xavier was staring intently at the priest, who looked down without emotion.

Eventually he glanced up, looked at the dying man intently for a few moments and spoke:

'You're forgiven.'

———————————————————————————————

The couple stared at the gravestone. The cold English drizzle left speckles over the gravestone, which caught random highlights from thew passing cars. No one could have mistaken them for lovers, they were too alike.

'She must be mad,' he said.

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'Oh stop going on about it,' she snapped, half joking, 'A year on, and you're still whining on the same. How many times as kids did she tell us about dad's proposal? That ring was the high–point of her life. If it means something to have it with her, why not? What was more important to her when she was alive? If you complain again I'm going to shout.'

He wanted to say us but didn't want the argument. He turned away and tramped back to the car, muttering:

'It was worth money. It wasn't even valued. What would it be worth now?'

'STOP WHINING!'

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Subsidence

PART ONE – HAPPINESS

There was something wrong.

Mr. Brown's life was perfect. He and Mrs. brown were one of those rare couples, still deeply and genuinely in love after thirty years of marriage.

But today, something was amiss.

As usual, he was in charge of the breakfast things. He buttered two pieces of toast and placed them on Mrs. Brown's plate. She smiled and looked so perfect that he actually touched her face.

He sat down and re–read the letter, to the sound of her crunching the crisp bread.

'This sounds like some kind of trouble,' he said, gravely.

She crunched a while longer, but more rapidly to clear her mouth.

'Yes?'

'It's from the council. They say there's a subsidence problem in the area, they want to send someone to come and check the safety.'

'Of our house?'

'Yep.'

She paused for a moment, then crunched another large mouthful.

Mr. Brown looked around the room. It wasn't much but at least they owned it. Thanks to Mrs. Brown, their modest bungalow was tidy, the new carpers hovered, pottery stacked perfectly in the pine display cabinet, ornaments dusted. He couldn't imagine ever leaving.

'When did we last have a visitor?'

She thought for a long time, then suddenly looked surprised. 'Why, never! In thirty years, we've never had anyone in.'

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Mr. Brown shook his head.

'This is going to be trouble.'

PART TWO – THE TRUTH

The two uniformed men looked at each other uneasily. They spoke in hushed whispers.

'You think he's going to be trouble?'

His colleague looked at a file. 'Nah, probably not, he's been shut here for thirty years. If there's no paperwork on him by now, he's probably safe.

'How'd they find out?'

'The council sent some people as the house might have been unsafe, turns out it's fine.' He slapped his hands to his knees in a decisive gesture of getting up. 'Right, let's do it.'

They walked up to the front door, which was hanging on by a single hinge. Inside, they gingerly stepped over the broken glass, human excrement, a dead cat; the floorboards themselves were rotten. The whole place smelt like urine.

They found him in the lounge. A filthy vagabond, pouring out an imaginary cup of tea and offering it to thin air.

'Here dear, drink it while it's hot.'

They approached him. One stared into his lifeless, insane eyes, and boomed in a cheery voice. 'You must be Mr. Brown. We've got a lovely surprise, you're coming to live with us in a great big place.'

PART THREE – THE CURE

Mr. Brown stared out the window while a nurse was crouching before him.

Now, we've got to take our medicine Mr. Brown,' she said, chirpily. 'You've been confused, for a very long time haven't you? These are gong to make you well.'

'Where's my wife?'

The nurse smiled. Don't worry about that Mr. Brown, here.' She gestured the pills closer to him.

Mr. Brown took them.

PART FOR – THE FUTURE

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Mr. Brown was well again, and had been released, naturally returning to the house he had legally owned for thirty years. He was sitting for breakfast staring at the medicine in his hand. He took a piece of rotting bread and ate some. The smell of urine made him sick, though it had never bothered him before.

He looked around the room, rotting floors, dead cat; his own excrement littered the floor as they'd been no water for the thirty years he's lived there, alone.

He replaced the bottle and began to cry.

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Appendix Two − Nonfiction from the period

Hope and Acceptence

They think I should give up hope; so much can be lost so quickly: I know, it’s happened to me. Many people have implored me to find acceptance. I’m not sure if hope is torturing or saving me.

About three years ago I was on a train. My hip began to hurt a little, like there was a peg at the joint, squeezing a nerve. It eventually left but I never would have considered it was such an ominous omen.

One morning about two weeks later, it returned. Moment–by–moment it grew worse and spread to my right hip. By lunchtime the pain and stiffness stopped me from even getting into a car, so I limped home.

By evening time I couldn’t stand.

A few days later I improved enough to go out. Doctors couldn’t help. I live alone and just, coped. About a year later the affliction spread to affect all of my joints in at least some way. My arms have dislocated in normal use a few times.

Now it’s three years later, and it’s the little things that pierce my mask of acceptance.

Passing a Tibetan market, the vendors and customers haggle sitting on the floor and I know I can’t buy anything there.

Or I might be out and someone strikes up a conversation while I’m sitting down. They get their first impressions of me, make a subconscious judgment – and we converse.

Then I get up. They see how I push myself out of a chair; hear a click from my hip; see the way I walk – and before they ask me what’s wrong, there’s this... look. I don’t know; it’s just a look. It’s a look someone has when they see who I am compared to who they thought I was – and see that the former is far below the latter.

I read about some violence, a mugging or attack, in a newspaper. It depresses me to know that the weakest of people, a child, could over–power me. I can’t defend myself.

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I walk with the sun behind me and with each step am reminded by the swaying black shadow over the dirt they there’s something wrong with me.

An old man drops something on the floor and picks it up effortlessly.

But I’m often happy. I read books about miracles, people who overcame unthinkable disasters, changed the world, were better for their problems. When I read enough of them I feel that anything could happen.

I walk slowly, but think slowly too, and thinking that way is generally nicer. I can’t rush and so never try to. If you can’t be rushed you’ll never feel harried.

Someone passing in the street catches my eye; it’s someone afflicted. Maybe they’re scarred, limping or whatever. I’m reminded of life’s varied tapestry. Amongst a sea of normality there are people such as I, outsiders not by choice, the rejected. Maybe I shall know one. Perhaps we’d be closer than anyone. Perhaps we’d be closer than anyone else by our homogeneous past agonies.

All the things that hurt me are based on acceptance, and my happiness is usually linked to hope. Why does everyone want me to find acceptance? Doesn’t acceptance mean thinking nothing can get better?

For me, everything was lost in an instant, but everything could be found in an instant too. Like in a scientist’s mind, a momentary flash of inspiration that will forever change countless lives, or the last digit of a lottery number will for ever change one life.

If acceptance is pain and hope is pleasure: I must stop hoping for acceptance – and from now on, accept hope.

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18 Tips Concerning Best Way to Check in a Hotel

1 — Ask the price of the type of room you want BEFORE seeing it. Ask if the quoted price includes tax, are there any extras to pay?

2 — Ask to see a few rooms, don't let them take just one key up, have them take all the keys that are vacant in your price range.

3 — A room on the ground floor is generally less secure and more prone to cockroaches. Very generally, the higher the better.

4 — Go in the room. Check the bolts on the latch are screwed properly. Look at the inside of the door to check the bolt closes it securely.

5 — Turn on all the switches. If any lights don't work, have them repaired before paying or ask for money off if it's going to be a bit dark. If the bulbs are very dim and there's no window it might be gloomy, ask for a higher wattage bulb, before you pay. Check the fan works at all speeds. If you're planning to use an electric mosquito burner or some other electric, look at the plug socket. Look in the holes to check they aren't obstructed. If there's a big black mark around the socket, it's a bad sign. Ask the room boy if it's OK to use the plug. If he says yeah, sure, no problem, whip out the burner/shaver or whatever and have him plug it in the first time to check it's safe. If he breaks out in a sweat and trembles when you request this = bad sign.

6 — If there's a little bedside cupboard or small tablke, go to it and lift up one side very quickly. If there's cockroach infestation, they sleep in these kind of dark places in the day (they don't like light). Also, for the same reason, look under the bed and feel the top of any high cupboard. Even if you don't end up touching one, it's a very bad sign if it hasn't been cleaned for months as it's the kind of place that attracts vermin.

7 — Look inside the pillowcase, pull back the bedsheet to look at the mattress, especially the centre. Press it to see how it feels. Sometimes it looks OK but is stuffed with straw, which is very hard indeed. If the sheets are dirty,

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have them changed before you pay. Don't accept a damp mattress of your joints aren't good or you've recently had a broken bone. Lift the mattress itself and check the slats are in place (I awoke on the floor once in Pakistan), also look for cockroaches.

8 — Smell the air generally. If it's musty, mould might be a problem in your camera and papers such as your diary will eventually go soggy.

9 — Ask for a glass, ashtray and wastepaper basket if you want them. They might not have them but often it's possible, but only if you ask before you pay.

10 — Go to the window if there's one. Check it opens, more importantly, that it closes securely. VERY IMPORTANT. I was robbed through a window and even after it had happened, I looked at how far the pipe was away and how high up I was, I still couldn't believe it was possible. Unluckily for me, neither did the police.

11 — In the toilet (if applicable). Turn on all the taps and shower (you'll get a little wet but it doesn't matter). Check the toilet flushes. Once you've flushed it, open the cistern to check it's filling with water. Ofter with a broken toilet they fill the cistern with a bucket so it will flush once, but then won't again. A toilet that doesn't flush is no big deal. You'll just need a bucket. Fill the bucket with water and pour it straight into the bowl. So obviously, ask for a bucket if there isn't one. You'll also need a bucket to wash if you're planning on that.

12 — No matter how nice the room is, don't say you love it; look neutral. Ask to see another. Many hotels show the worse room first, then another better one if you don't want to check in.

13 — On the way back to reception, if you see any other travellers, ask them if it's OK there.

14 — Ask for a discount if you're staying a week or more.

15 — Absolutely insist on paying one night in advance, and obtain a receipt, numbered, from a duplicate book. Write on this, 'including tax' (do this while it's still above the duplicating paper so that their copy will say the same).

16 — In the hotel register, when you put your name etc. at the end, write, 'advanced one night ****** rupees, including all tax'.

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17 — Do not put up with small overcharging. If they cheat you two rupees on a coke, two rupees on the laundry etc. it shows general dishonesty, but people are either honest or dishonest. When I ended up being cleaned out by a hotel, there were, looking back, many little rip–offs that preceeded the big one.

18 — Have a fabulous time in India.

Note: This humourous pice was comissioned for American Novelist Monthly as a filler, and is advice on how to stall an editor when you're late with a piece of writing.

Five Ways to Buy Time

Is it a universal law? Whenever a deadline is set for delivery of a manuscript, you’re always two days late.

Thus here are five sure–fire excuses to buy that extra time.

1 – Righteousness Find out something negative about the publishers, perhaps they

refurbished recently and didn’t use ‘sustainable forest’ wood, or last year they published a book by a dubious character.

Phone up the editor and say that you’ve just found out about this sin and it’s something you feel very strongly about – so strongly in fact, that you’re not sure if you can do business with them any more.

Wait for the excuses as they defend themselves, pretend to hesitate, finally say that you need time to reconsider, and suggest that they phone you… two days after the deadline.

2 – Incredulity Wait until they phone, when they ask for it, play dumb.

'Where’s what?'

'Where’s the manuscript?'

Now you have to pause for a moment so it will appear that you’re trying to comprehend. Then, in complete disbelief, shout:

'YOU DIDN’T GET IT?'

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Scream about the post office; yell that you’re going to sue them. Drop the phone and hit a cushion against the wall, it will some like you’ve thrown yourself on the floor. Another great tip is: an old boot struck against a table leg sounds exactly like someone banging their face into a window frame. By the time you return to the phone, the terrified editor shall be 100% focused on calming you down.

Eventually they shall ask (sheepishly) when they whole thing will be sorted out? No problem, about two days after deadline.

3 – Mystery Get someone else to answer the phone. The editor asks for the writer,

and the reply is:

'Oh my God, you haven't heard? No, someone should have – I mean, about what happened. We're all in shock here. Please, don't ever call again.'

Replace receiver.

Deliver the manuscript two days late. When asked about the delay, say in a wavering voice:

'I'm sorry. It's not my fault, what happened. A professional person said it's not my fault. The police, I mean... Please don't ever bring this up again. I can never talk about it.'

If they keep pushing, just get more and more distraught.

4 – Excitement When they ask if it's ready, say 'yes'.

'but....'

There's great news! You actually finished it ages ago, but then completely rewrote it and this version B is absolutely superb, a surefire bestseller, build it up, compare it to famous blockbusters. Pour scorn on version A – which is useless, pulp, a potboiler.

And even better news, version B is ready just two days after deadline. Of course, if they insist you'd be happy to them the finished potboiler today.

5 – Enlightenment It's finished, but you were suddenly enlightened.

'Yeah, I'm done. It's gone great. Just like the outline, but the characters kinda' took over; I'm not sure about the ending now. Rather than the heroine being arrested in a public toilet for trying to mate with a duck I might rewrite it that she, you know, kind of connects with her lover and they go on and overcome their problems. I need to change about 2000 words, take

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a couple of days. Shall I do that, or send it in as it is – if there's a rush on I mean?'

Choose one of these surefire excuses and we're certain it'll buy you the extra time. So certain in fact, in the event of cancellation of contract (you're fired) ANM accepts absolutely no responsibility.

———————————————————————————————

NOTE: The following was written on my 30th birthday

THE MAIN/MOST IMPORTANT THING I'VE LEARNT SO FAR – AND HOW I INTEND TO

CONTINUE. 6/5/2001

We are alive,

in this world.

We all seek pleasure,

and avoid pain,

But receive varying amounts,

of pleasure and pain.

We want things out in the world that make us happy, or that we think makes us happy. So I set about trying to create them. Sometimes I could manifest what I wanted and sometimes I couldn't. When I couldn't I was unhappy, and yet when I did obtain my wishes their eventual loss caused unhappiness, my response to which was to keep on trying to create more.

What I've learnt is that a whole thing comprises of many parts. When you take a part the whole, there are the pieces. When the whole is in pieces the whole is realised to have been a concept.

Don't bite off more than you can chew. Always cut everything up into easily chewed portions, then you have

a choice as to what you eat rather than shoveling everything in.

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You have to look at the way we chase happiness out in the world with possessions and situations. Yet, when successful, the way those very things cause happiness and the way we thought they did is wholly different.

We only have our senses, emotions inside and the concept of good situations 'outside', although these can only be perceived by the senses. If you have something making you happy, a new possession, it is light hitting atoms, interacting with the car via the senses sending electrical impulses to the brain, a concept of ownership and an intangible feeling of 'happiness' in the mind and body, though if described at a literal level, what exactly is that sensation of happiness?

So in this case, a desired state, 'happiness', has been caused by the environment, randomly. Though we could choose to go to a nice restaurant and cause the same nice state.

• Random events = emotions.

• Volitioned events = emotions.

But separate the world from the senses, from concepts from emotion. In the middle of the nice meal you could have a random thought without your volition, of how your friend was killed last year. Now you are sad in the middle of a happy circumstance. Your volition created a situation which caused happiness, but then a non–volitioned thought caused unhappiness.

It's all in the volition.

Constantly observe &

Constantly separate &

Constantly inspire.

When you're feeling happy, separate whatever caused it and watch the raw emotion.

Do the same with negative things, not pushing them, but watching them.

Inspire good feelings ——————————

—————–THIS is what I've really learnt and intend to continue from this point:

THINGS COME TO US

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THINGS HAPPEN TO US

SOME THINGS HAPPEN RANDOMLY

SOME THINGS ARE BY OUR VOLITION

WE HAVE THOUGHTS

SOME ARE INSPIRED BY THE ENVIOROMENT THAT OCCOURED RANDOMLY e.g. being hit by a car.

SOME ARE INSPIRED BY THE ENVIOROMENT THAT WE CAUSED BY VOLITION e.g. a meal in a nice restaurant

AND THESE THOUGHTS CREATE FEELINGS – SOME OF OUR VOLITION, SOME NOT.

WE HAVE THOUGHTS THAT COME RANDOMLY WITHOUT OUR VOLITION AND WITHOUT EVEN BEING INSPIRED BY OUR ENVIOROMENT.

WE HAVE THOUGHTS THAT WE INSPIRE WITH OUR VOLITION

***VOLITION OF EXPECTANCY ***

E.g. Trying to remember someone's name, we 'think' i.e. blank the mind and basically wait in emptiness with nothing but

expectancy.

Expectancy

EXpectancy

EXPectancy

EXPEctancy

EXPECtancy

EXPECTancy

EXPECTAncy

EXPECTANcy

EXPECTANCy

EXPECTANCY

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Therefore, you have desires for certain things, but even if you obtained them, with or without your volition, all you would have obtained would be this vague feeling and sensation of 'happiness' in this changing moment.

So, if you inspire a mental picture with a belief you have already possessed this, inspire the associated emotion, then you are already rich right now (if you separate it all off).

Don't suppress negativity but touch it. Inspire this vague mental sensation of 'happiness', initially with

mental pictures and belief, but later, just by itself. What difference does it make if you 'manifest' it? Your senses would apparently 'perceive' it. When you're used to separating everything, it doesn't make an awful lot of difference.

Feel it now,

and you're already rich,

in the only way it's possible,

to be rich.

7.12 pm. local time,

Himilaya Resort,

Nagarkot,

Kathmandu Valley,

Nepal,

South Asia,

Asia,

World,

Solar system,

Galaxy,

UNIVERSE.

###

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'Little Poem' (written around 2001)

Outside in,

Inside out

Dreams and love & pain

The blind one

sees and feels

thrown about

on a sea of emotion

like a boat broken free

of its moorage

The awake one

blind to the sense doors

feels then sees

and is captain of the ship

on a course to Nirvanah.

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