this afternoon

i saw a red-dotted beauty looking like Ananda Moyi Ma, singing to me in quarter tones without ever saying a word. i heard the mysteries of heaven in her voice and felt the pulse of life in the tablas below.
37 years ago, Bangladesh was on the cusp of its independence, and i have been hanging out with the celebrants all day long.

but this is beside the point.

the point is that last night i was attacked by a flying clementine while reading Augusten Burroughs. in an attempt to lift my spirits i put in an Italian movie based on the writing of the Maruis de Sade and starring the Nazis. (like you do).

somehow it didn't work.