I have been rejected by non-denominational monks. Their web-application bungled my reservation. I did not get in to the Vipassana Centre, at Dhamma Sikhara in Dharamsala, on the date of June 15th. It took me an hour to get through by phone, and the gloom of the news washed away the elation I had felt for all of the previous hour... as the furious first rains of the monsoon beat down on us all. Rain, upon rain, upon rain. Drops as big as grapes. Everything slowly flooding. With lightness and floating away. A few brave souls riding round on scooters, looping and showing off, immune to the lightning followed immediately by thunder, grinning at us weaker souls huddling in groups under sheltering balconies at Maria hall, the closest thing that passes for a town square in the village of Benaulim. At the bicycle shop I stood, waiting and smiling, conducting from shelter a photographic study of a child's bicycle abandoned in a brown puddle. The men around me were delighted to see my collection of photographs, as I scrolled through them on my digital camera to delete those that were out of focus, because my memory card was full. Full like my own memory, of images I wish I could so easily delete, and replace with newer, better ones. The access to the camera’s memory is ordered and sequential. Like the mind-state I sought at Vipassana in 15 days. I read by candle light in Seshaa, one of the finest cafe's in the world. Dark, crowded, every nook and corner stuffed with full or empty bottles of soda of a dozen kinds, and it must be said not precisely clean... it possesses a character of coziness superior to any competing cafe, in this subcontinent or without. But when I finally got through to the Centre… I couldn’t read anymore, the rain let up a bit, and I came home through the wet. Now I don’t know what to do. But I’m so tired of making plans that don’t go through. I’m going north, and then up, up into the Himalaya. I put my fate in the hands of gods too numerous to count. Let my plans catch up with me high in the Himalaya, as I slow to ascend a grueling pass, they unbridled by mass will slip in my ear through the holes left there from my infancy tubes imperfectly healed, and lodge themselves thoroughly in my mind. Or pass me up, and go instead ahead of me, and let me struggle to catch up. Or keep ahead of me forever, driving me on aimlessly into the starry night of the uncertainty of life. At least the stars are pretty sometimes, even if you and yours have lost through time the ability to navigate by them. Yes, I just jacked Ginsberg back there. Fuck you for noticing. At least I read Howl. Did you?