“Big Oil on Canvas”

Peak Oil, Oil on canvas, 36 x 32 in., 1999

Peak Oil, Oil on canvas, 36 x 32 in., 1999

Peak Oil is a representation of the Lucas Gusher at Spindletop Salt Dome in Beaumount, Texas, January 10th 1901. This gusher marked the beginning of the Texas oil boom, there was so much oil found at Spindletop that by 1914 gas was selling at 3 cents a barrel. In the painting a large sky face to the right glances down furtively as if knowing where this road leads. The left side of the canvas reveals what appears to be stacks of skulls.

Black Gold, oil on canvas, 36 x 32 in., 2002

Black Gold, oil on canvas, 36 x 32 in., 2002


Mister Bitumen, Oil and epoxy on panel, 66 x 44 in, 2009

Mister Bitumen was created in protest of the Alberta Oil Sands project and it’s toxic impact on the communities as it is pumped through the country, in the air to the world at large, and in the ground water of nearby communities. Mister Bitumen is a reluctant player in the money game and big oil.

Sign Avaaz Petition in support of the people of Mattawa Ontario. 

follow link


Pipeline giant TransCanada just secured an entire town’s silence with a $30,000 “gift” — preventing the town council from speaking out about a dangerous new tar sands pipe. But a massive uproar can still kill this dirty deal and win back the town’s voice.

Giant oil companies are fighting hard to snake these tar sands pipelines across our country — and deals like this let them plow through without resistance. But now the company is on the defensive and says that they will cut out the silencing clause “if necessary”. On Monday, Mattawa’s town council will meet and have the chance to demand they to do just that.

It isn’t easy to stand up to a huge corporation, but the small Ontario town of Mattawa can do it. We only have days to act! Click to sign the petition, and Avaaz will deliver it straight to the city council meeting.

“Reshaping memory with Painting”

"Raj Rabbit"

“Raj Rabbit, 1994

Like in most shape shifting stories, we begin in the shadow of death not nesesarly your own but death’s door as it opens to gobble up the escaping soul. In nineteen eighty four  while living adjacent to an  Native American burial ground to the north of Bancroft, Ontario I painted a long forgotten moment. I was spending the winter there after leaving Toronto and my security guard job at the Royal Ontario Museum. I was preparing to move to New York City, My then wife Patty and I had figured we could shift our mindset and prepare for a long and prosperous life in New York by first shaking off Toronto and aligning with NYC. I spent that winter in a cabin buried under six feet of snow, snowshoeing,  reading every book I had ever bought that I hadn’t read and then some, loving, dreaming, baking, painting. The most enduring works of that period and one of few to survive was a painting of a fleshy pink rabbit mid jump. 


Rabbit Resurrection, 1985

I have left out one detail of the painting, the rabbit is jumping over what appears to be a red spike, and for me I always imagined the rabbit was balanced as if floating, suspended in time over  the red spike.

Finally we moved to NYC and the painting was shown at the Bond Gallery in the Bowery.  I was amazed it took me so long to see what was in  plain sight, a memory from childhood and a forgotten traumatic day, it all came back to me my rabbit, my first childhood pet.  A lean white rabbit with bright pink eyes that I got for Easter when I was seven years old and I lived in Ottawa. I kept my rabbit in the basement which was  unfinished, really unfinished, it had an earthen floor and so it made a perfect place for the rabbit to hang out. During the basement renovations my rabbit was sliced open while jumping over a large spike in a piece of timber. That was my first experience with death, I remember sitting in the backyard, balling my eyes out for most of an afternoon til my mom suggested we maybe bury the rabbit and have a funeral. So we got a shoe box and the rest is like most kids burying household pet’s funerals.

This was an Easter rabbit, a fertility rabbit, a signal spring was arriving, and the rabbit had to be resurrected, it was Easter after. Once I realized where this rabbit image had come from I repainted it many times, suspended. A rabbit talisman floating between life and death.  I still have that painting with me but the best part of the rabbit painting is that over time I  transmuted the rabbit, shape shifting it into multiple expressions of a rabbit figure alive, prosperous and contented in the world. 


“Rabbit with Fertility Head Dress” 1996

Hidden Message_napob

Hidden Meaning, 2002





“Hello Neighbour”


Hello Neighbor,  www.napob.com

Hello Neighbor, napo b -1999

On a hillside covered in human skulls a man clutches his bowler hat  holding what appears to be a skull in his  right hand. He is slyly greeting a man wading across a toxic river  who is unsuspectingly tipping his pointy hat.

What intrigued me in this image is that suspended moment where a meeting can go either way; how all over the world people of different cultures forced across borders, refugees vulnerable to old grudges and at the mercy of the unknown.

The painting was created in a few minutes using prepared rollers, this technique ensures the unduplicatable quality of the original work.

“Hangin’ with Harry”

In the last year of his life, my father in law Harry Greene and I spent many hours talking about a variety of subjects. I just re-discovered this video which was recorded with cell phone as we talked about human rights, human origins, death and aliens. At the time of this video Harry was 96, I miss his laughter and wanted to share this with Elijah my step son.


Reflections on a rainy day in paradise…


Searching for the soul uplink portal

Escaping the human made grid and finding locations on our home planet where we receive the good stuff.   I live in Toronto, Canada, for the time being I consider it my home base, though I have seriously considered changing my location on the basis of time and energy allotted to all living beings in this transitional rapidly decaying thing we call “individual life span”.

I have conditioned myself to always look towards goals, objectives and transformational conclusions, which open up the portals to a new expansion. Since I was young I saw this walk on this earth as an extended hike through our collective stories. I am so aware of the suffering that occurs around me that at times it has paralyzed me, simply because I couldn’t comprehend this thing we call the human condition. I have taken the time at some points in my life to try and lift those up that needed a helping hand, but I have always returned to my hike towards the endgame and my fire decay point. I don’t know what happens beyond this point though I am familiar with many philosophies and opinions on death.

Sunset's  resplendant beauty

Sunset’s resplendent beauty

In my modern accommodations in Toronto I am constantly aware of the buzz and drone of progress all around me. It drags me down like the yoke on an ox plowing the awaiting soil of possibility. The geomantic locations of my current home seldom gives me a further afield view, and the interference of modernity’s toys, such as cell phone towers, corrupted news information, people’s desperation and sorrow drags me down. My mind becomes a panic ridden nest of ants in a rainstorm  losing  sight of myself despite my meditations and affirmations.  The voices vibrating song is all we have to find a better path in the darkest hours of our lives.

The guardians are await you

The guardians await you

Today I am sitting in the quiet of Sedona Arizona, the rain is coming down and the hiking trails are probably empty. This rain is most auspicious for it will bring an abundant variety of flowers in the coming days. I am considering hiking as I prepare my gear in search of that geomantic uplink. I first started coming here in 1980, and have faithfully returned over the years to find peace and clear my mind, I strongly recommend the journey. A quiet canyon awaits you to share it’s beauty and open space and punctuate the solitude of our individual journey.


I have cactus in my blood, another story

I have cactus in my blood, another story

My artistic practice has always been my lifeline, as people change and places crumble into expansion and ever changing agendas.  I am looking towards the next illuminated lighthouse of the future self. I am committed to moving forward and living my story, aware my journey is only mine and though I share it lovingly with others, it will like all things crumble and be forgotten. This gives me great joy in knowing self-importance is the most corrupt illusion of this life, observing it in others is the best comedy show on earth. What I call “The planet that makes it’s own gravy”.

ebatu marks the path to a Medicine wheel for a friend

ebatu marks the path to a Medicine wheel for a friend

My goal in my journey to knowhere is sharing openly with others where the possible toe holds on this expression climb through  our time together, the rest is only a fading empire.

india travel napo b

“Cremation Inspirations Ganga Blues & Hues”

India Travel Diary 20 : From  Varanasi to Agra

Monday April 8th 1991

Slept into to seven am, a night of strange dreams, something sparked by my new Tibetan crystal which I finally moved away from my bed. Sabubu suggests it’s the astro turf influence cuz she did allot of similar dream stuff last night, something we have been practicing. In the dream realm all occupants are merely aspect of yourself, however at times there will be outsiders visiting your dream time. It is possible to meet other people in your dream, the easiest practice is meeting your love partner in the dream. Before you settle in to sleep you take a moment to look into each others eyes, openly and lovingly then when you enter the dream you will recognize them by their eyes though they might not look the same as in real life. Sometimes they might come as animals, and the interesting thing is you might share a place in the dream or an event, but when you recount the dream it will be from the individual perspective, emotion and mental attitude. The dreams were indeed coated in dark forces, outside in the night the cry of mocking birds announcing weird psychic forces at work.

india travel napo b

Boys by a temple on Harishchandra Ghat Road

We left in search of a homeopath, and by ten AM we found ourselves being led through the small streets of the old city of Benares by a young boy and to the office of Dr Kuilasnath Jaitly, one of few pulse doctors in all of India. The entire home of Dr Jaitly is made of stone covered in cement and painted a pale blue color, we were lead to a second floor bedroom where an thin old man sat in his bed wearing pajama bottoms and a sweaty baggy white Tshirt. He was wearing large black frame glasses and the lenses have been hazed over concealing his fading eyesight. His brother sat close by and took notes as the old man spoke in Sanskrit. The old man helds my wrist with two fingers, first he did the right hand then the left, he farted and burped and he worked, then in Sanskrit he recited a list of over 12 ailments which had affected me in the last four years, all of them very accurate. Midway thru the diagnosis, Dr Jaitly’s son came in and took over transcribing the Sanskrit into Hindi. His son was a twenty six year old Gemini and Sabubu and him got along, the father then took Sabubu’s pulse, as we were leaving Sabu hit her head on a low doorway, which I could see shifted her energy, I took a picture of her which she did not appreciate but somehow I felt it was important.

india travel napo b

Dr Jaitly Sr doing a pulse reading on Sabu

We then went down to young Dr Jaitly’s office and sat as he made notes and we all enjoyed some chai. Then came the diagnosis, the cure and the price, at first we flipped out, we had no idea what the level of commitment was, we had do abstain from sex, eat only certain foods, for the next three months, and that was for both of us. I flipped out, got angry and left, Sabubu followed, as she caught up with me and I settled down we talked it over and went back. finally we agreed that we should maybe surrender and accept this opportunity, I apologized profusely for my base reaction and asked for his forgiveness at ungrateful transgression. In a sweet figure eight motion of his head “acha” as he lifted his hand palm out, “all will be well”, we shook hands bowed politely and left, the remedies would be ready in a few days.

Both of us burnt out we went home to the rock pile where Betty and Wilma hammered bricks into small stones. After six we went to Harishchandra ghat to watch the cremation and do some watercolor. After a while so many men came and dumped their ignorance on us that we got up and went to sit at the burning pyre of two cremations taking place. One body was completely gone while the other was a neck an arm stump legs a chest cavity, a rubber black shape as the fire keeper poked it deeper into the coals. At times the sweet suffocating smoke of cremations wafts up and suspends me in a timeless trance, somehow a remembrance that calms my soul and lets me know that everything is going to be OK.

In the early evening we walked along the ghats and went to have a masala dosa by candlelight, and afterwards we visited a young Brahman antique shopkeeper and we bought matching dark blue Bihar wedding hats. On the way back we came out Dashashwamedh Ghat which is the main ghat where the large parasol Yogi’s and Sadhu’s come in the daytime, there we met a small hunchback who sold us a set of eight dolls representing the main Hindu Deities, we then sat with him for a while talking about Varanasi’s history. I took a picture of him and Sabu sitting together we then walked the Ganga’s twenty or so ghats towards home near the Harischandra where a toad sung away Sabubu’s depression in an instant.

Tuesday, April 9th 1991

We got up early and went to The Restaurant where the keeper burnt this sweet incense hashish like putty, it reminded me of this small piece of incense given to me by Sylvia Yanni while on an art tour in Rome, she claimed it was incense from an Etruscan Tomb. It had such an incredible effect over me, a truly mind altering soul expanding experience.

Earlier we walked to the Sankat Mochan Hanuman Temple, on the way to the restaurant a rickshaw hit me and never stopped, I also had a bottle thrown at me while they yelled something about “Go home American”, remember the Gulf War is still on and we are now in northern India, and to mention I did cut my foot at the Hanuman Temple. But things did turn out for the best when we bought the two swastika Shiva lungies and then we sat in a restaurant eating masalla dosai and tripping on the fabulous incense.

Now we were ready to go to Sarnath, the place of Buddha’s sermons, with our wheel of the law lungies, we sat beneath the banyan tree where Buddha had preached, trying to get some rest and meditate away from the heat of the midday, we also saw fabulous birds, and collected feathers. I found a goat’s upper jaw and teeth but decided I had enough of those so I left it by the side of the road and we made our way back home by auto rickshaw but unlike the ride there, we ended up sharing with a ole saree babe and school boys, in a rickshaw with a leaking fuel line. Back home wrote letters, had some chai and tea biscuits, did a bit of bed top yoga, trying to avoid the over head fan and we passed out. We slept till 5:30 got up and took the ghats way back to Dr Jaitly’s office in old Varanasi, to pick up our medicine. It turned out to be quite an armload of medicine, we spoke with Old Dr Jaitly’s brother and his son for a while. On the way back we realized that Thai customs on the way back might be a problem. The Ayurvedic medicine was in small packets and looked alot like brown heroin, and by the way it tasted like dirt and alum that made our mouths pucker up and dry out, much water was consumed. The medicine tasted allot like the Tibetan medicine balls from Kathmandu.

india travel napo b

Brahman shop where we bought our hats

We hurried back to the Brahmin Antique salesman shop a painting for our friend Anna Bogigian who lives in Cairo. We had chai with him and looked at more curios with him. I have always been able to hold certain objects and sense their owners history, so I had a great time, we looked at Shiva hands, nut crackers, a woman and man riding a peacock, and the best was the large square Mogul period coins and miniature one stroke paintings, which we bought for Anna. We then went off to eat and wound up at a small Hanuman Street Temple with a sitar and a banjo blasting through a small one Shiva eyed Amp, with one man on tablas and a man on a melodium reciting verse and praise and comment to Hanuman the had were the Flo and Eddy of the street sadhu set.

The resident holy man push started anyone that came into reach of his midnight temple, Sabubu drew and I played the tambourine, we stayed till late and the streets were empty, we went home and packed for Agra in the morning. Good night, two o’clock in the morning watching the thunder and lightning making it’s way down the Ganga valley once again, drifting to sleep to thunder clasps and blue lightning light illuminating our room.

Wednesday, April 10th 1991

Sleep until 5 AM. Azan and to the ghats for a ride to Aurangzeb Mosque at Hindu Ghat come Islamic Mosque. ah 10 AM two hours to train time 16 hours to Agrahhhhhhhhh Taj Mahaland. We took our last walk to the Ganga to get a bottle of water. When we got there, Sabubu dropped off her Bovine Sex Club T shirt. We went to Harishchandra ghat, and there by the two burning pyres with that sweet smoke and the floating dead donkey, the swimming man and the woman doing her laundry, I had prepared a small clean bottle, and I filled it and capped it. I reached down and took the water into my hands and lifted it in front of me to the sky, then I brushed it over my head and forehead and namasted a short prayer to the wonder of the Ganga and the Earth Mother.

As I walked along the river bank I was caught by a shape on the beach and I reached down to pick it up, but an instant before touching it realized it was someone’s un-cremated index and palm, “do not pick up interesting objects on the beach in Varanasi”, something to remember when walking around ghat’s.

Returned to the hotel to head for Agra, on the train platform at one stop we did the white museum while Indian men watched us (the white museum is a collection of misleading white people behaviours that we have perfected to confuse onlookers, this is something I first started when I was touring with the Fastwurms in Japan). Soon the fourth wall collapsed and they started talking to us, they boasted that the largest bananas in India came from this area, wherever that was, we had been riding on the train for hours. One man shook my hand and when he shook Sabu’s he howled like a woman and ran off screaming waving his arms in the air. We told them we were married and had two children, Tom Thumb and Thumbelina, we said we wanted to bring them along but they were too small to travel.

We continued to roll along, one day into our sweet pungent ayurvedic gritty like dust and dirt medicine. I have so much to work out on myself, my guilt which locks me into certain predictable patterns of behaviour, my anger which makes me reckless and unfocused, my sense of wanting to be accepted by compromise. We slept in the coupe, sleeping and spooning till our 4:30 AM arrival in Agra.

Agra, Uttar Pradesh

Well the Taj Mahal I must say “Now that’s a tomb.

india travel napo b

Napo at the Taj Mahal

Thursday April 11th 1991

On arrival we got a ride with Amin auto rickshaw pilot and we hired him for our visit as tour guide. A very upfront guy who for ten rupees took us exactly to where we wanted to go, the Agra Lodge which turned out to be a large round Colonial property, with allot of green gardens. It was six AM, sunrise as we looked back across General Cariatpa Road, across the golf course towards the rising sun, the Taj Mahal appearing pale blue against a lilac sky, with isolated pale pink clouds, ooohh. We retired in one of the outside rooms of our Gandhi roulette wheel room . We slept until eleven; we had made plans for the next day with Amin as our tour guide to Agra.

This conclude the first part of my India Travel Diary, with over thirty thousand words written and possibly another hundred thousand to go. My next entry will be photos of the trip, but not all of the thousand images I will also include some of the one hundred watercolors. I have been working on this manuscript in hopes of eventually completing a book of this journey. Reader wherever you are, I hope you enjoyed the reading to date, please stay subscribed for other journeys and experiences and thank you for reading and possibly laughing from time to time. Make your way to India, I assure you most sure and certain it will breathe life into your heart and soul. NB




Old Varanasi street by the Ghats

“Sharing a Berth with a Dead Man to Varanasi”

India Travel Diary 19  : From Kathmandu to Varanasi (Benares) 

Wednesday April 3rd 1991

We spent the next two days checking out Bhaktapur Durbar Square and a Shiva on Snakes temple, we took pictures and people chased us away, the dogs howl all night on the full moons in Kathmandu because the monkeys come into the city and it keeps the dogs up and working there howling chords. At one of the Temples, I was sitting eating some trail mix when a large red monkey jumped up from behind me and sat a foot away looking at my food. His eyes were on the plastic bag, and he kept looking at me then the food; then in an instant he grabbed the bag. Foolishly I did not let go the bag and we locked eyes, I refused to let go and was challenging him but in my head a voice was clearly saying “Let go, don’t take this guy on”. Still I refused to let go as I looked into his eyes and received a clear telepathic message “I could rip you to shreds in an instant silly man”. Then to my surprise, he let go in a audible huff shoving the bag towards me and jumped away in an instant. I sat there paralyzed and relieved thinking how stubborn and stupid I was. We headed home to reflect, shower and rest. Sabu did get a picture of me and the monkey in our showdown, I will be posting only images of India in a forthcoming post “Nuttin’ But Pics o India”.

I decided to write a letter to the Fastwurms about how things were when I left for India and the prospects of having the group breakup, etc. We had set up the room with candles and had decorated a small fort around us. Sabubu painted while I wrote the letter.

I really didn’t understand how they felt they could micromanage my life, the cult aspect of it was a bit shallow and phony, the smugness made me uncomfortable and slightly twitchy. I already had expanded far beyond my expectations by taking on this trek through the Indian subcontinent and into the foothills of the Himalayas. I was feeling like letting go of all the pain of receiving the Dear John letter from my fellow Wurms. I was well beyond this, so I was asking they reconsider the implications of what they were proposing and the outcome. With all that I had experienced to this point I was ready to share some new outlook on future work. 1990 had been an extremely busy year; we had managed to climb out on top, a lot more visible than we had ever been, we where set to have a quintessential Canadian Art Experience.  

 Friday, April 5th 1991 VARANASI-BENARES, Uttar Pradesh

 Altitude 88 feet above sea level, hot and dusty

Sabu resting before the night from Hell

Sabu resting before the night from Hell

 Such an aversion to uses after the Kathmandu coffin buses that we took the train from Raxal and went way out of our way to Samastipur Junction. We thought it was just a short trip, but it turned out that we were back in the land of conflicting information and as it turned out it was a dusty train night through the heat of the northern plains of India.

In the final train to Varanasi, we found our seats in second class, there was a dead body on my seat, and the men moved it into the lowered seat above me. The guy taking care of the body slept in the opposite top bunk above Sabubu’s side of the berth. The body was wrapped in orange, red rags and a long white flowing scarf. The rail car had no shocks and I spent the night clinging to the bunk as I was repeatedly slammed down on the hard dusty vinyl, sometimes being slammed from six or ten inches in the air. The dead mans keeper kept snoring all night with Sabu kicking his bunk from time to time to interrupt  his nasal horn blasts.

 The window was open to keep the air circulation and smell down, but it also let in clouds of dust, to add to this night through hell, was the dead man’s chatta (white scarf ) around that fluttered through the air like a long silk snake. At times I would awake from a brief rest from exhaustion to have my face covered or being tickled by the dead man’s scarf. I kept grabbing it and flinging it back up, but soon enough it was back in my face, I finally had to get up and tuck him in while trying not to get flung onto him.  We got in at 7:30 AM with a film of dust on us. Two men came in and took the ultra rigid dearly departed of to the ghats, when we got out of the train station his relatives were busy tying him to the roof of a cab; to the ghats my good man. All the dirt on us had us looking more indianoid than ever. We stepped out onto the train platform in the early AM, the smell of incense and shit filled the train platform, where Sadhus (Holy Men) got off the train along with business people and families traveling.

Sitting down by the Ghats

Sitting down by the Ghats

Varanasi is the Hindu hub of for the dead on their way towards their next incarnation. This is the most hardcore Sadhu fashionistas we have ever seen, naked suffice a conch shell tied on with a lace as a protective cover for the package. Well smothered in a white powder which is Dunni, or burnt cow dung, the hair is really natty, ultra natty dreads, conks that have conquered gravity well beyond anything anywhere else on this planet, and to complete the look is the long pickle fork or trident representing they are followers of Shiva. Walking out of the train station bodies are being tied to cabs, or auto rickshaws to go to the ghats.

 Saturday, April 6th 1991

After a long rickshaw ride we found the Om Taka Taka Lodge, we checked in, showered, made love laughed and slept. Then we woke up washed our laundry  and got dressed to go change some money somewhere, somehow. We ended up near the Golden Temple where  bodies were wrapped in red and gold on stretchers,were  being carried along to the burning ghats. We bm’ed for cash and went searching for food which took most of the evening. Varanasi has this Madurai kind of madness thing going, one saying we heard from a rickshaw driver with a wistful look in his eyes “ Ah, to die in Varanasi is most Auspicious, so beware when crossing the street, the cab drivers will run you down”. To live and die in Varanasi also known as Benares is  a sure entry into Hindu Heaven, we have yet to see a model of this heaven though we have a few postcards. Back to the lodge to sleep and dream to awake in the early am for a walk by the ghats at sunrise. Hot still air, the smell so enveloping, kinda sticky smoke wafting, and somehow I found it  soothing and  reassuring, this smell of the dearly departed burning corpses at the ghats.

 Sunday, April 7th 1991

Got up with the sound of azan and went out down the street leading to the Harischandra Ghat, where the burning of untouchables takes place. I felt compelled to be a stand in relative and sit by and meditate and watch the Ganga flow. We walked along the Ganga and got a boatman to take us out onto the water for a better  witnessing of  the daily assembly of thousands that bathe, pray, cremate, and inter mingle. Moona Kal is our toothless oarsman. We saw many bathing Hindus doing there morning ablutions and prayers as the various ghats prepared wood pires for the days cremations. Our lodge is at the Harishandra Ghat, we had to get a postcard because photos are forbidden. I got to row my baby on the Ganges, made our oarsman a bit nervous he was worried his boss might see him relaxing and possibly assume he had made me row, so we gave him some more rupees to relax and enjoy the ride for a while. We raced the other tourist boats and we did manage to get some great photos as we moved up the river.

Our faithful oarsman Moon Kal

Our faithful oarsman Moona Kal

 Later we went to the Mother India Temple, which houses a marble land relief of the entire subcontinent from the Himalayas to Sri Lanka. The marble is forty by forty feet in size, they should have a replica of this at all the airports when you arrive so you can get a better understanding the vastness of this place. We did the Bm and also got our tickets to Agra for Wednesday. We rickshawed  around town then went home for rest from the crowds and slept to the sound of rolling thunder and pelting rain but soon the sun returned  along the Ganga, while we slept part of the hot day away to awake after four  hours or more.

 Cremation uses 360 Kilos of wood and costs approximately five hundred rupees, the Harishchandra’s or Untouchables had there own ghat, relatives would come to Varanasi and sit along the street leading to the ghat and beg for money to buy the wood to cremate their relative. Sometimes this could take weeks or even months, this was a health hazard and so the government installed an electric crematorium and the fee is 50. rupees. I was told that people who die of cobra bites, smallpox victims, children and Brahmin Holy Men are wrapped in cloth and rocks and simply slipped under the Ganga.

In monsoon season the river can rise more than twenty five feet, as you go along the river you can see the markings on the steps and buildings of the highest monsoon seasons with all the record breaking years marked in white paint. Some of the floods have made it a long way up into temples and peoples homes.

There are over twenty five ghats for various sects, Jains, Brahmans, Nepali, Southern Tamil, Rich Man and of course Outcasts.

 In the evening we went to a bargain basement wedding ceremony where the minister priest sadhu just recited long prayers like songs and did some aside and commentaries and jokes, he was self accompanied on the harmonium along with a group of musicians on stage behind him, also along with them a young boy dressed as Lord Krishna and six young girls danced out the wedding proposal and beatroval . Then a another Sadhu came and did a show , all of this by some miscommunication with our rickshaw driver that was suppose to take us to a Sitar concert but instead took us to a wedding. We laughed and sang and dance and had great food and left in the dark hallucinating from all that energy, everywhere Muslims recovering from Ramadan, and ready to jump Sabu, we hurried home. We painted and did some yoga then slept. that’s the night of bad dreams including the one I just wrote down, it seems I am getting these weird tormented Fastwurm dreams on a regular basis.

 Dream Demi Lune

…in a hill village near a khola I am speaking with Kim and Dai about Fastwurms, Dai insists that the group as it exists must be dismantled and I must be rid of, Kim is quiet and I am on the verge of tears but Kim and I don’t talk but mill around the camp. Then there is an attack on our camp and everywhere there is panic and people are being slaughtered. I can’t find Kim or Dai, I then look at the ground and it’s all blood and mud and art materials running in colors along body parts. Then the sun runs behind a dark cloud and everywhere as the sun disappears descends death and ruin. I see a cat with a blanket, and it is telepathic and it tells me it is going to get very cold and allot of people won’t survive, as the cat nestles amongst the recently slain corpses for some last remaining body heat. Then in the dark I start up this short mud hill, when I get up there I slip and when I get up my eyes are sealed shut. I lift a motorcycle from the mud and one of the fighting warriors gives me the hand of a young maiden and tells me to take her away from this place. Then Sabubu and I are in the khola, in the sunshine both cackling and laughing trying to wash down our Tibetan medicine balls.