Vignettes of Goa


Shrine at Bom Jesu


Fort Aguada


Fort Aguada






The Royal Goan Beach Resort


O Coqueiro's near Panjim, on Andrew's behest. The food did not disappoint at all. That's Charles Sobhraj and the exact spot he was apprehended at. Coqueiro's claims it was it's Chicken Cafreal that did him in. I don't think they're far off


Souza Lobo's. Norman Lewis vouches for this place and rightfully so. The food here was excellent.




Bhaga beach

One tranquil afternoon on Bhaga. The beach itself isn't as great as a few I've been to in Mangalore. Unswimmable. It's the delicious Goan fare at places like 'St. Anthony's Bar and Restaurant' (above) that draws its crowds I suppose.

My niece Anne at 6 or so.

It's amazing the way life smacks you awake.


Trying to be the person you want to, is a waste of who you are - Kurt Cobain

Back to basics now.

This is off some site.

"Women on Haircuts"

Woman 1: Oh! That haircut is so cute!

Woman 2: You think so? I wasn't sure when she gave me the mirror. I mean, you don't think it's too fluffy looking?

Woman 1: Oh God no! No, it's perfect. I'd love to get my hair cut like that, but I think my face is too wide. I'm pretty much stuck with this stuff I think.

Woman 2: Are you serious? I think your face is adorable. And you could easily get one of those layer cuts - that would look so cute I think. I was actually going to do that except that I was afraid it would accent my long neck.

Woman 1: Oh - that's funny! I would love to have your neck! Anything to take attention away from this two-by-four I have for a shoulder line.

Woman 2: Are you kidding? I know girls that would kill for your shoulders. Everything drapes so well on you. I mean, look at my arms - see how short they are? If I had your shoulders I could get clothes to fit me so much easier. (etc...)

"Men on Haircuts"

Man 1: Haircut?

Man 2: Yeah.

Wow, what a freaky dream. Bodered on a nightmare actually. I was back in my old house, about fifteen years ago. An eight year old kid, i step outside the gate one particularly overcast day. I can't stress enough on the nostalgia that overcast days carry. As I step out, I'm suddenly accosted from my left by about five tall nuns in electric blue habits. Some were muzzled so you could barely make out their faces. One was exceptionally ugly with jaws that protruded in front of her face. They approached me briskly and purposefully and forced me inside, into the compound.
At the back of my mind I knew it was for something I'd committed. They made me lift up a submissive palm. One of them wiped a tear from her eye and rubbed it on my palm. Another did the same with a little saliva. Note that it being a dream, the idea of getting squeamish didn't occur to me. A third opened a lilttle vial and poured out a rather viscous, clear liquid into my cupped palms. As the liquid began overflowing, I heard the others say things in almost a chant. One statement I remember in particular was "He does'nt believe in the son."
I'm glad I woke up just then.

High Hopes - never fails to get me down. Gilmour really speaks through those melting, stabbing notes. How has music infiltrated our emotional lives? Is it something absolute? Invented or discovered? That's the biggest question. Does a melody evoke an innate response or does it merely elicit an emotion linked with a motif of memories? I remember Linus referring to a certain scale as 'sober' when I would've termed it 'sad'. It just may be the process of stirring a cauldron of feelings that it lies in resonance with. Hmmm........... music - I've never got it.

I begged them to stop, but they just carried on laughing. With their high-n-mighty glares and deriding fingers pointing at me lying there in the dust, their chortles seemed almost inhuman. But, I vowed, one day - yes, one day - I'll rise above them. And, when i've the power to crush them under my feet, all i'll grant them is clemency. The kind of pardon that reinstates your status and authority. This i vowed through mud filled eyes and bloodied teeth. As i picked up my glasses and walked back, everything, even the sun and that hitherto benevolent edifice, seemed to cast a cold, uncaring gloom.
Then, that fateful day, as I strolled through an aisle in a library, it happened. As I browsed the radioactivity section, a sharp sting on the meat of my palm caused me to spring back with a start. I instinctively scoured my hand for signs of a prick (no allusion to it's rather unsavoury homonym), and I found one. Immediately I rummaged through the books to find my assailant. And as I did, I reeled, clutching on to a post for support. For there, staring back at me with it's glazed eyes, lay a radioactive bookworm, it's recumbent pose a sign of a job well done. Before I knew it the room blurred and the last thing I saw before everything turned black was the false ceiling.
I awoke to murmurs that rung familiar. "..... seen him around here very often........ kinda odd character, sticks to himself.......... ". I stood up when I'd come entirely to my senses, gathered my books and walked out without a word.
Over the weeks I began noticing a penchant for words. The daily jumble seemed to become childishly simple. The letters simply arranged themselves in front of my eyes! It was then that I realised it. It came to me almost like a scene from a movie. I'd been endowed with superhuman literary powers!! Eat my dust, Blake and Wodehouse! And those kids.... those kids, they'd pay now. Pay horribly. From this day on I would come to be known as....... Literor, master of words....






(If you're inclined to making smart-alec comments, save them.)

K, do i always hafta use HELLO to post somen? can't i jus do it from my blog? 

dat better, saby? 

imagine gettin to woik here. 

my conceptual friend and his eccentricities