May 04, 2009

I'd like to begin this with a birthday shout-out to my brother Mike. Happy day-before-your-17th-birthday!!! I'll get you a present when I get home because you'd probably prefer an X-Box, or something, instead of a piece of Indian Tribal Art. Am I right? Speaking of birthdays and art, I found myself at a birthday party last night for a one-year-old I didn't know. He was a bad conversationalist because of his limited three word vocabulary, so that was a little awkward. Also a little awkward was that everyone else there spoke French, which I have like a limited three word vocabulary of now. Manoj Dixit, good friend of the proud parents, took me there. Earlier in the morning Linda had introduced me to said Manoj. "He's like a second son to me," she said. I was itching to see art and he is a very talented artist. He very kindly took me about town to see his artwork - you can check it out online at http://www.paper-boat.com/ - there are some pieces that I would kill to have. His workaholic approach to it all has instilled a new work ethic in my own approach to art and writing. I had starting writing a book awhile back after that inspiring Warhol exhibit in Ecuador (some may remember that old post two years back of me dancing inside a giant soup can). I picked that work back up and I've really been chugging away at it. The book should be finished within this year and it's tentatively titled, "Woke Up This Morning To Find Myself Dead -or- A Ghost's Guide To The Art History Of Rock 'N Roll". I have always been a fan of long-winded titles. I think that's why I listen to artists like Morrissey (preferably with 'The Smiths') because he had songs with titles like, "That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore" and "We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful". So far I am very proud of the novel and it's full of cool info on art, music and philosophy, so I hope you'll like it too. Keep your expectations in the sky and your ears to the ground.

I'm thinking of making a trip to the cemetery today. I found out that Woodrow Wilson's oldest daughter, Margaret, is buried here in Pondicherry. She found a book of Sri Aurobindo's in a New York library and was hooked on his ideas. Margaret moved to Pondicherry in the 1930s to study under him. She typed up some of his notes and washed his dishes. She wrote of her meditation here, “Sometimes I feel as if the Divine were whispering to my soul, and I, in order to catch the faintest word, am listening as I have never listened before.” She loved it so much here that she refused to leave when she began having the same kidney problems that killed her mother. She died in 1944 and is buried in the Protestant section of the cemetery. It seems wild to me that a presidential daughter is buried in this Indian nook. She wrote, "my soul brought me here where it belongs" which I think would be a fantastic memorial to stamp into her tombstone.

I kept putting off my trip to Auroville for the simple reason of not having a phone to call a taxi. Linda was going to call for me, but I would always remember to remind her far too late in the night. Anyway, problem solved. Mosquito net packed, flashlight charged, I'll be leaving tomorrow morning. There's a slight possibility that I'll be out of communication for the next two weeks, so keep your thoughts positive if you don't hear from me.