dred pipes a day. (It’s cheap, mixed with beedies and spit.) He is a leper. He sleeps in a temple, along with other homeless. They meet at sunset, the saffron sect, to eat a communal “bums , stew.” Under the unblinking eye of Buddha, in the shadow of the Stupa, they make camp. His thumbs are much more claw, than human. One eye is diseased, drooping, forever weeping, the other smiles. I watched “Big-Foot” squeeze a gaggle of Italian tourists. He has a charismatic face. He recognizes everyone. For a moment you think you know him, an old friend waving you over. Then he points down—to his purple leg. The big one, swollen and daubed brightly, is four or five times the size of the normal leg. He gleefully watches their faces as their cheery grins collapse. Stunned, as he banks on, they reach for spare-change. I saw then “The Global Emperor,” saluting and marching towards us, and old Desmond the drunk was there blowing his nose on his fingers. The Global Emperor looks snappy from a distance, like a madman close up. He is often seen writing “press releases” in tea shops, on the backs of old “Yak” cigarette packets. He carries messages to “The People of the Globe.” He is lean and nearly handsome in his filthy military dress. In a tightly belted overcoat unclean from years of wear, with upright posture, he salutes me from the streets. Once, we had a giggle in an alley. When he threw his head back, shreds of black teeth howled. I cracked up all the harder, remembering Rembrandt’s self-portrait. Open-mouthed, toothless and red-nosed—face and ass to the world. My own teeth shying— Hee-Haw! Like a resurrection it was, snaggletoothed rotting flesh and rags, all wandering—organic, under the sun’s bandage. Marjorie Nepal 1979 Dead Dolphin, you washed up at my feet, from the breathy Arabian Sea. Gone, from your carcass... your summersalt spirit— your blissed-out grin Darling, you are dead. & I stop to see that. On Christmas eve a Hindu boy stands on your side/in the moonlight you take him nowhere. Marjorie Goa Varanasi Just before sunrise on New Year’s day, I was dancing wildly to live rock- and-roll in the sand, and the spirit was great in me. It’s likely to be another charged year. I feel very well, am gaining a little weight, taking sun and waking up energetic, but then, what a sleazy life-style, right up my alley. Have been storing my gear in a place, crashing around on the beach, people’s porches and couches, washing once in a while from a well, lost my comb, bought an emerald necklace, found old friends. Saw so much. Banares (Varansai) on the Ganges, pre-dawn boat ride past the temples and body-burning on the banks, bathing, tooth-brushing . Half-cooked black ass being ridden by an awful crow just beyond my trailing fingers. Being sick from the tri-shaw. While the stars were still out, rushing down to the river, La Morph and my delicate French boyfriend covered in silver by my side. The Ajunta and Ellora caves—B.C. paintings of the Buddha, erotic sculptures carved in mountainsides, over the thousands of years. The Indians lost them to memory and foliage, when in 1810 the British on a tiger hunt followed a beast and lit a torch to find an old world. Some fairy-tale fort. Seven walls and seven gates, moats, elephant wells, steel studs tipped with poison on the doors, pots of boiling oil, subterranean passageways, with sheer drops, trick air vents to draw the enemy to traps, towers, cannons. The Moguls. Pieces-of-eight. Vultures by the score, feeding on the carcasses of foul water buffalo. The untouched nose still threaded by rope. Eagles, dogs, pigs, and crows. Bloated hay and shit dressing and the wind blew my way. A Japanese man covered nose with a hankie. I picked up a vulture feather and moved on to the Taj Mahal. Before all that, Nepal, Burma, e tc .. . . I am having some fun. All is well. I’m going swimming and hardly ever get dressed. Happy New Year Marjorie January 24, ’79 Bombay The fans are full blast and the sun blazes over the harbor. From the hotel window I see dozens of cargo ships, black smoke from their chimneys, schooners full-sailed, and small fishing boats. “The Gateway to India” arch is in sight, built for King George V and Queen Mary. Wonderful and crazy Bombay, at “home.” finally. It’s so good to be here, horns blowing, crows crying, beggars begging, all as we left it. I am so happy to be back. October 10, ’79 Kathmandu I feel pretty good tonight, stoned on the medicine from my dental visit today. 1 had one back upper tooth pulled out—my first to go ever. I kept it (wrapped in the original bloody gauze) and fell fast asleep with it in my hand. What a long, slender root! A singular one, the tooth seems so small in comparison, the tooth itself looks antique, a damaged ivory p iece ...I couldn’t get a taxi so I cut through the rice paddies all numb and romantic, walking to my hotel. . . I am content. I see myself in these bums all round the world. I met a woman who was old friends with Kesey and Babbs. Her name is Hetie Mac L—. Her old man was just cremated at the river side here. Their son was taken sometime ago by the “red sect” dali lama as a reincarnation of a lama. She is “old school” and colorful. Many odd Westerners here, a few writers. I got to know the poet Ira Cohen well, and like him. He reminds me of Ginsberg, only funnier. A good friend is the brother of the guy who wrote the script for the TV show Saturday Night Live. His brother recently went mad (a regular occurrence) on his way here to write a Rolling Stone article about a film he was to make in India. Blah dee. I am now writing about my goldmining claim, on the Clearwater River in Idaho. It seems appropriate when I was throwing back the little fish some eighteen years ago—no regrets, only fond memories—I am feeling more like construction. I want to gather material for evidence of being an active “ real” writer. I must get some shit down in black and white, and inspiration is coming up again inside. I also have a story about an Indian landlord who rented out his deaf-mute stepdaughter to Bombay studs—eek! A few poems, and tons of ideas— A storm just broke, thunder, lightning bolts—and the last of the monsoon rains falling, making me feel secure and well off. I do love living in Nepal. It is the most comfortable country I’ve ever lived in, it suits me very well. Now it’s pouring down hard, and warm. I’m sitting in bed having a good time “recovering” from my dental ordeal. * October 28 ’79 Kathmandu My highest compliments to you and this marvelously entertaining Clinton St. Quarterly. Of course I am flattered by the efforts and talents of Katherine and Henk. Everyone wrote brilliantly. I am so impressed. Bravo. Well done. I’ve been reading everything since the newspaper arrived hand-delivered to my sun-lit balcony where I was absorbing tea and rays. My friends also have been reading it. I put Henk’s center-fold drawing up on the wall. What fun for me to receive this monumental heart of expression. Have you received the stories and poems on the Kathmandu street characters? Today it’s stormy. I have the hot plate plugged in to take the nip out of the air. The mountains are displaying more of their glory as the clouds disNo Mama/No Papa Ind ia ... Orphan, I left you. Your hand out for baksheesh Left your curry and urine, your sing-song falsetto. Your millions of big watery brown eyes. Milky British tea & Bombay bedbugs. I put my clothes on & threw away my chillum. Through your gods’ fingers, I am slipping. . . back into a world of logic & meat-eaters. Bye bye. Baba. Love to your lepers. Up your Karma. The weight of gold behind the heel on the heads of the rag-wrapped low caste born "karmically” into wretchedness. — You twist the teacher’s truth. Your rice paddies are brilliant/ your fu tu r e - mobbed. Marjorie sipate. I am amazed, snuggled down in a penthouse, embraced by soft foothills (9,000 feet and more) with the Himalayas beyond. I am loving the rainbows and wondering what the destination of the air traffic is. . . I’ve just stepped out on the balcony to investigate the upcry of the mass of crows. They complain and dominate. Even the large kyte hawks, bullies, the Hindu “messenger,” have come to speak and the sky smacks of dragons and golden promises. Cock-eyed Shangrila indeed. Kingdom beyond doubt. Hmmmm—. Now the sun’s come back turning raindrops into sparklers. The golden pagoda roof spirals glow. Hammering is heard from daylight till dark. Watching a building being erected is an Egyptian experience. Man-power (ra ther women) moving cement—choreographed into gear—the load carried upon their majestic heads. Working women in bright orange, blazing purples, pierced dozens of times, bangles hanging from their faces, irresistibly beautiful, tough and playful. Now the sky arranges the stage for the lowering sun—a spectacle I review with passion each evening. I am eased out here. Send my love to Stephen my son— again I praise your efforts. I thank you all kindly for your support and love. I am most pleased. Take care, Marjorie BISHOP COCHRAN Horseshoe Music Co. 2419 SE 39th (at Division) UNITED FRONT BOOKSTORE HOLIDAY SALE DEC. 15 CALENDARS DATE BOOKS MANY NEWRECORDS 2701 S.E. Belmont 233-9270 MON.-FRI. 11-8, SAT. 11-5 45
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