"I don't even know if I'm white with black stripes or black with white stripes." - Madagascar

There's something about Holi I just loathe. The whole getting smothered with charcoal, colours and glass -- you come home looking like a howling ghost. It's been like that since I was a kid, never ever went out with the rest on the streets. It never worked.
This time was different. Vaz called and we were going to a farm-place near the Village, along with the crew: Champak, lil Surd, Chazz and Polite Killer.
The friend's place comes after a hilly patch of road, scenic enough for Mary to keep you humble, while you search the endless horizons for dreamy souls. Endless beers were thrown when we reached, the process of getting coloured was easy -- the million kids threw some buckets of blue water, you didn't mind. The folks in charge were chilling in their own cheesy drunkenness, leaving us to hang around around the pool, some lot were getting drunk, the others having a good time with their drinks.
While I chilled on the lawns, munching some Munakka -- that Pirate has for breakfast with milk -- over couple of beers watching everyone thrown into the pool. Lost in complete haze of time, wondering poetry searching Kerouac, metamorphosing Ionesco to Kafka to one simple dream.
It was my turn to be thrown in. Although getting into water was not a good idea with the wintry breeze on a sunny afternoon -- the water took me in almost caringly, as though it was waiting for me, and I dived a perfect one. I swam a bit. Then came out lit up a cigarette, thrown back again. Found somebody's spectacles in it -- the few girls, in and out of the pool, seemed sweet but too lost in themselves.
The afternoon got Champak smashed, trust him to be the first guy. You of course know -- he starts laughing and he doesn't stop. Not the best thing you would like when the car's stopped by cops reasoning excuses for some dough. But then it was cool.
Reached home, had a hot shower, slept, woke up for dinner, some guests were there -- and it was great. The darn Munakka was working now, now I'm no regular pothead, but man this felt like 3 j's tripping you when you know you haven't smoked.
Everything went coolly, I was talking about serious things -- and then there were these small waves of raptures that kept the ebb and flow of my senses to the beaches of mind. The after dinner tea and smoke, made me meet the ghost of Kerouac. I blew smoke rings around the moon, followed the movement of dark shadows of trees and streetlamps on the streets, listened to Velvet Underground, Cream and a bit of Cohen -- and found reason at the end of a clay cup of despair. She was very kind.
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Got down to watching Polanski's Chinatown, was hugely impressed. Spending some evenings now with Virginia Woolf and Mrs Dalloway. The Wild Child is leaving the place, sort of sad. Will miss her for being there.
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Hey, the last post, you know, I've done all that, bu I'm not doing that anymore. So it goes.