Day five (or six?) In Varanasi.  Lost in this Dada daydream.   Six days(or five)of stepping over ox shit, dodging motorcycles on narrow alleys and finding ever more ingenious methods of out smarting the hustlers on the ghats.  Five days(or six) of surrealism, synchronicity and because I just can find a better damn word, Magic.  One moment knocked back to high reverence, the next, using utmost restraint to not call an Indian "motherfucker" beside his Mother Ganga as he tries to grab my hand and "massage" it for 50 rupees.  My first two nights spent at a guesthouse on the Assi Ghat called Om Home.  Dark, loud and most every surface, damp.  I moved out after a couple days of settling into the city, the owner trying his best to sell me fine silks as I loaded my gear out.  Early, tired and hungry, I carried my bag and guitar to my next home a couple miles into the old city.  And suddenly in that frustrated,strenuous moment I look up and see a face I recognize. Which recognizes me.  And I second, third, fourth check and it's still Brook.  Two seconds difference on either of our parts and we would of missed each other entirely. Both in shock, we hug and try to piece together what brought us both here.  He was on tour with a kirtan group and is now studying violin with a local guru.  Me, exploring a directionless life in a more exotic locale.  I'd met Brook two years ago at an intensive three day confrontation workshop.  So we've already seen each other cry, look for available walls to punch ect.. I had no idea he was in Asia and hadn't seen him since Beloved Festival back in August, the weekend I'd hatched this whole India plan.  Carrying on, I check into my new guesthouse.  An ancient stone building with narrow, short hallways built around an open garden.  Rustic, though the atmosphere fulfills a few adolescent fantasies of mine.  Sometimes noisy but of the goat calls, chanting variety.  And my days here mostly spent wandering(getting LOST) in the ancient, labrynthine corridors of the old city, occasionally emerging onto one of the many ghats along the river.  Varanasi, like a good woman is curvy and full of surprises.  Every time I think I know exactly where I am, I turn corner and find a new (to me) Avenue of vedic astrologers, silk shops, hash dealers and temples.  All the better as there never seems enough time to chew bettle nut and drink chai when you are in familiar territory. The nights usually with Brook drinking bhang lassi and sitting at manikarnika ghat watching the continuous cremation of Hindus as the huge bell tower ominously chimes and street kids come up claiming to work for the hospice and seeking "donations".  Hindus save their whole lives to be brought to Varanasi for cremation upon death.  The rites are both reverent and common place to the point of nonchalance.  Young kids tending the fires, throwing more logs below  and prodding at the immolating bodies with big staffs of bamboo.  What a strange, dull sound a body makes as its being struck mid pyre.  But on the lively side, I've been exposed to live traditional Indian music for the first time.  Getting so lost in the crescendos I nearly seize up into convulsions sitting cross legged on the carpet.  Being moved to tears by the precision, communication and genius of the musicians. And the kids on the ghats who the first days tried to sell me sandalwood oil as hashish  or stared me down as I walked home at night have quickly warmed up and now call me "Michael jackson"insisting I join them for Chai and conversation.  Never asking for money anymore but always offering high quality hashish or opium should I change my mind.  It seems most travelers get put off by the hustle and just ignore the Indians after a couple days.  And I felt that, but then began grabbing their extended hands and massaging them first. Demanding 50 rupees myself.  And we both laugh.  Laughter, the most universal language.  And no clear thought on where to next.  The amount of oddity occurring(most of which I'm not in a position to even talk about) makes me want to stay here a while and see where it goes. Anyways, all is swell.