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I search for videos of chameleons, primitive, blissful and hard. I
search for Shakespeare sonnets, and for the modern bard. I
electronically live in Hawaii, where I would like to be, I search for a
soul companion, and the sexual uses of pee. I search for a modern
Trajan, and read the speeches of Howard Dean. I search for Zen Bhuddist
teachings, and for a much needed career. I search for soft arms to hold
me, someone pretty, witty and near. I search for something to sustain
me, for I know my journey has failed. This is not the India I quested
for, exotic and warm, full of spices and sparkling, colored jewels. but
a land which does not need me, strange with snowy winters, natives with
their own loyalties and bloody tribal rules, hardened into ruthlesness
by tribal war and ferocious hunts. No, I may look at the colorful, many
faced products of the modern world, I may read about new history books
but not leaf through comforting pages, I may dreamily follow tennis,
which in more priveleged days I used to play, but must remain ignorant
of groundbreaking articles about sensational Schrichipan. I may post my
creative writing but usually find only trickling, unsympathetic
response. Nonetheless, you creature of the modem world, I celebrate
you; I don't know if I should but I am one of these pink apes who
fashion the world to fit our own dreams, and though our sleep is
nearing death, still, hidden amid a wasteland of junk, in .org tribes
and blood-sworn clans, you can still find those colorful dreams, those
dens of the wild things, that are the only hope for our brave new
world.