Author: Thompson Woofed

The Indian Himalayas, July / August 2010 Of the different ways in which yoga should be performed, meditation is the most powerful … At three times – urination, defecation and eating, O king – one should not practise yoga. One should practise it intently the rest of the time. The Mahabharata ‘To where are you… Continue reading A Monkey Ate My Glasses →

What will we do there? We’ll get high. What will we touch there? We’ll touch the sky. But why the tears there? I’ll tell you why. Small Faces, Itchycoo Park   THE A-SIDE ‘Tom,’ she said. ‘Tom. Tom. Hey, Tom.’ ‘Sorry?’ he asked. ‘Tom. Tom. Am I talking funny, Tom?’ ‘Are you what?’ he asked.… Continue reading Am I Talking Funny? →

She did only the things she found herself already doing. Paul Bowles, The Sheltering Sky   Tom awoke, opened his eyes. He was in a small room, the only light seeping from a small window quite high above the bed. If he wanted to look outside, he would have to stand on the bed, but… Continue reading Welcome to the Grand Hotel Tazi →

I sit a little while, watching the light rise to the peaks. In the boulder at my back, there is a shudder, so slight that at another time it might have gone unnoticed. The tremor comes again; the earth is nudging me. And still I do not see. Peter Matthiessen, The Snow Leopard   ‘You… Continue reading Lovely Guest House →

Would you rather, for just one day, be invisible or be able to fly? Would you rather wear only shorts for the rest of your life or only trousers? Would you rather wake up in a desert or wake up in a small boat at sea? If you wanted a place in the paddle-raft, you… Continue reading Shooting Lava Falls in Pink Panties →

Turn left, the yellow arrow said. So I turned left. Then the yellow arrow told me to turn right, so I turned right. It was my first day off on the Camino de Santiago, but I could not stop following those arrows. I was like a wind-up toy, putting one foot mechanically in front of… Continue reading The Yellow Brick Road →

Screams. Loud screams. Women screaming loudly. Tom opened his eyes, cocked his head. One ear outside the hood of his sleeping bag. Something about water. Yes, that was it. The water, really cold water. The light inside his tent was greyish green. It would be some time before the sun would warm the top of… Continue reading Wild Dog Lake →

PAGOUDA, TOGO DECEMBER 1980 Turn on the shortwave radio. Listen. John Lennon has been shot, the BBC World Service says, outside The Dakota in New York City. Listen again. Yes, John Lennon has been shot and killed. No one in your village knows who John Lennon is. No one in your village knows who The… Continue reading How to Make Tchoukoutou →

But I would not feel so all alone, Everybody must get stoned. Bob Dylan, Rainy Day Women #12 & 35   ‘They’ve locked me out. Could you let me in?’ Someone was knocking on the little window above my bed. When I yanked open its wooden shutter, I could barely see her face. It was… Continue reading Stoned →

‘Eres del Belkin?’ ‘Sorry? Um, cómo?’ ‘You are with Belkin?’ the hotel receptionist asked. ‘You are with the group?’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘just me. No group. I don’t like groups.’ ‘I think maybe you are with the group,’ she smiled, tilting her head towards a pale blue Bianchi parked beside the lift. ‘Just an old… Continue reading My Night with the Belkin Boys →