I stood up and went to the window. The Ghats were teeming with people. I took out a cigarette, turning, I watched her lying on the bed, her body curving inwards like a child in the womb. On the floor lay our tangled clothes. By the bed stood a used chillum from the night before. I realized that my search for God was not for salvation or even enlightenment. For it was beauty I wanted. The beauty that sings your soul. And the more I delved into beauty the more I questioned. Yet, there was no answer, only fucking silence. And then a green flash came and sat on my windowsill. Beauty is a sacrament. And all the noise and weirdness of my life makes sense because beauty is a two-sided coin. Beauty is a sacrament of shit and blood, water, and wine. Beauty is a sacrament at the bottom of the glass. It’s a bad trip one never forgets. Beauty is a sacrament of sleeping by the side of roads, under bridges, in a farmer’s field by an old gum, under a fucked over night. It’s hiding out in building sites freezing your arse off in a Ballarat winter. It’s thinking of all the women in foreign lands, and all the times you got laid. Its getting drunk in St. Petersburg’s streets after midnight, scared, and lost. Beauty is listening to Kind of Blue for the one-millionth time, and saying yeah, I want to hear it again. Beauty is entering John Curtain House as a young Trotskyite between two porn houses singing ‘The Internationale’. It’s seeing Australia by rail or car, hitchhiking lost roads, and just plain walking for the sake of it. It’s travelling the world till your eyes pop out with all the wonder of a child. It’s entering a dark forest of never ending lust. Beauty is the agony of unrequited love that haunts the rivers of ancient Gods and it’s the honey dripping off the moon. Beauty is a sacrament of tears and a red rose , a key to her blue door. Beauty is digging it with a poet in Big Sur who took me to Jeffers house by Carmel’s shores. Its dying after your mother died. It is bonfires and penny bangers, and roasting chestnuts in the fire. Beauty is surviving the Albion and the John Lennon Bar. It is living with desperate men in Tarrango road, drinking cardboard wine, and its coming out after Vespers after being all holy, chanting the psalms, and watching a sun set, and you knew they weren’t lying when they said, there is a GOD. This is the bird’s song. Time for a drink, if you want me, I’ll be in the bar.