The Rum Diary by Hunter Thompson on Verses Inked

The Maverick, the Method, the Madness. The Rum Diary by Hunter Thompson on Verses Inked. All in – One Love

RUM BOTTLE

Hope has seldom been better explained, as understood in the cracking open of a bottle of rum.

Welcome to the world of verses inked, verses explained through ink. Better never, fashionably late, statutory – tending to ambling, as is the piece in discussion. Delightfully laid down, as often was during counter culture era, as also at Verses Inked, we present to the dear readers, this category they should be interested about. Verses Thread. We dive in first, here and how. Hunter S Thompson-The Rum Diaries.

The absolute artificer of Gonzo Journalism, you may rest your spine assure that if Hunter Thompson explains a situation, he would have had, in most accounts gone through it. There is then this iffy relationship which the writer shares with the keyboard. A chemistry which churns out the content. The perceptions in between the known and the unknown.

The Diary is in vein autobiographical. A dedication , as print suggests to Heidi Opheim, Mary Sue Rued and Dana Kennedy.

The following quote precedes the written text:-

My rider of the bright eyes,

What happened to you yesterday.?

I thought you in my heart,

When I bought your fine clothes,

A man the world could not slay.

 

-Dark Eileen O’Connell 1773.

 

Also Read:Who Killed Hunter S Thompson – An Inquiry into the Life and Death of Master of Gonzo 

 

HUNTERSTHOMPSON-PORTRAIT

Hunter Thompson, was a life long aficionado of alcohol, substance and mistake not, fire arms. The author was once a sports journalist at San Juan in Puerto Rico.

The narration of the plot hashes out a plethora of situation, which with overt gestures reflects the author’s time at the island. It remains a matter of more than mere chance that the characters stringing together the circumstances, in this case often radical, also draw inspiration from real life.

There is the all conquering, scrambling through, somehow protagonist, Paul Kemp, who throughout the narration, like almost everybody, almost always, in a drunken stupor, holds his own, as situations come hurling in, swell out of proportion towards the greater conclusion, leaving the reader in a state of wishful trance.

Paul Kemp’s romantic interest, from the very beginning, in fact, since his fateful flight to Puerto Rico, had been this petite blonde girl,Chenault. The situations in between the two always have a tensed, along the fringes of outrageous, knack about them.

There is then The Daily News, headed by an uncertain Ed Lotterman, and run by an entourage of staff. Sala the freelance photographer and a dear confidant to the protagonist; Yeamon, a close friend, also a reporter at the news, as well Chenault’s romantic interest during the former part of the story,until the carnival. The ever resourceful PR guy, Hal Sanderson, hell-raiser Moberg, the sports editor Bill Donovan, of prim and proper disposition, yet all in comparison and according to the situation. There is also a certain Mr. Zimburger, an acquaintance of Sanderson, a former captain at the Corps, still proud,more obsessed, a mean to an end.

The story is set against the back drop of fleeting communist references, the dwindling fortunes of the Daily News, and the influence of rum, which individually is the all encompassing throttle driving the narration ahead.

Al’s kitchen serving up its indigenous hamburgers and rum, plays host to a number of scenes. There is also the News office, and the sights sounds of Puerto-Rico which puts the novel together. The description of the Carnival at St Thomas, and the immediate events which ensued, is of notable importance to the flow of the time-line. Random watering holes, filled with writers, sailors and compulsive merry makers, that borrowed dilapidated car, that scooter in worse condition, a quiet beach somewhere, angry mobs, police stations, cab drivers, spill overs among innumerable Rum refills and the ever pressing tropical air. That is what makes the book, the odd two hundred pages of substance that it is.

The story concludes in a melting pot of emotions, which is somehow made mellow by the mere mention of Rum, albeit over and over again. The overarching daze seeps into the imagination of the avid reader,with conviction. The newspaper eventually shuts down, the staff are busy, getting the far flung fractals of their lives together. Their belligerence lead to a chaotic, yet successful attempt of assassination at Lotterman. Paul Kemp, has no part to play in the homicide. Yet he could not totally not feel a sense of empathy towards the conspirators. Chenault, armed with a surprise waits for him in New York. More rum and hamburgers, every time served at Al’s by this negro named Sweep.

Protocol, or perhaps belief, that it takes a hundred strikes and more to fashion gold, whereas in case of iron, it takes only a numbered few. So is Thompson’s narration. Perhaps his body of work, to some sentimental, judgmental mind is like the strike of a hammer on iron,one blow at a time. The narration lacks the close knit, yet it all holds together, perhaps as always.

It is not for nothing that the cinematic rendition of the novel has a number of alterations in the screenplay, when compared to the original text. The freakish flamboyance of Yeamon and the drive of Hal Sanderson is moulded into one character, as Sanderson. Besides the whole business deal with Mr Zimburger acts as a prequel to the carnival, and is of little importance after, in the novel. Whereas in the movie, the whole affair draws considerable breadth, and leads to the helter skelter at the conclusion

The film was a brainchild of Bruce Robinson, brought to life by the only Jhonny Depp. It was in fact, Depp’s industry and prolonged acquaintance with the author, that the original text, written in the sixties, was brought to print fourty years later. What more, Thompson calls his house, Owl Farm.

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Wheat field with Crows by Vincent van-Gogh

This is Verses Inked, for now and forever, as much elaborate, as is ambiguous.

To elaborate is to explain, understood. Yet Ambiguous!, about what, still ambiguous. Meet Monsieur Mystery alias Dr Dilemma.Call them indecision, uncertainty, and some more words worth their weight in nibbles of information across some far flung data channel.

As and how suits the drive towards existence, accordingly perhaps, ambiguity as well defines itself . For instance, what drove the ducks elsewhere. Them ducks from central park, NY, of the Catcher in the Rye. The ducks who went some place warm every winter.

Ambiguity lingers on, perhaps like death, or perhaps as would some pagan belief, or a creative expression- a piece of creation, albeit thought have it, like the messengers of death – Crows. Ain’t the Lord made them ambiguous.At least of speech and composition. At least when you judge them like an anthropology nerd. They are indeed everything ambiguous,as is your faith in the judgment. Much like when a body catch a body coming through the rye, and perhaps not merely meet each other.

Explains of a difference in between two potentials, rather than simple serendipity. As would the teenage protagonist of the, ‘prosaic’, piece of literature have it, rather than the ephemeral musings of a troubadour. Ambiguity settles into the minutest of crevices. The thin line in between catch and meet, and an entire universe is set into motion.

George R.R Martin – “ And the crow once called the Raven black. Ambiguity, presides, settles in. This particular case of grays. Who knows black or white, or how much of either and each.

Here we have this very interesting case of, ‘The wheat field with crows’. Excuse the authorship,if you may of the elaboration. In Discourse is not just any humble wheat field, spotted by a murder of crows participating in perhaps some hobbit philosophy. Modest pride, for those who realize it, is what brings to you, this most glorious wheat field, brought to life by the brushwork of the post-impressionist master, the one, the only, Vincent van-Gogh.

Atop the produce, is this flock of birds. These crows, in flight, some in their mutual arrangement of their travel together are more nigh to a bevy of migrating swans, than any species of their own kind.The freedom in expression, that creation demands,if you may say so. Rather thank god so, the authorship agrees. Yet ambiguity prevails, as some credible van-Gogh critic would have had rather visualized the birds, in flight, in disarray. The authorship laments, and thus chooses not to contemplate over the intellectual projections of the road, or the simmering tumult waiting to explode, from within the very breasts of the sky.

The piece as a whole , including all accounts is and must be considered an emblematic creation, of the the post impressionist influence. Similar brush strokes constitute the wind sweeping over the wheat crops, as well as the mysteries within the depths of the sky. The objective of the post impressionists,as we must believe, was to move on ahead from under the shadow of the impressionism and its obsession with reality. In that glorious case dear readers, the rest as we know it as, is just history, and heroine. Taking it all the way down to the bone yard. Thus while imagined slightly skewed on the horizontal plane, the crows assuredly appear to be in array like the swans, albeit slightly messy. Ambiguity somewhat abates. There is no questioning a mind fried on opiates.

Yet ambiguity reigns supreme, as the piece in discussion is sighted by some to be the last painting to have graced the artist’s lifespan. The list of contenders is long when it comes to be exclusively anointed as the last painting of the master. Time is all we have, and we rather choose to be ambiguous, and thus conclude this particular discussion without any prior notice. Until next time.

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unnamed

Part 4- Love, laughter, luxury: the metamorphosed Delhi

Dear Qi,

It has been long I know. Ever since I boarded that fateful flight on July 6, I haven’t had a second to reminisce. The earlier plan was to stop, see, go but Delhi enamoured me, most unexpectedly. As soon as I landed in all my hippiedom, the leviathan on my back, the daunting red stroller at my heel, I was gathered and buried deep in the arms of lush green & earthy brown.

The city after seven years looked like it had been manicured into a model for lavish living. Each red brick and cream coloured dome was breathing new history, writing a new future. If kindness could be measured, I’d be drowning. From renewing old sinews to weaving new wreaths, from the newly renovated “non-smoking” India Coffee House in Connaught Place to the mushrooming liberal East side.

I witnessed the urban underbelly in the graffiti adorned subway selling Tribal handicraft, I tasted Korea in their cuisine, soju (Korean vodka) & graphic novels in the seedy by lanes of garish “Punjabi” Pahadganj. I found an isolated English cabin called Sakleys in the midst of concrete buildings. As my friends kindly awarded me with the title of “cloud carrier”, we revelled on roads mirroring generous dark clouds.

There were pleasant incidents & experiences, then there were events that wringed my heart with regret for ever doubting the Dil (heart) in Dilli (Delhi).

My friend and I fixed an appointed hour to meet at The Monkey Bar in South Delhi. With my obsession for arriving on time, I was there early waiting for her.

A pleasantly smiling young man in the restaurant uniform walked up to me,”Do you play the guitar?”

I glanced at the tall black cover standing erect behind my chair, “I’m still training on my own”.

“I used to perform in a band in Manipur. I had to migrate to Delhi for money,” wistful glint of a smile.

“Would you like to play?” I offered. He jumped at the opportunity and played a local love song. His colleagues thronged to our table, lavishing attention & conversation as I waited for my friend to arrive. Next thing I know, word had spread far & wide till it reached the owner, coincidentally a friend’s acquaintance and I was on my way to getting pampered fancifully at their premium eatery!

After a brief stay with this friend in Gurgaon, I set out to brave the potholed, monsoon frothing streets. An eager cab driver pulled close, it was an Easy Cab with an aged, smiling face behind the wheel. I propped in with no knowledge of a cheaper means of commute.

 

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“How much would it cost me from here to East Delhi?”

“Roughly Rs.1100”, he said calculating quickly.

Sensing my disappointment, he offered, “I could drop you till the next metro station, it would be cheaper & quicker.”

He looked genuinely willing, but the skeptic in me wanted to smell a motive.

I smiled instead, “thank you”, the wheels set in motion.

“Are you not from Delhi?”

I decided to be honest, pushing my boundaries, “No I’m from Bombay.”

As though a switch flicked, “You’re from outside? Let me show you around Gurgaon”. Before I could protest he’d wheeled us into a less crowded lane which looked safe but desolate. There he began waxing eloquent of the skeletal structures which would soon turn into architectural marvels. He insisted I stop at a popular eatery for their unmatched Biryani. Had I not been attending to anxious friends I would’ve indulged.

“I’ll drop you to the nearest Delhi metro station. The station in Gurgaon is always crowded.”

I mutely agreed mentally calculating the money in my wallet.

After myriad stories of Assamese tradition (Did you know Assamese people add Tsri before their name to signify that the person is alive and Tsargiya for the dead?), his hometown in Assam & his 25 years of driving on Delhi streets, we finally arrived at Chhatarpur station.

“How much is it?” I enquired, partly pleading in my head to not exceed the currency in my wallet.

He chuckled, “I turned the meter off long back madamji. You are a guest here, you need not pay.”

How would you react if you were in my shoes? I was simply dumbfounded, even partly relieved. I still insisted to pay something for I had run out of words to acknowledge the goodness of his heart. He accepted a hundred rupee note and began to hand me back lose change.

I guiltily resisted but he politely insisted,”Keep it. You’ll need it at the metro counter.”

lisbeth

I thanked him profusely and walked up to the counter. He was right! The change was more than sufficient, he had returned a lot more than the metro fare.

Over that one hour metro ride, I couldn’t stop smiling. Each time I felt there was a hint of a wayward glance or a wanton comment, I battled it inwardly with the strength of his kindness. It was like my Petronus charm.

I fall back upon your wisdom Qi. The world is a mirror, a reflection of your fiercest fears and brightest beliefs. I hadn’t just survived the city, I had conquered it. I allowed Delhi to cradle me to its bosom and in return, I’d found a new home.

My friend says kindness is like a boomerang, you put it out in the world and it finds you, no matter where you are. I promise to put it out without inhibition, I promise to harness the wisdom of affection, silently, unendingly. I promise to spread your legacy.

Until the next turn in the road,

PC

Priyanka Charan

 

 


magic
Magic

 

lisbeth
Lisabeth

                                                     Artwork By Judit Szakter

 

 

Trapped

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Jarring Orange

Amidst shrieks and wailings, Raghav opened his eyes to look up at weird plasticky tentacles.

He could not understand what it was because he was all of 4 months old again. This intervention was supposedly a device by his worried mother to pacify him.

It was a dingy room with orange walls which peeled at multiple places. Accentuated by the bleak bulb, was the orange jarred young Anita’s head.

Odds and ends lined open shelves engraved in the walls like morse code. “Why doesn’t he stop crying!” she spat.

It really was a mistake.

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Melancholic Blue

Tut-tut-tut. Raghav knocked at his son’s door.

A dull yet sturdy thud had interrupted the early morning musings. There was no answer. The blue walls of the swanky drawing room somewhat resonated with his mood.

It had been a while since his son had spoken to him in more than two syllables. While he had given up on any reprieve, he knew he was failing in his responsibilities as a father. He knew nothing about his 25 year old son’s friends, work or habits. When had they steered so apart? The mad rush to earn money had managed to do what he had feared all along.

Raghav hadn’t yet opened the door.untitled-1


Shades of Grey

Anny held Raghav tightly while their bodies throbbed in embrace. She hadn’t been touched so, ever in her life before. The pain was blinding but blissful — the euphoria only punctuated by the greyness of the ceiling she saw above her. They trailed to the edge of climax; almost animalistic in the throes of passion. “We should have used protection,” said she panting between heavy breaths. Raghav wasn’t worried. She was not his first in this bed.

He detested condoms.

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Shroud

Loud music filled the boneyard. Dirt on the floor reverberated in rhythm. Tiny


specks of cocaine, as
white as the walls around, slid from a packet on to the table.

It had been a few years since his last time during college. According to his friend, this lot was the most face numbing, he had ever tried.

Raghav was eager and jittery more from the lack of layers in the cold room, than apprehensions. He made 4 lines with a practiced hand and cleaned off every last grain on the glass top.

It hit his head like electricity. It felt different. Numbness overpowered him and he fell to his death unceremoniously.

Tut-tut-tut. Raghav knocked at his son’s door…

By  Ankit Kumar

 


 

 

jazzy-curves
Jazzy Curves by Nidzoni

 

 

Love, Sugar, Self

I went scavenging for the meaning of love, no philosophy here, simple words that put a thought to context. As vain and vile as the first result on GOOGLE search. I’ve been tracing my pattern of an upsurge in love, inversely proportional to how consuming any activity is at that point in time. I felt severity, an all obsessive need for destruction, the all or none, the need to go all the way till the end and race back to start like you never existed, in this universe or my parallel one. It’s a game you see, a kind of politics where there’s indifference or destruction. I choose to not know you till you follow me halfway across my doom. Then, I surrender to your whim and start scraping you hollow, inch by inch, nook and cranny, till I’ve become you and inanely in love with this self I create. Then, as you begin to retreat from my hook, I dig my claws deeper until you’re nailed to my door like the inanimate collar of a comfortably worn out sweatshirt. Warm, habitual, homely. Then, it’s time to go. To run from you like anathema, like an empty cake tin that has been licked clean without any trace, nothing to offer except the faint waft of vanilla essence. The sugar in my blood has ebbed, the danger is diluted by your lack of mystery and attention, my interest wanes and I selfishly go chasing another cookie or caramel or chocolate even. The curse of our times love, is the idea of soul mate, monogamy, ritual and habitual love. It begins like freshly baked bread performing with an extra swell in the breast on a well stocked table till crumbs rest unattended to feed vermin. How can every fiber of my being sync with your scattered vibes? How can you satisfy flesh that is naturally designed to lust after rainbows? The body can’t eat bread and soup in a lifetime when there’s sweetmeats of unending range to offer. It tears me to love you and want you knowing you’ll only be that bakery display I yearned for once on a sugar high.

This body will decay, age, turn into a shrivelled bundle of loathing and repulse. When you begin to mark your journey in the creases and marks in the folds of your sagging skin, you would’ve arrived at your daily doze of optimum sweetness, maybe an artificial sweetener. Spend yourself on me like saccharine to boiling water. Blend and dissolve in me, leave me like I’ll leave you. A bitter dessert, sweet bacon, burnt caramel. I’ll remember you for the way you left and trace it back to the sugar you left me tasting on my lips. While craving strawberry compote.

Priyanka Charan

 

novemberrain

Artist: Ana  Mutavdzic

Artwork: November Rain