Saturday, 31 January 2009

Vase Breathing Body Parts!

Saturday 2:20 p.m.
I can't do justice to this and it's not very interesting for the too dumb to meditate, but I do think I should try to describe what is going on with this juju somehow. Part of the problem is, like everything else, it comes in bits.

Talking about sheaths and envelopes might not be much use. It's a state of mind where a lot of different things can interpose and happen there.

Say you were a flatheid, heaven forfend! You have the state of mind you are in just now. It is unstable, but forms the frame just now for thoughts to arise. You affect this state of mind by positive/negative thinking, beer, etc. If you are not a flatheid, you are aware that other states of mind, far more varied, are available elsewhere. When you sit down, these other states of mind become accessible in one way or another. They also lack stability, but as your investigations continue become far, far more fun.

Your preliminary state of meditation might be very calm and peaceful with not much happening with the mental traffic and this is very good indeed. You will get bliss. Is there a bliss sheath? Does it interperse and run through in the envelope?

It is in this sheath that you are trying to imagine yourself a deity, or imagine the three channels.

Nothing exists in the manner of its appearance. Bliss has got bits. Add-ons, arising globules, great expansions. Sometimes it comes from nearer the base, especially if your doing vase breathing. You're concentrating okay, but this isn't like calming meditations at all, although it is as well somehow. You're concentrating on the stages of a technique. This will make bliss concentrate on various points or symbols. Totally amazing if you can do it right at the brain chakra. Caboom! But although there is the white light solid state whoeee bliss, all this vase breathing malarkey is blasting all kinds of other flavours and tones up your whatsits. And it's constantly changing and developing and you just don't know what you're going to get next sometimes. I can't think of anything more exciting or interesting that you could possibly be doing.

It takes a lot of time. Tonight I'm going out with some old dolls. When I look around at my deep, dear friends, I can ask myself what did you get for your time? Older. I can do much better just sitting on my bum.

Friday, 30 January 2009

Vase Breathing Body!

Friday 6:37 p.m.
Hotboy, you are a useless basturn! The only thing you were ever any use at was sitting on your bahukkay, so tell the spam robots about the bliss. No 0ne else is going to tell us about the bliss, so get on with it!

Whether your mind has a body or your body has a mind doesn't really matter. We seem to have a mind and a body somehow. I'd like to tell the spam robots about the bit which might be in-between.

My assumption is that everyone is more or less the same in this. There's nothing weird about me, is there, Jack? Certainly not, Hotboy!

I'd been in pretty good half lotus sitting positions for a while before I started to feel these weird subtle wrigglings moving in my upper back. It was kind of pushing you gently into alignment after a while. Strange wrigglyish sensation. Sometimes it's there and sometimes it aint.

Around about then the internal sensation - with your eyes closed - might sometimes feel as if you were a light beam in Star Wars, or sitting in one. This won't happen too often. But that just depends.

Sometimes you feel a fantastic uplift in this. There seems to be another kind of force inside you by this time. Or there is a variation of this force from not there at all to making you understand why it's symbol is a cobra. You feel like that with the hood. It's the way the force is pulling and stretching over the top of your shoulders. This has to be kundalini.

So where is it? Is it in your body? It feels as if it's acting in your body. I do not feel a that I have total control over this. I do things (or don't do things) and this appears. I am a host.

Sometimes it feels like an envelope or sheath overlying your physical body.

This just naturally builds up through keeping on meditating.

Bliss you can get without this. Sheet lightning bliss doesn't seem to need this envelope, but somehow they seem connected. They want to simultaneously arise. That's the way they want to go.

But where is this stuff acting? In your body, but how? Where? Through what?I saw a filigree of thin tubes when I had my first inner heat experience, but god knows what that was all about. But it doesn't seem to be either physical or mental, but somehow in between.

For no reason that I can think of, somehow this sheath can become connected with the air you're breathing. The after effects of the vase breathing don't seem to be affecting your body so much. The upwardly writhing fabulous-beyond-your-imaginings sensations seem to be operating in the same sphere as the sheath. What else could they be writhing up? So get your sheaths out, boys and girls. That's where the party is just starting to happen.

Anyway, you don't need all this malarkay. I was getting shedloads of bliss from straight calming meditations. But there's nothing to compare to the great Vajrayana, the juju of jujus!

On a personal note, I've now got a raging nicotine addiction, but have been very happy, I must say! I haven't really said anything about the bliss yet, but I might later.

Thursday, 29 January 2009

This Modern World!

Thursday 4:35 p.m.
" Diogenes often visited the famous prostitute Lais, and said that the difference between what costs money and what does not cost anything one can see at the nearest brothel.

There are many anectodes about this man, who laughed at aristocrats and is said to have walked around Corinth with a lit lamp in daytime, looking for "a human being". The most famous one is the one about his meeting with Alexander the Great. When Alexander asked the cynic, who lived in a barrel (actually, it was a huge clay jar), what he could do for him, Diogenes replied that he could step out of his sunlight, something which greatly impressed the king, who said "truly, were I not Alexander I would have wished to be Diogenes". "

I wonder what he'd have said to Alexander if he'd given him a mobile phone.

To Saint Antennae!

Thursday 4:15 p.m.
I was trying to upload a photie of the beginning of the universe, which I took a little later, but the computery thing is refusing to upload anything. I knew it would never last! The Alien Creatures from Outer Space would have been interested in that.

How do you take a picture of the beginning of the universe, Hotboy? Well, Jack, you take a photie of the candle in the darkness of the hut on your mobile phone and then it gets squooshed so you can email it to yourself, and then it's a squooshed photie of a candle which looks just like the start of the universe, only a little bit later.

Why didn't you just upload it using the USB port cable which comes with most mobile phones. Apparently, but not the Nokia 2760. They don't sell it in the box and they won't sell it separately. Carphone Warehouse, a great thunderbolt is coming your way! So I went to PC World and this other place at the top of the GorgieDalry Road, a computer connections fetishist's dream, and the boy there said it was particular to the Nokia brand and I should ask at the Carphone Warehouse. So I went on their website. There is a cable, but it is a Nokia charger by USB port cable, whatever that is.

I've never seen one of these cables. I wonder if it's an urban myth. St Antennae, please send me a cable and one in which both ends fit.

Tuesday, 27 January 2009

First Dates!


This is a photie of what I can see in the lobby whilst doing the bliss.

Grace Kenny asked me to go to a dance with her when I had a Saturday job in Galbraiths in Parkhead.

Was this the start of the sexual harrassment, Hotboy? I'm afraid so, Jack.

Her old man picked me up and drove us back to Bellshill. My heart sank as I walked into this hall and saw the King Billy posters all over the wall. The Dalmarnock Orange Lodge. Hotboy is not a common catholic name since we were turncoats long ago. Big mistake! Anyway, I survived intact and never considered that to be my first date since the whole thing was so weird, what with having tea with her invalid mother, and there was no winching.

What is winching, Hotboy? Winching is snogging in Scotland, Jack. Also, used when going out with someone, as in: Ah'm winchin' Bridget Sweeney.

The first time I went out on what I regarded as a proper date I was with John Doyle's sister in the balcony of The George Cinema. John was wanting to go out with her pal, Mary Feeney, who was his sister's best pal, and maybe his sister didn't want left out.
Folk offering up their sisters to you was pretty unheard of in Bellshill, but I'm not sure about down in Viewpark.

John and I discussed how matters stood when he went off for the cokes and crisps during the interval and nobody saw any of the movie during the second half.

John and I knocked around with much the same group at school. John was Celtic mad. His old man had died when he was young. He remembered his old man holding him up to the window on Saturday evening pointing out the orange basturns who were coming home from Rangers games. Even at the time, I thought this was a bit uncool. We were told to ignore the scum. Anyway, he was Celtic mad.

He started playing with Ayr United when he left school and one time I met him while waiting for a bus at the top of the Laburnum Road in Viewpark and he's got all these newspaper cuttings in his inside pocket. Hilarious! Anything at all that mentioned his name. John Doyle Falls Down. It didn't matter. So he's trying to show me these and I'm bending over laughing and so is he.

After I read the Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, I started remembering folk I knew who were dead. He went on the list. Fiery, sense of humour; I did like him.

I was watching Celtic on the telly when they were playing Real Madrid at home once and John Doyle scored the winning goal with a header from way out. Playing against Real Madrid and scoring the winning goal. A childhood dream come true if ever there was one! Definitely my best sporting moment!!
Yesterday morning I wakened up at three a.m. in a cocoon of bliss which stayed with me as I turned over and lay on my other side. Never happened before. Hurrah!

Monday, 26 January 2009

Magic Tatties!

Monday (2)
A dakini came to see me last night and said: Hotboy, since you have poured the barrel of beer down the plughole, I grant you two wishes. I said: That's very nice. I'd like some skunk please so I could get proper out of my box for a change instead of having to eat soapbar like the poor people, who can't even buy that at the moment for love nor money.
For the second wish I would like you turn the publishers who have rejected my wonderful novel xxxtherealmccoyxxx and, therefore, condemned me still to gainful half-employment for the foreseeable, into potatoes. And thus it came to pass. Three wee packets of skunk (thank you!) and potatoes into potatoes, except these can now stick to the door, thus showing their magic properties.
If you buy the mitts, the tatties are for free. If you just want the magic tattties, that'll be a hundred grand anyway, please.

This is supposed to be a photie of potatoes, which I have been forced to put up for sale. I reckon I can cover everything for about a hundred grand i.e. giving up the jobbie, going to Sikkim, three years in the hut, and levitating. For a hundred grand I think I would let the millionaire philanthropist who is reading this in on a fifty fifty split of future earnings from Bliss Productions, my new marketing company. First of all, I have not had any offers yet for the well used training mitts which I put on sale here before.

Buying these mitts along with the old crepe bandage would be a great help to the world when this cloning malarkey is up and running. Nearly thirty years of sweat and some blood. You're bound to be able to produce millions of Hotboys with kit like that!

And why would this be a good idea, Hotboy? Well, Jack, if you don't believe in rebirth or re-incarnation, and in the Disbelieving Congregation we don't believe in anything, well, I must have a genetic predisposition to the bliss. That's obvious. Of course, when evolution has progressed a bit, everybody will get the bliss from day one, but until then it is better to give the blissheids a bit of an edge in the old evolutionary stakes because most of them don't seem to be very interested in breeding and would much prefer to loll around in the bliss.

So if you buy the mitts for a hundred grand, I will also throw in a bag of magic tatties and promise to come and get you out of hell when you are dead. If you are a millionaire and refuse to cough up, the photie is what happened the the last millionaire who refused to give me money. A lightning bolt! It wasn't my fault. It's just that things like that tend to happen to people who upset moi. Thor was a Viking of course. Tons of viking DNA in the mitts!

Saturday, 24 January 2009

This wonderful day!

Sunday 1:40 a.m.
Retributions from getting pissed last night meant I didn't start to meditate till about 1 p.m. After about two and a half hours of that, I was remembering what George Orwell wrote in Down and Out in Paris and London about going into work in the kitchen of a Parisian restaurant feeling totally hung over, and then sweating for a few hours, and feeling fine again. (I didn't need George Orwell for that today, but I just love his journalistic stuff, like The Road to Wigan Pier) So I got into the Beer Monster Reduction Vehicle and put on two pairs of trousers ... three sweat shirts, the bin liner, the woolly jumper, the hat, and my now on sale training mitts. Skipped for twenty minutes and then did five minutes of non-stop punching. Then to the bath to listen to Radio Scotland and the footie. This is a wonderful life!

Bliss bath and started meditating again for another couple of hours. The Domestic Bliss came home (I love the Domestic Bliss, I really do!) and she didn't mind that I went into my room and stared at a candle for another couple of hours.

Then it came on! The heat! Maybe after five hours meditating today, but a bad start really due to being an asshole.

Where is it all going to end, Hotboy? Well, Jack, it might end with me walking around in the cold and wind wearing only a simmit ...

I'm most pleased that Diana Jansen has stuck with this bloggy. Hello, Belgium! A simmit is a singlet, or a vest i.e. modelled by Cary Grant in It Happened One Night. (Ion ... the gurl in the book looked like Claudette Colbert crossed with Marlene Deitrich)

And I suppose I won't be able to have a duvet on my bed, and I'll just be glowing all the time. But this is in the future maybe.

So it's not all that hot today, but the heat is coming through. What is most interesting is the the non-duality comes through with the heat. This juju is not about keeping yourself warm in the cold. When you're doing it in hot places, you can imagine streams of cold water encapsulating you. It is about non-duality. It arises, abides and decline in mind... that's everything... you, the candle, the candle flame, everything.

What can I say about that? It's a lack of separation. A lack of alienation. Everyone needs to get some of that into their lives.

At ten o clock or so, I started drinking home brew. That's two weeks of not drinking, four nights of drinking, two nights of not drinking, and this is the second night on the beer. But I poured the rest of the barrel down the sink, so there is no beer left for tomorrow. I've never given up drink and dope at the same time.

I don't think anyone is really interested in this autobiographical stuff about me being a kid. Mary Queen of Scots was nice about it. Maybe the spango yogini is interested in that since she is a tim from Bellshill. I was going to write about my first times out with gurls, etc., since I'm done with being up to fourteen. Snogging in the George Cinema, etc. Should I go on with that, Michelle? I despair about telling folk about the bliss and all because if you were really interested in the bliss, you'd be meditating and you wouldn't need me to tell you about it. Hmmm? Maybe whenever something really good happens in the hut I could take a photie and post it, and just say, and then I took a photie.

There is a genre these days concerning folk having a horrible time when they were young. I can't write the bloggy as notes for this kind of a book. This has been a wonderful existence for me. It's been good at the beginning, good in the middle, and it's going to be fabuloso at the end. Allah Akbar! Kyrie Eleison, Kyrie Eleison, Kyrie Eleison!

Mare Photies!

The allotment!! Near the end of January!

This Modern World

Yahoo! I sent the email from my wonderful mobile phone to myself and have uploaded my first blog image. No cables required. Hurrah! What a smart basturn I am, I am! Anyway, the photie is of my boxing mitts which are about twenty nine years old. Also, what are left of the bandages I used to have when I went to the Meadowbank Boxing Club.I think there is a blood stain on the bandages from a skint knuckle. I can now offer these items for sale as cloning material for the future when the world will need more hotboys and less flatheids. I'm so chuffed. I think I'll try this again!

Friday, 23 January 2009

Dangerous Sports For Boys!

Friday 6:06 p.m.
I went to the Carphone Warehouse in Princes Street, the folk who sold the mobile phone to my partner. The boy said I needed a USB port cable. He said they didn't sell them separately. Since there wasn't one in the box .... so they sell you a mobile phone that'll take photies the size of a postage stamp, but you can't buy the cable to get them onto your computery thing. I can't even give it away since it was a gift. I'd like to drop it down the toilet. I believe they don't like that.

Near the bottom of our garden in Thorndean Avenue there was a burn (a rivulet) which ran through some rough ground and then joined another two burns. Where these burns converged they had to build two aquaducts for big pipes because of the way the ground dipped. Anyway, one was quite near the ground, but the other one was maybe eighteen feet off the ground from the the top of it. On the top of it, this girder box for a big pipe, were straight lines of steel about six inches across, interspersed with cross and diagonal girders to help form the latticework.

One summer we used to play tig and one man hunts on top of this lattice works. You could bend over and run along the pipes, but if you were confident and being chased it was much better to run along the top. So there's an eighteen feet drop to the burn here and two fences at either side with metal spikes. We used to run full pelt along the top of this.

I was coming back from the pub once in my twenties and remembered doing this. I climbed up on top of the girders boxing in the big pipe and walked across. Even sober it was dangerous. In fact, crazy.

Down the wee lane at the top of Orbiston Drive and make a left and you were on the rough ground, later a swing and football park, which led up to the bing. This was a big bing. Firstly, there was the red shale bing and on top of that the black tipper. There was a huge almost vertical drop down from one side of the big dipper, but on the other side there was a grass covered flat bit then the slope down the shale bing. That side was climbable though very, very steep. I remember racing down this shale side with three other kids when I was about seven. It was important to win, but the faster you went the more liable it was that you would go head over heels. Jake Carlin, who never won anything else, was brilliant at that. There's like a bow wave of shale in front of him and in his wake as his wee legs were kind of swinging weirdly from his knees. It was a long way down.

Jake lived right across the road from me and Peter Robertson and a kid in a single child family stayed next door. It was like being middle class being that kid. He was always clean with shiney shoes. He was never allowed away from his gate. He was not allowed to go up the bing and wasn't really allowed to play with us either. So we had to go up the bing and down the woods without him. Soon it was as if he never existed at all.

So we're up the bing this day and this other group of kids from a few streets away have got this big tyre. It was much bigger than a car tyre. Like a tyre from a tractor maybe. Anyway, they've got this tyre up the bing somehow and they've got this younger kid who has agreed to go inside this tyre which is going to be rolled down the bing. Even we did not think this was too smart, but this younger kid is going to get plenty of points of bravado if he can pull this one off. I'll never forget it. The kid is wrapped like a circle inside the tyre and off it goes. As it's getting faster and faster, it hits the rough ground at the bottom of the bing and starts to bounce high in the air, and everyone is standing with their mouths open as it bounces and bounces like something out the Dambusters and jumps the fence and whacks with a shudder into the back of this prefab. The kid, looking tiny by this time, gets out from inside the tyre and you can see he's trying to escape the garden, but he's falling down and getting up away down there like something from Charlie Chaplin.

We were free when we were kids. We did not have mobile phones. We could go where we liked. Several times we walked to Blantyre to David Livingstone's Memorial. This was miles and miles away. We found a place to climb the wall since we didn't have any money, but none of the attendants ever said anything to us as we went around the museum in the big house there.

Of course, between the ages of ten and fourteen we played an awful lot of football.

I can't think of a better way to be brought up than as a kid in Bellshill. There were lots of easily accessible wild places like the Glen, the Hammies, the Black Woods and Thankerton. The schools were good, like rocket ships for the dispossessed. We had the NHS for running repairs. Nobody had much money, but we could go to the pictures and the baths, and nobody went hungry. None of the tims were bad to their kids that I ever heard of, but even at that, best of all, as soon as you were out to play, and that could mean anything, there were no adults. When we were out and about, we kept away from grown-ups. Sometimes we ran away from them. Girls, of course, stayed closer to home. Middle class boys were brought up like girls. What a shame! They wouldn't even know what they were missing.

The bliss at the auld maw's went wheeeeee today, but there's no point in telling the too dumb to meditate about the bliss.

10:49 p.m.
The pizzaman said he's been getting phone calls from folk he hasn't heard from in years. What's the matter with this country? You can't even get arrested with dope these days, but I don't know how to buy it. By Wednesday I will have saved a hundred pounds due to not being able to score for a month. I could buy a lamp, a sodium halide lamp for that. Except I don't know where to get that either. I think I'll have to find some young people to speak to. They don't smoke soapbar. The proper bourgeois. Thank god! They've got money. They snort Charlie. They smoke weed. God, I'll have to be sociable.

I don't think that's the attitude your supposed to be adopting, Hotboy. Bugger it, Jack. Eating soapbar kept me in. The progeny of the progeny of the evil bourgeois have all grown up. I'm sure they'd love to speak to moi. I'm smart enough for that, so I am!

Thursday, 22 January 2009

More 12 to 14 stuff!

Thursday 22:33 p.m.
' He's never early. He's always late. The first thing you learn is you always gotta wait.' The inimitable Lou.

Sober and straight. Got to be good for the purification and accumulation.

I spent three hours this afternoon meditating up at the hut, and took a lot of photies on the mobile phone. There is no cable thing with it and no mention of uploading these photies onto the computer in the 65 pages of instructions, but I'll enquire tomorrow at the Carphone shop on the way to Bellshill.

The Clydes came from Bothwellhaugh, a wee mining community between Bellshill and Hamilton, known as the Pailis. They had a huge bing there, but the mines were closed and the community shrank away. By the time the Clydes came to stay across the fence from us in Thorndean Avenue, in the upper storey of the next block of four council houses, the folk left in the Pailis were going a bit Appallachian.

Rab Clyde was a couple of years older than me and well built. Rab knew stuff that no else knew. It was Rab who knew how to make arrows from brambles, stripping and heating the stocks, burning the tips to make them hard. You could learn stuff from Rab. It was Rab who started us making expeditions to the big rubbish dump up by the Strathclyde Park. We started collecting copper wire and burning the plastic off it. The best thing was the old teevees which had some kind of copper wire transformers in them. We ended up with a ball of copper about half the size of a football and took it to the local scrapyard up by Stewart's Street. The man gave us fifteen shillings for it, an eyepopping amount of money to us.

Then there was the tatties though we were less successful with that. Rab said you could go into tattie fields after the farmer had cropped them and find lots of tatties just lying about, and so you could. We spent a day up Thankerton filling a couple of hessian sacks full of tatties, but were so knackered by the time we got back to Orbiston Drive that we gave most of them to Mrs Lynch for a couple of shillings. Mrs Lynch had thirteen children to feed.

He also showed us how to catch baggies (minnows) and stickelbacks using wine bottles with the hollowed, concave bottoms.

The place where Bothwellhaugh used to be in now under the huge toxic loch they created when they expanded Strathclyde Park.

The Clydes were only there for a couple of years. His old man got a job in the Durham coalfield and they moved to England.

Only done about six hours meditating today so far. But I sat up in bed last night for a while because ... well, sober and straight and I don't go to sleep so easy.

Wednesday, 21 January 2009

Hitting More People!

Wednesday 11: 52 p.m.
Sober and straight, but it's not my fault, Jack. You can't drink home brew every night and the pizzaman cometh not. Dearie me! My order went in two days before Christmas.

I'm really looking forward to meditating tomorrow. There will be a bliss tsunami, so there will!

Before I was eight, we moved from Orbiston Drive round the corner to a four bedroomed flat, downstairs on the right in a block of four. By the time I was twelve the auld maw was always asking me to play with catholics, but I paid her no heed. She couldn't tell me what was wrong with the non-catholics I hung around with. They weren't really protestants since they'd never been to church and never went to Sunday school. Heathens really.

The McAuleys, Rab Clyde and Derek Gibson lived in Thorndean Avenue, my new address, and none of them were tims. This was never a problem for me or them until the marching season came up. Orange Walks should be banned, so they should!

The Orange Walk once culminated in a gathering down the Coo Park, which was near where I lived and all the aforementioned went over to collect ginger bottles and made what seemed like a lot of money returning them to shops. Being a tim, I wouldn't have felt comfortable mingling around these drunken knuckle dragging morons. The McAuleys and the Clydes were decent folk. Derek Gibson's stepfather was an evil looking basturn and a truly horrible person. He wouldn't let the council paint his door green. He played the Sash at full volume through his wide open living room windows on the 12th of July just to let all his catholic neighbours know what an evil basturn bigot he was.

Derek was a good kid in a bad spot. He was late home one day from hanging around my gate and his mother went at him with a big stick. I remember being flabbergasted.

When I was about thirteen, Derek and I came out of the George picture house and crossed Main Street to head off home by the bing ...

For those spam robots not fortunate enough to be Scottish, a bing is an artificial hill made from coal mine workings. In England it might be called a slag heap, but the one near where we stayed was a huge thing.

We're just heading down the road which goes by the cop shop when this polis shouts Derek over. I didn't know why he knew Derek's name. So he tells Derek there's been a burglary down the North Road and he knows it was him. Derek had a bit of a stutter sometimes, but when the polis stopped us, he could hardly get a word out. He's looking down at his feet, his face beaming. He managed to tell the polis he'd been at the pictures. The polis asked what the picture was. Because Derek was having such a hard time talking at all, I told the polis it was a tarzan picture and told him the plot, which included an elephant stampede, if I remember right.

They sometimes let Derek out of the approved school after they put him away. The odd weekend maybe. He said he liked the approved school. Considering his parents ....

The first letter I remember writing told someone about a fight I had with Derek. He lost the rag with me in the middle of our street, where as kids we played quite a lot. He was trying to hit me when I punched him in the face. Straight right. End of fight. Kids fights are often like that. Well, I thought they were, but none of the fights I was in ever involved any wrestling.

One day me and Rab Clyde were walking in the direction of the Coo Park when we were stopped by two kids from the prefabs. They were trying to intimidate us and take stuff off us. One was the same age as Rab, about two years older than me. The other was a tim kid my age who went to a different school. He had a wee bit of a reputation at the time.

We'd been making arrows out of brambles and these kids wanted them and some other stuff. Rab was for giving in, but I said no. The big kid on the other side, who had a stookie ....

For the spam robots from Belgium, a stookie is a plaster of Paris cast, in this case for a broken forearm; a formidable weapon.

Us Hotboys were never very good at being humiliated, so I says no, and the kid with the stookie says I should fight the other kid for the stuff. Okay. So I'm standing braced there and the other kid comes at me. Another straight right. The kid with the stookie stopped the fight to save my opponent from further punishment. Then they made their excuses and left us alone.

And so to bed! What a truly fortunate creature I am, I am! What a fortunate creature I am!

Sunday, 18 January 2009

Hitting People!

Sunday 23:52 p.m.
Semi-pissed whilst awaiting better things ....

The first person I hit was called Peter Robertson. He stayed next door. When the auld maw moved into the house where I was born, from the room and kitchen, she stood in this new kitchen and burst into tears because she didn't know how she could afford to furnish three bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen. Peter Robertson's family stayed next door.

So I'm standing in the kitchen and I'm crying and I'm telling the auld maw and my old man that I'd been hit by Peter Robertson with a stick. I was told quite clearly to go out the back garden and hit Peter Robertson back with a stick. Few feelings have ever matched the satisfaction of walking up to Peter Robertson and hitting him with a stick. Immediately, he rushed back into his house.

It was a dark place. Only once was I ever in there and I remember well the piece the woman gave me, a jeelly piece. Later, I found out that Peter Robertson was sometimes beaten up and stuck in a cupboard, left with no clothes on, etc. All I knew was that Peter Robertson used to sometimes explode and hit you for no reason at all.

Orbiston Drive was new and they had a front garden and a wee wall outside these council houses. One day Peter Robertson exploded on me and I punched him on the nose, bursting it and knocking him over the wall. That was an amazing thing to witness. He went over the wee wall and landed in his garden.

In the dark house, his old man looked like the evil funger in any horrorshow, was murdered by asthma and his wife had several kids by other fathers. Peter was very sexualised by the time he was six, so God alone knows what he saw in that house next door. They were prods of course. Most of the prods were just like us.

My brother Silvest, row of forty medals on his chest, big chest, came home for Xmas from Birmingham and gifted me two sets of boxing gloves and a punch ball thing. I was seven or eight.

Wee boys work out pecking orders very well. By the time I was twelve and in the last year of primary, I was the bully of the school. I hadn't hit anyone for at least three years.

This was wonderful. I didn't hit anyone. No one hit me. The playground was safe. Much bigger, stronger kids deferred to me. But you had some responsibilities, even if you didn't want them.

We were playing this prod team from Uddingston, I think. Mr Murphy, who was a wonderful human being, wasn't so hands on; not the kind of joe you'd go up to to complain about threat or harassment. So while we're cuffing the prod team as usual, there's a lot of aggravation coming from the support along the lines of ... We'll kill yous! We'll get yous afterwards!

There was a lot of abuse as we're coming off the park. As I'm changing, the inside left comes over and says these screaming folk are going to kick his head in, etc. I hardly looked up. I'm concentrating on getting changed. I say: Just follow me out the door,

So the first joe out the dressing room is me and this never fed to fight wee protestant basturn stands in front of me and I push him in the chest and say: Fung off! into his face, and everyone walked out behind me and trooped past and it was as if these dwarves weren't even there.

My first bloggy photie was going to be the two trainer mits. They're very old and falling apart. I've been biffing in them for thirty years. So I opened the box and inside there's two cables and a plug and this mobile phone thing. Also, there is a booklet with 65 pages of instructions. It was very hard to get it back into the box, but at least I managed that. Fung it! If in the 65 five pages of instructions there is the instruction for BEAM ME UP, SCOTTIE! then I might be interested in opening the box again.

I read in the papers yesterday that Amir Khan's next opponent is going to be Antonio Barrera. The latter is 35, which if far too old to fight with plates in your head at that weight. Or any weight. I should ask the sensei and reverend about this. Should I bet the whole of my overdraft on Barrera or not?

Still scaling the heights with the bliss. What can I say? I am unable to be a living saint. Oh, ra bliss, ra bliss, ra bliss!

Saturday, 17 January 2009

The Football Game!

Saturday 11.42 p.m.
The semi-final of the Timmons Cup was the only time I played football in front of quite a lot of people. It was a game played at Bellshill Athletic's ground which was right off the Main Road. I was twelve years old.

Someone said if you wanted to imagine what it's like to play on a full sized park when you're about twelve, you should quadruple the size of the football park for adults, particularly the goals. But when you're a kid, the full sized park is just the right size.

St Columba's school in Viewpark, just a few fields distant from Bellshill, were unbeatable. Everyone knew they were a brilliant football team and everyone knew they won everything. I was left half for The Holy Family school in Mossend and we didn't have a man teacher in the whole school. Mr Murphy came and took us for football and he worked nightshifts in the steelworks, the kind of wonderful man who is prepared to put in some time with kids. He had two kids at the school. But we never did any training for the games, we just played.

I got my pal Derek Gibson into the ground for nothing. He came in carrying my bag. I told him I'd kick a ball over the stand so he could run round there and knock it. Once Derek knocked a display machine gun from the Army Recruitment bus. When they chased him, he turned round and they all dived into the ground. Approved school. He had fantastic ginger hair. He probably doesn't meditate. I hope he found himself somewhere.

St Columba's Boy's Guild at the time were also unbeatable. Slight hint of scandal with the feely gropey, don't go near big Frank with the groin strain motif about them, but Big Frank was a great coach as well as a great pervert. Anyway ... Mr Dollans was the head master of the primary school team and well beyond reproach.

Joe Donnelly, Kevin Something, John Murphy, Jake Carlin, Mick Cassidy, Hotboy, Brian Hart, Somebody, Somebody, John Banks and Peter Verrichio (Verrikia) were our team. I've never tried so hard at anything. Afterwards, because it was the summer coming up, I had blisters all over both feet. It was the only game where I was given a half orange at half time. We drew four each. Brain Hart, who was the best twelve year old player in the world at this time, kicked a ball from the very edge of the eighteen yard box, and as it was sailing over the head of the goallie and into the net, the referee blew for full time. Apparently, that is not allowed anymore. When the ball is in flight. We were four three down, and we murdered the bums.

We had to replay the semi-final. John Banks was injured and they put our goallie on as centre forward and someone who didn't ever play football was put in our goal. We lost six nil.

Anyone who saw the game when he cuffed them four each said it was the best game between twelve year old they'd ever seen.

John Doyle played on the wing in the first game and in the second game he was their centre forward because Mick Cassidy couldn't live with his pace.

I'd been taking speed for three days and I was on my own when it was announced on a flash news thing that John Doyle had electrocuted himself while doing it yourself. He was playing for Celtic then. Well, that's another post. I'm not going to blog anymore about ra bliss. It's a waste of time. Flatheids just don't get ra bliss!I'm going to present photies of the hut and blog about being young in Bellshill. So there!

Sunday 11:28 a.m.
Posted the previous whilst pissed. I blame it on the bob hopelessness and the resultant grande ennui. But I've just had an hour of the fabulous bliss and I'm now most cheerful!

Friday, 16 January 2009

The Great Vajrayana!

Friday 9:10 p.m.
It seems impossible to describe to flatheids just how wonderful it is to be engaged in the great vajrayana, even in the minor way in which I am engaged. This morning shortly after awakening I felt so pleased that this little beam of blissiness was emerging from around my head and chest, but it was more and better than it had been. Then on the train to Bellshill there was such bliss in the meditations and I could tell just how much things had moved on from the last time I was on that train, just a couple of weeks ago. At the auld maw's, I was meditating at the foot of her bed, listening to CDs by the lama and Tai Situ (?), and it was fabulous to feel the bliss the way it was, just fabulous. Take a deep breath and blow your mind.

Things are always improving. There is always great hope for things ahead. This is not like growing older the way my contemporaries are growing older. It's a shame for the too dumb to meditate, so it is.

It's nearly a fortnight since I had any beers. I weighed myself tonight and I haven't lost an ounce! How can this be, Jack? It must be the magic soup once again, Hotboy! How else can this phenomenon be explained otherwise than by the magical qualities in the home grown vegetables. However, tonight I made the magic soup for almost the last time. There are no more onions left. There is only part of a cabbage in the freezer. There are still a loads of tatties. This means I've fed myself what amounts to my main meal mainly (apart from lentils and spices) from the allotment for about the last six months. It's always a sad time when you have to buy less tasty stuff from the shops. I suppose the weight will fall off me now. Oh, well.

I've been persuaded that the mobile phone (still in the box) can take photies and these photies can be stuck on this bloggy. If this is true, I will post tons of photies of the allotment and the hut on the bloggy as soon as I can get the mobile phone out of the box.

If it's so bloody clever, Jack, why can't it talk to you? Why can't it tell you the intructions instead of you having to read about all this crap and nonsense. I'd like to go to sleep like Rip Van Winkle and waken up when all the contraptions can talk to each other and sort all that stuff out without you having to bother your arse.

Thursday, 15 January 2009

Vase Breathing update and miscellany

Thursday 9:20 p.m.
Bought fags at nine. But there will be nothing to smoke tomorrow, so that's not too bad. But it's still bad. Funny how the addictions switch about. I'm not in the slightest interested in having a beer! I meditated for at least six hours today.

The wobbly I had with the concentrations on the navel chakra symbol before Christmas has long since wobbled off. Plunging into the mega bliss around the mid-brain chakra is all very well, but it's not what you're supposed to be doing. The Bliss of Inner Fire says you have to visualise the symbols inside the blue central tube and heat the navel symbol till flames seem to come out of it and go up the blue tube. Though my visualisations are improving all the time, it's slow going and this visualisation is still well beyond me. But the bliss just keeps getting blissier. Even then I have no idea what it must feel like in terms of bliss when you've got to the point where the symbols are vivid, radiant and vibrating. There's a lot of bliss out there, Jack! Anyway, it's time to get back to the navel symbol and do the hard work.

The Australian Ladies Volleyball Squad would like to know if they should stay or go, Hotboy. There's trying to hard, Jack. There's definitely trying too hard. Let's remember effortlessness and the squealing and yelling and bouncing up and down. There's always a middle way.

The Ongoing Purification

Thursday 11:55 a.m.
I've had no beer for the last eleven days and I've only had tobacco during last Sunday. I've had soapbar since then, but it'll be running out again tonight or tomorrow. God knows what's going on with my usual soapbar connection. I am very strongly tempted to go out and buy fags for joints today.

Usually when you have a fantastic feeling, it's easier to recall it because it's probably attached to some memory; something sexual or sporting, or something happened anyway to make you feel good.

Sheer bliss isn't like this. It happens in a vacuum of events. Last night I ate a bit of soapbar, did fifty of Mr Iyengar's yogic jumpings and had the bliss bath. If you eat a bit of soapbar, the evening's taken care of. Then someone's on the telephone for hours and you can sit in the kitchen and do the bliss again. This is the bliss!! The stuff after eight that you can't normally access because you're getting pissed or talking to flatheids or whatever. This is the bliss you get at that time of night or because you've already meditated for seven hours that day, or because of a combination of both .... but you can still get it under the influence of soapbar. You just can't get it as good as you would get it. But afterwards you're still stoned and that's quite nice.

Last night is the first time I've really wanted to drink since the New Year. Habituation. I often drink on a Wednesday night because I don't have to get up on Thursday. I knew if I just waited, the desire would go away and probably be replaced by another desire, which is what happened. I'll really feel like a drink tomorrow night if I smoke joints today and finish the soapbar.

The taoist boy said the essence of his stuff was quietness and effortlessness. I reckon you can get into effortlessness by eroding your false sense of self, by not wanting the unhelpful things, by thus getting the frustrations out of what you're doing. Today would be a lot more effortless if I didn't want the joints. I'm suffering the consequences of poor choices in the past. I may make some poor choices today, but the meditations have been spectacular so far. So back to the lobby!

Monday, 12 January 2009

Sweet Dreams

'Well, we started off on burgundy, but soon hit the harder stuff.' The inimitable Bob.

None of that malarkey around here, Jack. No, no! No drinkies for the past eight days. In fact, no nothing for seven days and then the soapbar arrived. Hurrah! So pleased! I smoked it with tobacco (Bad Boy!), but won't do the silly thing and smoke it tonight. I'll have a bit to eat anyway.

Last week I kept remembering dreams. They were vivid but not lucid. Here's three of them for what they're worth, probably nothing.

1) I was having a drink with Sean Connery. Sean was reminding me of how I used to stay over at his house in London on my way to-ing and fro-ing. We were having a bit of a laugh. Sean was getting a bit pissed as well and I went into the kitchen for more drink. Sean Connery is, of course, a symbol of Scotland these days, being Sean Connery, the most famous Scotsman there is.

2) I was playing football for Hibs during the time Alex McLeish was manager. Though nobody seemed to be noticing, I was rubbish and hardly got a touch on the ball. One time I was lying in the penalty area with the goal at my mercy and couldn't move my leg to hit the ball. I pretended I was injured to see if I could get off the park, but Alex was making me go out for the second half.

(3) I had a bag of money and stuck it in the cupboard. Pots of money. I'd organised the lottery so I could win it, but when I won it, I didn't know if I was going to give the money away, as I'd promised, or keep it. I was pretty sure I was going to give it away, but there was a fair amount of clinging and craving, and I was waiting for the allegations of fraud to die down.

Without the drink and drugs sometimes I was not getting to sleep for a while last week. I was bothered about not getting to sleep last night, (the soapbar was totally unexpected!) and went to the chemist's for some Benylin, a cough mixture.

It was just after I got another Cormac McCarthy book from the library. The assistant asked me which bottle I wanted. The small bottle or the big bottle? I bought the big bottle. There'll be a lot more coughing to be done this winter, says I, still in Cormac McCarthy mode. Yessirreesir!

Saturday, 10 January 2009

The Prologue

Saturday 12:18 p.m.
After having to read the criticisms from the imperialist big game hunter in the comments to the last post, I'm not going to expose any more of my wonderful writings on this bloggy. But I've just re-written the opening. Only sixteen more re-writes to go. Here it is:


The walls of the Saracen’s Head hadn’t been repainted in over forty years. The double doors were straight across from the bar and the only patrons apart from the man asleep with his head on a formica tabletop were sitting in the corner, more or less facing the doors. The barman had just slipped through the back.

The detective sargeant was wearing a dark suit with an overcoat more expensive than you might expect and he was flanked on either side by two other men of slightly smaller stature. None of the three men seemed seriously intent on their drinks and gave the impression of waiting for someone, or something.

The double doors burst open and a traffic warden almost ran into the bar then stopped. He wore a beard, which seemed on the point of falling off, and his face underneath was reddened, the sweat pouring out of him. The whisky and the massive quantities of multifarious stimulants he’d been taking made his eyes like saucers on stocks, the pupils hugely dilated. He pulled a gun from inside his tunic and started quickly towards the table where the three men sat, firing as he went.

Bullets went into the throat and head of the men on either side of the detective sargeant, and he was shot in the shoulder, but then the gun jammed and the man dropped it. Pulling a sharpened chisel with a custom made hand guard from inside his tunic, he grabbed the detective sargeant by the hair, knocked over the table as he dragged him onto the floor, stabbing him on the head and neck as he went.

A furious madness gleamed out of the face of the man doing the stabbing, his lips pulled back, the gnashing teeth bared. He held the head down by the hair and the detective sargeant came to rest on his back as he was stabbed in the throat, then many times in his face, then several times through both eyes. He was dead by the time his forehead was stabbed and stabbed and stabbed and stabbed and the stabbing didn’t seem to ever be going to end. The skull collapsed there and the traffic warden didn’t stop stabbing then. There was blood all over the traffic warden, the corpse and the floor by the time he finally stopped stabbing and scooped out a handful of the policeman’s brains. He stood up and threw the brains, still in a mad fury, at the wall. Then he stood up and stretched out his arms, one hand still holding the chisel and shouted in exultation.

Traffic Wardens, ya bass! Traffic Wardens, ya bass! Traffic Wardens, ya bass!

Two other traffic wardens came running through the door then, one with a red blanket which he threw over the killer’s shoulders. The other picked up the gun and the beard and all three traffic wardens rushed out.

The drunken man asleep with his head on the formica topped table claimed later that he never heard a thing and neither he did.

No idea why the indents copied like that.

The last sentence is very Cormac McCarthy. That's the trouble with reading stylists when you write. Maybe I'll see if I can get him out of my system before I go on.

Hotboy sat on the big bay with Jack the Spam Robot hanging onto his shirt and they rode down through the pass and by the clump of mesquoosh bushes near the side of the canyon walls and there did not seem to be a better way in all the world to travel in a starlit night than on such a fine animal as the big bay which blew and snorted and rolled it's eyes to the heavens as they came to rest by the creosote clump. Hotboy hobbled the horse and spoke to it in Spanish all the time while Jack the Spam Robot laid out a blanket for him and a tea towel for himself since spam robots are very small. They lay there and looked up at the stars. After a long while, Jack spoke.
Do you think there's a God?
I reckon there might be.
Do you think he's outside all them stars and looking down on us?
No, I reckon it's inside us and looking out at all them stars.
But it don't usually feel like that.
No, it don't.
Why do you suppose that is?
I reckon we get in the way.

The Observer once ran a competition to see who could do the best parody of Graham Greene. Graham Greene's brother won first prize. Graham Greene was third. I love that story.

Thursday, 8 January 2009

First Draft

Thursday 3:35 p.m.
Just finished the first draft of the first page on my crime book, which I might call Cold Killing. I couldn't remember if stimulants narrowed your pupils or widened them. I suppose someone out there might know that.

<>Cold Killing

The walls of the Saracen’s Head hadn’t been repainted in over forty years. The bar section was small, mostly empty on this slow afternoon in the springtime. The double doors were straight across from the bar and the only patrons apart from the man asleep with his head on a formica tabletop were sitting in the corner, more or less facing the doors. The barman had slipped through the back.

The detective sargeant was wearing a dark suit with an overcoat more expensive than you might expect and he was flanked on either side by two other men of slightly smaller stature. None of the three men seemed seriously intent on their drinks and gave the impression of waiting for someone, or something.

The double doors burst open and a traffic warden almost ran into the bar then stopped. He wore a beard, which seemed on the point of falling off, and his face underneath was reddened, the sweat pouring out of him, the massive quantities of multifarious stimulants he’d been taking making his eyes like saucers. He pulled a gun from inside his tunic and started quickly towards the table where the three men sat, firing as he went.

Bullets went into the throat and head of the men on either side of the detective sargeant, and he was shot in the shoulder, but then the gun jammed and the man dropped it. The traffic warden pulled a sharpened screwdriver with a custom made hand guard from inside his tunic and, pulling the Detective Sargeant by the hair, knocked over the table as he dragged him onto the floor, stabbing him on the head and neck as he went.

A furious madness gleamed out of the face of the man doing the stabbing. He held the head down by the hair and the Detective Sargeant came to rest on his back as he was stabbed in the throat, then his face, then several times through both eyes. Though he was dead by this time, his forehead was stabbed and stabbed and stabbed and stabbed until the stabbing didn’t seem to ever be going to end. The skull collapsed there and the traffic warden didn’t stop stabbing then. There was blood all over the traffic warden, the corpse and the floor when he finally stopped stabbing and scooped out a handful of the Detective Sargeant’s brains. He stood up and threw the brains, still in a mad fury, at the wall. Then he stood there with his arms outstretched, one hand still holding the screwdriver and shouted in exultation.

Traffic Wardens, ya bass! Traffic Wardens, ya bass! Traffic Wardens, ya bass!

Two other traffic wardens came running through the door then, one with a red blanket which he threw over the killer’s shoulders. The other picked up the gun and the beard and all three traffic wardens rushed out.

The drunken man asleep with his head on the formica topped table claimed later that he never heard a thing and neither he did.

Can't fix the formatting, but you get the general idea. Maybe after it's been re-written seventeen times in longhand, it'll be alright. So it was started, the first draft of Cold Killing on 8th of January, 2009.

All The Pretty Horses

Thursday 12:44 p.m.
I've just finished reading All The Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy. If I lived to be two hundred years old, I doubt if I could ever write a book as good as that.

I hope I'm feeling a bit better today, but I'm not sure yet. But the purifications have been working wonders. The last few days have made me realise I don't have to go anywhere to get this juju done. I've got as much seclusion as I need here. I've even got a hut. All I need to do is lose the jobbie. I thought for a while back there that I'd get books published if I stopped drinking beer. I don't know why, but that makes some kind of sense. At the stage I'm at, I could write books and meditate. Anyway, there's a full barrel of home brew in the kitchen, but I haven't got the slightest interest in drinking from it.

Wednesday, 7 January 2009

Blessings In Disguise!

Wednesday 3:39 p.m.
Weariness and lassitude seem to be the main components of this resurrection of the remnants of the previous disease. I didn't get out of bed today till the afternoon, but I'm not coughing and spluttering. Any disease is liable to be a little depressing, but I've just finished putting in an hour and a half in the lobby and, as I've said before, the bliss doesn't have the disease, depending on how your concentration is affected.

But your mind is bound to become calmer if you don't do alcohol or tobacco. I'd eat some soapbar, but I don't have any.

There's a chair I sometimes slump into in the kitchen. Proper practitioners don't even lie down to sleep. In retreat some of them never lie down. I think the lama said he let his students sleep for three hours, but sitting up. Anyway, last night the Domestic Bliss was out and I decided to sit up properly and do the juju ... this was after ten at night.

The chakra symbols were much more radiant than they had been at any other time of the day. I wish I knew why that was. I went into the lobby to get a bit more serious about it and when she did finally come in, at the back of midnight, I didn't stop immediately and say hullo like I usually do. I'm going to have to start coming out of these meditation properly, especially when they're coming on like that. Thank God the Dom Bliss is so tolerant of all this!

If you are interested in the great vajrayana, the juju of jujus, vase breathing methods, or anything to do with Buddhism, this blog is not a reliable source of information. If you meditated a bit and read a few books, you'd know as much as moi.

Spam robots who come to this blog regularly, (Hello, Jack!) may remember that sometimes I suffer from unasked for thoughts concerning the old ultraviolence ... like imagining nutting folk, and stabbing them, and poking their eyes out. Unfortunately, I reckon if you can think thoughts like that, you are more likely to be able to do such things. This is not reassuring. Anyway, it seems that Milarepa and Gampopa were disturbed during their meditations sometimes by "visions" of some kinds of nastiness.

Most folk can probably accept these days that there are some kind of channels in your body, like the meridians the accupuncturists use. I think there is proof that you can affect things by manipulating these meridians ... you can make folk sober up faster by encouraging their lungs to expel more alcohol ... but the Tantrayanists might tell you that thoughts seem somehow to be involved in these channels, or nadis. Milarepa told Gampopa that he was having a particular kind of nasty thought because of blockages in his channels.

Whenever a "vision" of viciousness in my mind when I'm meditating declines, immediately it's replaced by a big ooomph of bliss. Don't ask me why this happens. I don't know. Another reason to only believe in ignorance.

Now I will spend an hour or so, trying to begin writing this new novel which, or course, starts with some joe walking into a bar and stabbing someone ninety nine times in the head with a screwdriver. Do you think that will help diminish the unwanted thoughts about the old ultraviolence, Jack? It's getting dark, Hotboy. Go back and sit in the lobby till after five!

Tuesday, 6 January 2009


Tuesday 2:12 p.m.
Instead of opening at lunchtime yesterday, I locked the doors and curled up on the floor under my desk and took a wee nap. Knew I couldn't be right, so I called in with another disease today. Well, it's the same disease; it's just come back.

At the weekend I met this young man who was so phobic about dentists he was on the strong painkillers and awaiting a general anaesthetic for extractions ... in six weeks time.

You wouldn't want to be like that, Jack! What could be worse? Well, a lot of things, but you wouldn't wish it on anyone.

Before he was born, his old man was phobic about the dentists, but not quite as bad.

The kiddo bites her skin at the side of her nails. She only started doing this when she was about seventeen. I couldn't believe it. Her mother did the same thing at her age. Whenever the kiddo starts this in front of me, I tell her to go do it in the toilet. For a while, I thought her mother must have started biting his fingers again when I wasn't there, and thus the kiddo picked up this habit. But no. What a coincidence!

I saw this programme about identical twins once. These two had been parted as kids. They didn't like each other when they met up again; same dress sense, drove the same car; married to the same type of woman. What really drove one of them mad was the other one suddenly sneezing in the theatre, just before the curtain came up ... to startle the folk nearby. He'd already done this a lift and he did it on both occasions just before his identical twin, who also had this endearing wee habit.

Of course, we have to take responsibility for everything we do and are completely autonomous as regards will and all that. Oh, aye. Sometimes it seems as if we're living out bits of other people, dead ones at that.

What do you think, Jack? Well, Hotboy, if your head is jammed up your backside, how can you expect to be certain about anything?

I watched a documentary about the Thrilla in Manila last night, but they didn't show the whole fight. Ali was wanting his gloves cut off after the fourteenth round, but Smokin Joe's trainer called it off first. Joe Frazier couldn't see, but he was not wanting it stopped. His trainer had seen eight men killed in the ring and well done to him. He didn't regret it afterwards though Joe wouldn't speak to him. It is a bit difficult to justify men doing that kind of thing to each other, but when I get broadband I must see if I can download the whole fight. I'd love to watch it straight through. Something heroic.

Sunday, 4 January 2009

Normality Returns

Sunday 6:45 p.m.
Is it safe to come out now, Hotboy? It's over, Jack. It's over. Thank God it's over at last!

10:23 p.m.
On my first night of giving up the beer for a year, what happens but Poisonous phones up and asks me out for a drink! He never does that! Unbelievable! I resisted and will be going to bed tonight sober and straight. Hurrah!

I meditated tonight and the bliss on the bus tomorrow morning will be even more blissy than ever. Hurrah!

Saturday, 3 January 2009

The Bliss!

Saturday 2:10 p.m.
Are you here to vent your crabbitness on us again, Hotboy? No, Jack, I'm here to tell you about the bliss. Hurrah!

A couple of days ago, I got up from sitting at the kitchen table, closed my eyes and went into tadasana, which is the just standing up pose. There wasn't a whole lot of difference in the bliss which immediately arose from the bliss I get at the beginning of sitting meditations. Just standing there was very blissful.

Despite drinking last night (bet you didn't notice that, Jack!) and the nicotine withdrawals, the bliss came on this morning unexpectedly as I lay in bed flat on my back. You could feel that there was going to be heat in there as well.

Of course, I have reported previously about the bliss in the bath and the occasional bliss which comes on when I'm lying on my side. If I can get the bliss to come on while I'm walking, I'll be a very happy man indeed because then there will be the potential for having the bliss all the time.

Last year I only made it to the Samye Ling during my summer holidays, but the couple of weeks I spent down there were of huge benefit and as soon as my financial circumstances improve, I hope to spend a lot more time down there.

It is a shame that none of my friends in the beautiful, wonderful city meditate, but I suppose that illustrates just how amazingly fortunate I am. Telling my flatheided acquaintances about the bliss has been a complete waste of time. But folk land on this and my old blogs regularly after googling for vase breathing, so I should keep blogging about that since there probably aren't all that many blogging about this stuff.

Solitary realising foe destroyers are said to spontaneously appear in countries where there is no dharma teaching or any buddhism at all. Would you fancy that, Hotboy? It's hard enough the way it is, Jack. Jesus Christ was probably one of them and look at what happened to him!

Whilst awaiting the assembling of the caravansiera, I will hide in here and continue meditating. And it's nobody's fault but mine if I behave like an asshole again tonight.

Can I vent some crabbitness now, Jack? Basturns! Basturns! Basturns!

Friday, 2 January 2009

Happy New Year!

1:20 a.m.
This is a public forum. It is not like a diary, which I hope to pay more attention to next year. There is about three or four people who land on this bloggy regularly, and that makes it quite hard to stop writing it. And it is the only outlet for writing when you are drunk. That's for sure! Hmmm? If I stop drinking next year, I could stop blogging and give everyone a break! Happy New Year to one and all though! Especially Happy Everything to folk with small children. It's very tiring and very hard! Hotboy

Samsara, My part in its downfall!

Friday or something, 11:27 p.m.
I have the usual week. Here it is.

On Sunday nights I usually drink some beer because, boy, do I not want to go to fung work the next day, the Monday.

On Monday nights at half ten, the footie comes on the teevee; the footie from Saturday, which you can only see on terrestrial telly because of the basturns and currants who have cut up the world like this. You best be sober and straight when you go to bed at half ten so you can do the next day with brio.

Monday night and you should go to the unhumpable at the Theosophical Society to meditate because this josephine has done the three year retreat and you have to respect that. (BTW flatheids don't know how to have respect for that because they're flatheids).

On Tuesday, one tries to do the tai chi class with the old and infirm. Please don't take up physical jerks when you realise that it's the last round-up you're in. Just don't be such a sweetie eating moron to wait till you're dying before you get off your arse.

On Wednesday, having meditated at least three quarters of the time at your jobbie, go home. Fung them! Go and sit in the hut for a few hours and get those stupid basturns out of your hair. Probably get pissed on Wednesday due to the pressure.

On Thursday, on the wonderful Thursday, I get all the time to myself apart from an hour or so when I've got to wait for the Dom Bliss to go out to the singing and dancing. Thursday is mine! All mine, all mine! My beautiful Thursday.

On Friday, I go to Bellshill. This is for other people. Sometimes it's tricky. I used to have a hard time, but it's not so bad now. In fact, since we started listening to the tapes, it's been a great day, apart from the lack of stretching. Usually, I get drunk on Fridays due to the sense of relief.

I love Saturday. It's mine again. If I've been quite good on Wedneday and tried hard from then, Saturday is affirmation and accumulation.

If I can avoid associating with the too dumb to meditate on Saturday, Sunday is a wonderful day! When I worked full time, I realised that if I could meditate up in the hut for four hours on Sunday, then Monday would just fly past instead of being the grossness of the usual.

It's the 42 bus or the 29 bus on Monday morning. You get onto the bus and pick up the free newspaper and put it in your bag along with the Times, sit down, close your eyes and check out the bliss.

Obviously, take the bliss out of this and it doesn't seem like much. Of course, flatheids don't get the bliss!


On Wednesday afternoon, whilst sitting in the lobby doing the bliss, and I must say it does accumulate, I got a phone call from Brian Wilson. Dearie me! Then I had to come home frozen on my bike and pissed, and go to sleep in the bath. Then I had to get going again and mix with all these old people at New Year. Actually, a bit of a victory since I'd managed to restrain the expectations of the Domestic Bliss and got to come home early doors.

But it doesn't stop then. I hate, truly hate this time of year because of the unremittinglessness of the flatheids. Why don't they all just die and go to hell and leave me alone? Tonight, at least the Dom Bliss went out singing and dancing without me, but tomorrow it all cranks up again. I have to make the tour around Lanarkshire.

Last week I was okay. They were unable to move because they were diseased. Not this week.

You've no idea what a lovely week I can have if the too dumb to meditate, those prehensiles, the evolutionary tails, just fung off and leave me alone.

Tell me, Hotboy, why do you have this problem? I can't stand being close to these morons without drinking myself to death. I think you should be allowed to be armed and you should be allowed to shoot flatheids on sight.

Anyway, the reason why I hate this life at this time of year is because it doesn't fung stop! I have another day to do of it. I've got to get drunk tomorrow night as well. Who could bear to be in the same conversation with the stupid basturns and not get drunk? On Monday I will feel horrible on the bus.

Who's fault is it, Hotboy? It is my fault, Jack. I should have accepted my tao. You're a nasty basturn, so get a gun and just shooty shooty the lot of them.

No nicotine today for maybe ten days. No affect of course. Didn't even notice it!

Thursday, 1 January 2009

The Great Yoda Joe!

Ist, 00:22 a.m.
I'm going to run out of drugs quite soon. Maybe in ten minutes. Tomorrow I certainly won't have any, but I will have a humungous nicotine addiction. Fortunately, I'm training to be a jedi warrior and I hope my training helps me when the train hits the buffers.

This is a post for the spam robots who were too dumb to follow the five step programme in How to Get Out of YOur Face On Air. This is for the more physical among us ...

How are you training to be a jedi warrior, Hotboy? Well, Jack, since I got my back foot anchored, my tai chi is reaching new levels. When I'm attacked by the mutant zimmer frame vampires, I'll be able to run away now. Also, the flatheids don't like to hear about ra bliss, so we should stop that because they're never going to get the bliss anyway.

Also, to spontaneously strike back, one requires the calm mind. Boxers all know this. If you're thinking, you're funged. You have to look into their eyes. And when their eyes move, you move because they've started to move already.

Prince Naseem fought Antonio ... whoever ... and that boy fought like a jedi warrior. I couldn't see this fight ... and oh, how I wanted to see the Prince getting a doing ... but I saw it later. Totally concentrated, that boy was. Only two plates in his head at the time due to the aneurism thing, but ...

So the Antonio boy wasn't trying. He was doing. This requires great mental strength and resolution.

Of course, later on he had to fight the wee Phillipino, and against such talent there was no way to persevere and Antonio took a beating, but never blinked because that boy was a jedi warrior. I don't know how many plates he has in his head now.

Anyway, the walking meditator from Skye is quite right on this. You do it or you don't do it. No trying. Great resolution and mental strength is required.

What are you going to do when there's no soapbar and you can't drink and you don't smoke fags anyway, Hotboy? I think I will cry and cry and cry, Jack. You have to develope great determination and resolution to get through the first bit. After that, of course, there is just the increase in happiness. The tail of the New Year is still wagging. Mucho flatheids still to come. They don't want to hear about the bliss.

The first step in how to become a jedi warrior is to imagine a picture of the boy in the Turin Shroud and mutter Kyrie Eleison, Christi Eleison to yourself. Get it over your head and bring the juice down. Then tell yourself you're never going to hit anyone ever again.

The Poisonous has a kid of about eleven. She goes to a tim school. This is a wonderful thing because the great Holy Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church is the great bridge to Tibetan Buddhism. She knows the words of the Hail Mary. I think the next time I see her I'll offer her a pound for every ten minutes she can get the photie of the deid boy up on the computery thing and not look away, muttering the mantra. It won't help. She won't do it. If I told her it would turn her into a jedi warrior... well, flatheids aren't very aspirational. The bourgeois ones would all rather be accountants. Dearie me!

The New Year!

Thursday 2:34 p.m.
I sat down for the first meditation of the day feeling a bit fashed and bashed, about one o clock... this is the bliss! This is the bliss! Straight into it as soon as my eyes closed. I wondered for a moment if this was the best meditation I've ever had.

I have been given a priceless gift, something that you can never repay. If I stay alive and stay well, I know this will be surely the best year of my life. It's good to be able to say that and know that it's true. I'm on the path, Jack! I certainly am!

It is a great shame that all the folk I was with yesterday will never in their lives experience anything as wonderful as the hour or so I've just spent meditating. From where I'm sitting, being too dumb to meditate seems like a great curse.

This year I'll try to be good.