Another Thursday!

Friday 2 p.m.
The two meditations today so far make it obvious that progress is continuing. However, it is boring in between times. So much time and so little to do! Maybe I'll go out and get on a bus. "A dead rat? Ah, what company that would be!" (Sam the Man).

8:30 p.m.
Just finished a cracking meditation there! Thank God for the wonderful bliss because the rest of it has been difficult. I wasn't expecting it to be difficult today, but it was. I did get a bus to Princes Street and then walked home. I was going to walk through the Botanics and sit in the hut, but it started to rain. I wasn't in great form during this. Unusually bad form.

If I'd been doing this at the Samye Ling, I think after the first few days I'd be feeling like doing practically bugger all else but meditate. It's harder here. The proof of the pudding will be on Monday morning when I'm sitting on the bus going to work, and close my eyes.

Smoking joints for weeks before Tuesday has plenty to do with the difficulties between meditation sessions. Tomorrow I'm due some credit card pizza, but that's fine as long as I eat it. However, my good friend with the unfortunate diagnosis may be down tomorrow night and I don't think I can sit down with anyone right now and not want to smoke a joint. We'll see. But I have moved on. Just didn't expect it to be so hard.

10:20 p.m.
It said on the news that after the appearance of the fascist on the telly last night that 22% of people would consider voting for the British National Party at the next election. This does not work north of the border here in Chilly Jockoland because we already have Rangers supporters and Orangmen taking care of these nasty basturns.

I'd also like to apologise to all the flatheids for being so insulting. Renunciation is a very hard thing to do. I cannot do it. I have tried to disdain material wealth, and having a career, or even a decent jobbie. I don't eat dead animals. I tell myself: Don't smoke; don't drink; don't ejaculate, and fail at all three. This is pathetic. But continually trying and trying and trying is taking it's toll. I think I'd like to experience the gross. Go to the chip shop and buy one of those steak pies, the really, really gross steak pies. And peas. Fung whores! Fung somebody! Even just fung yourself!

I don't have the causes and conditions, or cannot find them, to become like Milarepa. Some cats got it and some cats aint.

I'm fed up having no money. You can't make proper choices if you don't have the choice because you've got no money. I'll have to write something that will make some money. The last time I did this I actually made some money, at least enough to go on holiday to Nepal. Then I told the boy I didn't want to write wank books, but that's what the boy was trying to make money from. Fung books! I've been reading some crime books recently. I can understand why folk write them, but I cannot understand why folk read them. Crap writing; crap dialogue; just crap. Surely, I can do this!

Cynicism. It isn't really cynicism. It's the market. People have to make money. I have to write a wank fung scene for this book. I wonder if Elvis is on YouTube singing "Love me tender" on the Sullivan Show. I'll go and look.

I've got things I should do. I should make some money so I can give it to my daughter so she doesn't have to have a jobbie. I'll have to say bye bye to the anything more than four hours meditating a day. I'm just going to be normal and meditate for only four hours a day from now on. And pretend to be normal.

As the black spots are getting handed out here there and everywhere, I cannot say I am happy with this.

When I enter richness and fame, of course I will retreat to my cave with my dentist and my Philippino sex slave. I would like to be comfortable. My tao? Where is my tao? Be a man, Hotboy! Be a fung man!