Saturday 1:50 p.m.
The bloggage may diminish over the next couple of weeks. My emails might not be getting answered. But some folks do not seem to think it is normal to take a camping stove and a sleeping bag to the hut. I wonder why, Jack? It's because only homeless basturns and nutters go and stay in leaky, draughty huts when they could be snuggled up in their beds at night. They don't get ra bliss, Jack. They just don't get ra bliss.
At first, what I'll try to do is nine hours a day. That's meditating from nine till noon; two till five; and whenever in the evening that is conducive to maintaining some toe-hold on family life.
Have to be ready for Monday. The dance of death with the Nicotine Dragon will cease when the bob hope runs out this evening. Tomorrow I may do some head banging. I have forty pints of home brew in the cupboard, but I will try let it sit there after this weekend.
I finished reading Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde last week. I thought I'd read it before, but maybe I hadn't. What a brilliant writer Robert Louis Stevenson is! I'm so glad he's Scottish.
Shame about him being a flatheid. The Mr Good and the Mr Bad, this dichotomy which we all know we have in us somehow, has actually to contend with Mr Blissful. You only get to meet Mr Blissful of course if you make the necessary effort, and, since almost everyone is too dumb to meditate, almost no one gets to meet Mr Blissful, or Mrs Blissful, or Ms Blissful, or any blissfulness at all. Which is not my fault.
I'm hoping Mr Blissful blows Mr Good and Mr Bad out of the water, and reduces them to means, some skilful, some unskilful. All I've got to do over the next few weeks is lay off the dakinis, the booze and the tobacco, and I will be happy!
I took the photie of the snail up at the allotments this morning. The weather is dreich, rainy and overcast. I meditated for a bit in my room (I haven't got the lobby to myself much these days!)and that's the view from where I sit against the door. It strikes me that I should maybe sort the room a bit so I can do headstands and such in there. I had a photie left so I took one of the wall. Everyone is there apart from Teresa and Lama Thebten Yeshe. The leaves were a gift from under the Bo-tree.
Under the Bo-tree
Joy without Passion
Love without Desire
Radiant Light.
8 comments:
Most blissheids don't know how to do a retreat if they're not paying someone for the privilege. Good on ya. Cut out the middle person.
PS you'll know you've achieved true freedom when you're ready to cut your own hair.
PPS - the brown thing at bottom left of the wall photie. Like the Berlin Wall fragments, but a souvenir of H-block. No wonder it's in a plastic bag.
Albert? The brown thing is a leaf from the cosmic tree's relative. You can have it for a grand. Hotboy
I say!
Did the snail taste good?
MM III
I say!
If the ball goes over the line between the goalposts - is it a goal?
MM III
Shame on you! Does the pope pawn the holy shroud? First the crusty towel, now the special dead leaf. If only you'd told me you were hard up, I could have bunged you ten grand and gone without Packer's friends for a night.
Albert? Two grand then? Hotboy
Two grand isn't enough to change anything. I would never forgive myself for raising your hopes only to see them dashed when the credit card company grabs it off you.
Post a Comment