Wednesday 3:50 p.m.
It is hard to imagine being better at sixty one. So I'm in my twenties and someone comes up and says this is how you are going to be at sixty one.
No jobbie! Hurrah! Hurrah! You are not starving in the gutter! Hurrah! You have enough money to pay your bills until you are dead as long as you will be dead in about five years. Hurrah!! Hurrah!! You spend as much time as you can manage in higher meditative states.
HURRAH!! HURRAH!! HIGHER MEDITATIVE STATES! WAY TO GO! WAY TO GO!
(Sorry about you being a flatheid and all, and not knowing what a higher meditative state might be, but that's not my fault, I'm afraid. And as death approaches, well, good luck with that flatheid stuff!!)
It looks as though I'm selling about a book a day to folk with Kindles. This is as good as it could be from the point of view that I once wanted to be a writer. Well, I've got a reader. Just one a day. But there's probably going to be someone somewhere in the world reading one of my books today. Of course, it will have been written by someone long gone, but ... passing on thoughts through writing is weird.
On the downside, I'm a fat, old basturn and I can't run anything like as fast as I used to be able to. You've got to work to be normal. Go and stand on Wishaw Main Street if you want to be normal. We're not doing normal here! We're doing exaggeratedly wonderful! Generating wonderful thoughts! Arising from nothing, abiding in nowhere, declining into the void.
So the boy in the book says it's all mind. There is nothing but mind. This computery thing is mind. Hmmm? But is has an existence outside of your mind, Hotboy. This is obvious. It is both obvious that it has an existence outside your mind and that it exists in your mind, because there is nowhere else for it to exist.
They're stretching your mind, Jack, these Tibetan Buddhists. I think they'd like you to think that this mind that everything exists in is bigger than moi. It's the Holy Ghostie Men. You have to lose your meagre loneliness in the big sense of self. It's okay with these joes until you realise there is a jump which takes you from experience into faith.
Well, we don't do faith. In the Disbelieving Congregation we do knowledge. Fortunately, we have seen the big self. But this is not such a help since the big self is not here right now.
7 comments:
Another five years of blissbloggage?
One reader a day is good going, but maybe you can do even better. What was that book in the 70s, full of clues to the site where a treasure chest was buried? The writer cleaned up, and so could you. I'm sure Albert would come to the party with some gold bars, if you'll do the digging.
Happy Birthday. I hope there is cake.
Funny how time piles up on us and runs over us.
I've pretty much given up the writer thing, except for writing one book a year in Nov. One of these years I'll give that up.
When I die I'll have the flash drive tossed in with me to be burned and they will all go back to data heaven.
Marie! Lousy day for travelling today. Wet. Oh well. Hotboy
Albert? It would have to be hidden in the allotment. Could you organise this so I don't have to dig it this year? Hotboy
Done!
I say!
Abdul knows someone in his village who is almoost as old as you are. He is extremely venerated, and people come from miles around to hear his wisdom.
Unfortunately, being so old, he has no teeth left, and no-one has any idea what he is actually saying, so they simply go away thinking whatever they want to.
It seems to work.
MM III
Mingin'! Fortunately here in Jockoland you get to bite on if you give the dentists pots of money. Hotboy
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