12:10 a.m.
Tummo is maybe translated as force, not bliss, not light, but force. May the force be with you. It's a different part of life when you walk with the juju and feel some kind of force. Flatheids just don't get the bliss. The bliss is part of the force. To do the juju you need purification.
Most of the unfortunate creatures I know do not need so much purification because they are nice, sensible, middle class folk and don't do bad things to themselves. They do not do good things to themselves either. They just kind of get along as flatheids in the flatheid world of stupidity, and don't really care about anything except self satisfaction in the realms of idiot desire. This is being happy in the pondlife world.
Everyone I know is like this and so am I.
I'm walking through the rain into the sunshine, but I'm still walking through the rain. The sunshine is nice, but it is also dangerous. It is slightly worrying and you have to be careful.
After getting pissed again last night, it took a wee while today to get started, and then I had to consort with flatheids and didn't get much time to meditate really. But tomorrow I'll be up at eight to give the mother in law her pill, and thereafter I will be able to meditate between carer visits, and district nurse visits and whatnot, but I will be able to meditate somehow for ages and ages.
The first thing you've got to ask yourself when you start on this juju is do you want to have these experiences? Basically, I regard myself as a rational humanist kind of a guy. And I do want these experiences, whatever they may be. I want the full human being experience. I think the juju I'm practising very badly will give me that.
It will kick on tomorrow. It really will. Sit with the mother in law, do the vase breathing, get interrupted by carers, district nurses ... it won't matter. It's coming yet for aw that. It really is!
Wednesday, 30 November 2011
Wednesday in Newmains
11:45 p.m.
I felt a wee bit lonesome coming here today, but I came here anyway. We live in a society as social beings. When you are needed, and, hopefully, you don't have to do this when you are young, you have to stand up and when it's your turn to bat, you just have to bat as well as you can. It's about being part of society. The evil bourgeois and the others behind their walls and high fences might tell us that there is no such thing as society, that there are only individuals ... greedy, hateful, ignorant individuals ... but they are all going to hell, a hell too bloody good for them.
Two million people went on strike today. I look at David Cameron and George Osborne and I think that I do not know who you are. I do not know where you come from. At least, the Labour Party in Scotland did not cross the picket lines at the Scottish Parliament. That's the best thing they've ever done. I do not want to live in this evil country anymore. Thank God we'll get a chance to walk away sometime soon.
I felt a wee bit lonesome coming here today, but I came here anyway. We live in a society as social beings. When you are needed, and, hopefully, you don't have to do this when you are young, you have to stand up and when it's your turn to bat, you just have to bat as well as you can. It's about being part of society. The evil bourgeois and the others behind their walls and high fences might tell us that there is no such thing as society, that there are only individuals ... greedy, hateful, ignorant individuals ... but they are all going to hell, a hell too bloody good for them.
Two million people went on strike today. I look at David Cameron and George Osborne and I think that I do not know who you are. I do not know where you come from. At least, the Labour Party in Scotland did not cross the picket lines at the Scottish Parliament. That's the best thing they've ever done. I do not want to live in this evil country anymore. Thank God we'll get a chance to walk away sometime soon.
Tuesday, 29 November 2011
Giving up things like sobriety!
Tuesday 9:50 p.m.
After three days of not drinking and a week of not smoking anything, and the meditating and meditating day on day for hours and hours, and then this evening getting the bliss back and then some from the abstentions, I was suddenly confronted by my obvious inability to do the juju of jujus, and the impossibility of it all, and decided to succumb to the bevvy once again.
Or, I just decided that I should have a drink to see if I could be overpowered by something outside the stuff I was getting overpowered with anyway.
Also, since three or four folk come here, I thought I should say something, and I can only do that without thinking if I'm a bit pissed.
Spontaneity! Jack Kerouac was into spontaneity because he couldn't do the Christopher Isherwood bit which was writing it in longhand seventeen times. Spontaneity and flatheidedness gang thegither. So I won't edit this tomorrow. Only two people ever land on this bloggy these days which is wonderful since you can type when you are pissed and know that nobody apart from them will notice.
Well, hello, Jeannie! I read this summation from Australia about how the hotboys lived there in the 1920s and 1930s and how when Scotland was mentioned, they felt the homesickness so bad they all cried and cried. Well, it's nothing compared to what Jeannie has done, and I take my hat off to her, especially if she's one of the two folk who regularly land here. And even if she's not Scottishy, she's scottishy enough to me.
Aspirations! I wanted to have the perfect romance. I thought I could achieve the perfect relationship. And then I felt so sad that I couldn't do that with a living human being, and now that I'm dead old and all, I have almost done that, or it has happened, so it has.
The wummin with the perfect butt straightens up and says, at the allotment, what? More than forty years? Of course, I have on my fantastically new leather jaikit and in the dim light maybe I look like Batman to her, but I say: Yes, I've been with the old doll longer than you have been alive, and would you like to accompany me to the hut for some bouncing up and down therapy, and, of course, she demurs, and has some vegetables to attend to, but if you don't ask, you just don't know. Everybody under forty or so has apparently been spending hour and hours every week watching porn, so who knows what's in their wee heids.
The schoolgirl did not offer me a blowjob. Although it kind of said that, I know the wee whores she could not avoid put her up to it, and I have her in my line of folk to consider who are dead, about eighteen of them now, when I start meditating, and she has definitely gone to heaven now, if there is one, and only the good die young.
You ain't dead if folk remember you. I like Marie Rex and I will slot her into the list and think of her every day no matter what as long as I'm alive. I've said this to two flatheids and stuck with it, but she's not a flatheid and will, hopefully, live much longer than moi.
The rest of yous are just going to have to pay the money up front!
Well, I guess I'll have to drink some more and see what happens!
After three days of not drinking and a week of not smoking anything, and the meditating and meditating day on day for hours and hours, and then this evening getting the bliss back and then some from the abstentions, I was suddenly confronted by my obvious inability to do the juju of jujus, and the impossibility of it all, and decided to succumb to the bevvy once again.
Or, I just decided that I should have a drink to see if I could be overpowered by something outside the stuff I was getting overpowered with anyway.
Also, since three or four folk come here, I thought I should say something, and I can only do that without thinking if I'm a bit pissed.
Spontaneity! Jack Kerouac was into spontaneity because he couldn't do the Christopher Isherwood bit which was writing it in longhand seventeen times. Spontaneity and flatheidedness gang thegither. So I won't edit this tomorrow. Only two people ever land on this bloggy these days which is wonderful since you can type when you are pissed and know that nobody apart from them will notice.
Well, hello, Jeannie! I read this summation from Australia about how the hotboys lived there in the 1920s and 1930s and how when Scotland was mentioned, they felt the homesickness so bad they all cried and cried. Well, it's nothing compared to what Jeannie has done, and I take my hat off to her, especially if she's one of the two folk who regularly land here. And even if she's not Scottishy, she's scottishy enough to me.
Aspirations! I wanted to have the perfect romance. I thought I could achieve the perfect relationship. And then I felt so sad that I couldn't do that with a living human being, and now that I'm dead old and all, I have almost done that, or it has happened, so it has.
The wummin with the perfect butt straightens up and says, at the allotment, what? More than forty years? Of course, I have on my fantastically new leather jaikit and in the dim light maybe I look like Batman to her, but I say: Yes, I've been with the old doll longer than you have been alive, and would you like to accompany me to the hut for some bouncing up and down therapy, and, of course, she demurs, and has some vegetables to attend to, but if you don't ask, you just don't know. Everybody under forty or so has apparently been spending hour and hours every week watching porn, so who knows what's in their wee heids.
The schoolgirl did not offer me a blowjob. Although it kind of said that, I know the wee whores she could not avoid put her up to it, and I have her in my line of folk to consider who are dead, about eighteen of them now, when I start meditating, and she has definitely gone to heaven now, if there is one, and only the good die young.
You ain't dead if folk remember you. I like Marie Rex and I will slot her into the list and think of her every day no matter what as long as I'm alive. I've said this to two flatheids and stuck with it, but she's not a flatheid and will, hopefully, live much longer than moi.
The rest of yous are just going to have to pay the money up front!
Well, I guess I'll have to drink some more and see what happens!
Fatboy No More!
Tuesday 10:03 a.m.
Weighed in this morning for the first time in ages. Eleven stone two pounds. I'm pretty sure I started my retirement well over twelve stone. I could have been a contender at ten and a half, but I'd like to get down to ten stone ten. I'd settle for eleven stone. I don't like being a fat basturn as I think it indicates a bad attitude.
I haven't had anything to smoke now for a week (my lungs are filthy!) and nothing to drink for three nights. This is unusual. Normally, I smoke or drink, and sometimes both at the same time. Could be a different story when I land in Newmains. Difficult spending a whole evening in Newmains meditating and watching the telly, but we'll see. You don't want to be too hard on yourself, but ...
I got my passwords back for the Kindle account, and discovered that you still need to generate 100 dollars worth of business in America to trigger a royalty payment. In Blighty you just need to get over £10 in money due to get some. Up till last month, the ebooks had only sold 29 copies, but since then 15 have been sold, almost all in Blighty. I have no idea why that is. Nobody knows who I am anywhere, so you wouldn't think. One other encouraging aspect is that my writing blog is getting hit at least a couple of times every day now - yesterday it was hit seven times - and all those hits are probably coming from Amazon.
I went running with the old, toothless one twice over the last three days, and I wasn't really fit for it, especially on Saturday when I was a bit hung over and had tried to cancel. The old, toothless one tells me that he's going to start going on buses with his free-for-geriatrics bus pass, and spend the time reading books, and occasionally staring out of the window. The buses are full of old people riding for free as it is!
The mobile phone camera is still not working consistently. So no photies today!!
Weighed in this morning for the first time in ages. Eleven stone two pounds. I'm pretty sure I started my retirement well over twelve stone. I could have been a contender at ten and a half, but I'd like to get down to ten stone ten. I'd settle for eleven stone. I don't like being a fat basturn as I think it indicates a bad attitude.
I haven't had anything to smoke now for a week (my lungs are filthy!) and nothing to drink for three nights. This is unusual. Normally, I smoke or drink, and sometimes both at the same time. Could be a different story when I land in Newmains. Difficult spending a whole evening in Newmains meditating and watching the telly, but we'll see. You don't want to be too hard on yourself, but ...
I got my passwords back for the Kindle account, and discovered that you still need to generate 100 dollars worth of business in America to trigger a royalty payment. In Blighty you just need to get over £10 in money due to get some. Up till last month, the ebooks had only sold 29 copies, but since then 15 have been sold, almost all in Blighty. I have no idea why that is. Nobody knows who I am anywhere, so you wouldn't think. One other encouraging aspect is that my writing blog is getting hit at least a couple of times every day now - yesterday it was hit seven times - and all those hits are probably coming from Amazon.
I went running with the old, toothless one twice over the last three days, and I wasn't really fit for it, especially on Saturday when I was a bit hung over and had tried to cancel. The old, toothless one tells me that he's going to start going on buses with his free-for-geriatrics bus pass, and spend the time reading books, and occasionally staring out of the window. The buses are full of old people riding for free as it is!
The mobile phone camera is still not working consistently. So no photies today!!
Saturday, 26 November 2011
Money!
Saturday 11:00 p.m.
Yesterday I got an email from Kindle telling me that they'd put £10:88 into my bank account. Usually, I just delete stuff from Kindle, but there was something different about this and I kept staring at it. Were they giving me money? I honestly never expected any money for ebooks because I thought they said you weren't getting any unless you'd generated a hundred dollars of business, but they must have changed the rules.
I think they give me about 26p an ebook, and that means that about forty books must have been sold. I don't know since my account has been blocked for ages now. God knows why.
I was dead pleased to get the money!! Considering the lack of marketing from me, I have no idea how folk found these books. Typically, the book which has sold the most seems to be the thriller, which is probably the worst book there!!
There's been no tobacco since Tuesday. Sober and straight and off to bed tonight with a book. Oh well.
Yesterday I got an email from Kindle telling me that they'd put £10:88 into my bank account. Usually, I just delete stuff from Kindle, but there was something different about this and I kept staring at it. Were they giving me money? I honestly never expected any money for ebooks because I thought they said you weren't getting any unless you'd generated a hundred dollars of business, but they must have changed the rules.
I think they give me about 26p an ebook, and that means that about forty books must have been sold. I don't know since my account has been blocked for ages now. God knows why.
I was dead pleased to get the money!! Considering the lack of marketing from me, I have no idea how folk found these books. Typically, the book which has sold the most seems to be the thriller, which is probably the worst book there!!
There's been no tobacco since Tuesday. Sober and straight and off to bed tonight with a book. Oh well.
Thursday, 24 November 2011
David Livingstone's
Thursday 22:17 p.m.
Allegri-Misere is playing in the background. Once I loved being a catholic. When I was in Lourdes and visiting Rome. The Holy Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church. They let you dance and drink. Shame it turned into a rest home for paedophiles. Well, that's not really fair.
Still we have St Francis of Assisi. I think he took off all his clothes and lay on the floor to die. I was watching a programme about David Livingstone tonight, which hardly did him justice. But it was at least about him. It seems he died kneeling in prayer.
Of course, I don't believe in anything, but I would like to die in a lotus position. I'll have to get shot or something for that to happen because if you die of cancer or some other debilitating disease you cannot sit up. Chogyam Trungpa died of alcoholism at the usual age for that of under fifty, so he couldn't have died sitting up, what with the hallucinations, debilitations, and whatnot... so how did he do the days of no rigor mortis, five to seven ... he must have been just lying there. Maybe they propped him up. I don't know.
To get to David Livingstone's Memorial in Blantyre when you were about twelve or thirteen ... well, first of all, you go to mass in the morning or at twelve o clock, and about six or seven of yous and your protestant pals get gathered and you kind of decide somehow to have an exciting adventure. Where is David Livingstone's Memorial? How do you get to Blantyre? I think I might have instigated this at the time since then I was not shy and a wee bit alpha.
When I was about twelve I got very interested in Scottish explorers and read books about them. Mungo Park and David Livingstone, I do remember. The latter worked in the weaving factories, I believe, and read the books when he could. We did not get a good description in the show tonight, but this is a life about determination, and trying.
It was a real exploration the first time I went to David Livingstone's Memorial. I don't know who told us the way there, but it was with mainly the kids who stayed nearby, mostly prods really. I suspect it was Rab Clyde who know lots of things and was from Bothwellhaugh, the Lanarkshire version of a ghost town. It's under the made pond in Strathclyde Park now.
So you go from Bellshill and go down passed the golf course on the way to what was once Bothwellhaugh, and there you come to the River Clyde. It must have been the kid from Bothwellhaugh who knew this. He said we have to go down the river on the left hand side. Virgin territory.
We were a bit like aborigines before this, or before we got there. Derek Gibson, who did the time in the Approved School a wee bit later, was one of the ones who disturbed the wasps nest and ended up beating the wasps out of his fabulously thick, ginger head of hair. But then we got to the Clyde and made our way down the left hand side till we came to a mill.
You had to climb over whatever at the side of the river and then go through the mill to climb over the wall at the other side -- the mill must have been closed --maybe it was closed a hundred years ago -- and then it wasn't too far to get to David Livingstone's Memorial.
There was a wall around it. You had to pay to get in. We all climbed the wall. Inside there were African huts which we played in and then we tried to get into the big house thing. There was a museum with artifacts.
What you have to remember when you're a kid is to always stay away from adults, but we braced ourselves and sneaked into the building without paying, and we all gazed amazed at the exhibits.
It was the first time I had ever been in a museum and I loved it. One or two of the staff were there and we kind of looked alienated like the tinks that we were, and they didn't bother us as we gazed fascinated at the things under the glass in the cases. So hats off to them!
And hats off to the prods like David Livingstone! I must read his books!
I don't think I'll ask for the Misere to be played at my funeral. I want the Heart Sutra and the first chapter (almost) of In The Land of the Demon Masters, but the Misere is very much making me cry right now, and I'm thinking of all the dead people I used to know.
My Auntie Mary died a week or so ago. Ninety seven years old. I was supposed to go to Coventry to see them when I was about thirteen, and I stood in our kitchen, and I told the auld maw that I didn't want to go to Coventry with my da because I didn't know any of these people. My da had asthma. The auld maw said he needed someone to carry his case. My Auntie Mary, whom I'd never seen before, kissed me on the cheek once she'd answered the door. The first time I ever remembered being kissed. She's the last of that generation of hotboys. Go to heaven! Go to heaven! Go to heaven!
Allegri-Misere is playing in the background. Once I loved being a catholic. When I was in Lourdes and visiting Rome. The Holy Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church. They let you dance and drink. Shame it turned into a rest home for paedophiles. Well, that's not really fair.
Still we have St Francis of Assisi. I think he took off all his clothes and lay on the floor to die. I was watching a programme about David Livingstone tonight, which hardly did him justice. But it was at least about him. It seems he died kneeling in prayer.
Of course, I don't believe in anything, but I would like to die in a lotus position. I'll have to get shot or something for that to happen because if you die of cancer or some other debilitating disease you cannot sit up. Chogyam Trungpa died of alcoholism at the usual age for that of under fifty, so he couldn't have died sitting up, what with the hallucinations, debilitations, and whatnot... so how did he do the days of no rigor mortis, five to seven ... he must have been just lying there. Maybe they propped him up. I don't know.
To get to David Livingstone's Memorial in Blantyre when you were about twelve or thirteen ... well, first of all, you go to mass in the morning or at twelve o clock, and about six or seven of yous and your protestant pals get gathered and you kind of decide somehow to have an exciting adventure. Where is David Livingstone's Memorial? How do you get to Blantyre? I think I might have instigated this at the time since then I was not shy and a wee bit alpha.
When I was about twelve I got very interested in Scottish explorers and read books about them. Mungo Park and David Livingstone, I do remember. The latter worked in the weaving factories, I believe, and read the books when he could. We did not get a good description in the show tonight, but this is a life about determination, and trying.
It was a real exploration the first time I went to David Livingstone's Memorial. I don't know who told us the way there, but it was with mainly the kids who stayed nearby, mostly prods really. I suspect it was Rab Clyde who know lots of things and was from Bothwellhaugh, the Lanarkshire version of a ghost town. It's under the made pond in Strathclyde Park now.
So you go from Bellshill and go down passed the golf course on the way to what was once Bothwellhaugh, and there you come to the River Clyde. It must have been the kid from Bothwellhaugh who knew this. He said we have to go down the river on the left hand side. Virgin territory.
We were a bit like aborigines before this, or before we got there. Derek Gibson, who did the time in the Approved School a wee bit later, was one of the ones who disturbed the wasps nest and ended up beating the wasps out of his fabulously thick, ginger head of hair. But then we got to the Clyde and made our way down the left hand side till we came to a mill.
You had to climb over whatever at the side of the river and then go through the mill to climb over the wall at the other side -- the mill must have been closed --maybe it was closed a hundred years ago -- and then it wasn't too far to get to David Livingstone's Memorial.
There was a wall around it. You had to pay to get in. We all climbed the wall. Inside there were African huts which we played in and then we tried to get into the big house thing. There was a museum with artifacts.
What you have to remember when you're a kid is to always stay away from adults, but we braced ourselves and sneaked into the building without paying, and we all gazed amazed at the exhibits.
It was the first time I had ever been in a museum and I loved it. One or two of the staff were there and we kind of looked alienated like the tinks that we were, and they didn't bother us as we gazed fascinated at the things under the glass in the cases. So hats off to them!
And hats off to the prods like David Livingstone! I must read his books!
I don't think I'll ask for the Misere to be played at my funeral. I want the Heart Sutra and the first chapter (almost) of In The Land of the Demon Masters, but the Misere is very much making me cry right now, and I'm thinking of all the dead people I used to know.
My Auntie Mary died a week or so ago. Ninety seven years old. I was supposed to go to Coventry to see them when I was about thirteen, and I stood in our kitchen, and I told the auld maw that I didn't want to go to Coventry with my da because I didn't know any of these people. My da had asthma. The auld maw said he needed someone to carry his case. My Auntie Mary, whom I'd never seen before, kissed me on the cheek once she'd answered the door. The first time I ever remembered being kissed. She's the last of that generation of hotboys. Go to heaven! Go to heaven! Go to heaven!
Monday, 21 November 2011
Walkies
Brian Wilson invited me down to his castle yesterday to listen to a recording of probably something that sounded like bowel movements made by the guy who once walked passed the guy who once had a cousin of a Beach Boy in his cab, but I decided to go for the healthy option of cycling to Cramond with the old, toothless one. I fell off the bike twice coming home at who knows when. There's a photie I took of the old, toothless one among the above. In his cycling helmet.
You copied a wrong photie, Hotboy. At least one of them was from way back when!
This afternoon was pretty gorgeous, so I went for a walk in the botties and took some photies. Then I went to the allotment to collect the ingredients for soup. Apart from the lentils and spices, everything else was grown by us: tatties, onions, turnip, brussel sprouts and leek. This is most satisfying!
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