1:52 a.m.
I got told the wummin had MS by Shiva when I was about 26. When I heard this, I sat down half drunk on the wall which runs along Dalgety Avenue, and said she was lucky her husband was a tim, because he would stay with her if he was a tim. It shows how awful it is when you mix with the evil bourgeios that you have to say re-assuring things like that to yourself because obviously your husband should stay with you whatever comes along.
So I will go and see our friend with the MS tomorrow.
I know she doesn't like being there. Maybe you get left on your own. I can talk to her for about an hour. What the wummin needs is company. A dead rat! Ah, what company that would be! So tomorrow I'll stare out the window after speaking for a bit, and do ra bliss, and tell her about ra bliss, and just spend as long in her company as I can. Previously, I'm in there for an hour. I just have to calm down and be there. The babes isn't going to talk back anyway.
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I'm trying to raise tummo, inner heat, the foundation for practising the Six Dharmas of Naropa. In this blog I'll be trying to log stuff about the bliss, rapture and ecstasy of engaging with vajrayana buddhism.
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15 comments:
Sadly husband's don't always stay when the chips are down. I'm glad your friend has a tim.
My auld Granny used to say "No act of kindness, no matter how small is ever wasted."
A monkey with a typewriter could never have written that first sentence. And by the time we've parsed it, we're hooked. Who was that woman? Did she get it off Shiva or was Shiva the messenger? How old are you now? One is compelled to read on.
You could be a writer you know. I'm looking for an opening line for my memoirs. You could help.
There was a job for you in last week's Herald, that you could do on the phone while blissing:
'Scottish writer Damian Barr has a new job. The young talent (this is the chap who brought us advice on how to get through the quarter-life crisis) has been signed up as the in-house "bibliotherapist" at a posh London Hotel for the capital's book fair, which starts today.
The Diary is told all Damian has to do is read bedtime stories to sleepless guests. Lovely.
"The guests don't have to pay me," he said. "They can just call me and I will come to their room in my pyjamas or I will do it down the phone line." '
When I was in hospital, the best thing would have been to have a visitor who just sat there being relaxed. To hell with filling the silences, all that bourgeois denial. Unfortunately in those days I had many friends and it was Piccadilly circus, no help at all.
But there was one who tried to meditate with me, and one who held my hand, and the most fragrant friend who just sent a card which made my heart race, which I still have and will surely blog one day.
Hope you and your friend enjoy the peace together. We're all dying but we can do it together.
I say! "I sat down half drunk on the wall" - surely one part of that is redundant?
MM V
marie rex - yes, and some husbands are the ones that threw the chips down in the first place.
I'd just like to say that I couldn't have done it without the contraband Typhoo teabags. What a fortunate teaheid I am.
Marie Rex: I went today and had a wonderful visit, and managed to stay for nearly two hours. She was happy for me to be there, and I think I know how to do these visits now. Your auld granny was right. Maybe being kind is not separated. Anyway, I'm a very minor player in the support my friend has. But you have to get to know someone again in these new circumstances. Hotboy
Mingin'! If one writes these posts half drunk it is very difficult to find out where the fall is. Do you think it should have said: I sat down on the wall half drunk. Half drunk, I sat down on the wall has something, but the original has the idea of being half drunk then and now, don't you think?
Mr Multiplex! Interesting that you've been there in the hospital. How did they get you to stop speaking? Firing laser bolt plasma beams into your face would be a good start. Everybody needs someone to hold hands with. Mugabe held hands with Mbeki this week! Nobody gives a shit about writing, including me. When I went into boxing rings, I loved audiences and hated them. I've never read in public. Fung the public. Apart from the folk who land on my bloggie, which is a secret! Hope this helps. Hotboy
P.S. Is that guy just reading crap to these punters? We'd all like to know. Hotboy
I bet she likes your visits even if you can't perceive a response. Hearing is the last sense to go, so keep talking if you like. It's also OK to just sit quietly and maybe read in companionable silence, for just being there is a mutual gift. Does that help?
Ion: The visit turned out very well. I was there for nearly two hours and had to come away because the partner was coming home from Barcelona. I took the Sunday Times to the hospital and read bits out. But I was comfortable and relaxed enough. I'll go twice this week again. Hotboy
Yo, Hotboy -
All the drugs you've done are messing with your memory. You have indeed read in public - at Milne's, no less, when Are You Boys Cyclists? came out. A guy I used to spar with was there.
I remember the gig, and I wasn't even there!
Doggy: You're right! I didn't read though. Just drank Guinness! Hotboy
I say!
I was representing the press at that launch. Hotters is quite correct. He drank. He didn't read.
By the way - MM V - who is this chap? Is there something I should know?
MM III
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