Ra Hinayana!

There are maybe three vehicles to nirvana. The Hinayana is probably the original one. It's a good start. All you need to be a hinayanist is the Four Noble Truths and the Five Skandas, the composites that make you up, and maybe the Twelve Links of Dependent Origination. You can leave the material world more or less as it is. It doesn't have to be interdependent, or empty or whatever. You pay attention to cause and effect and try to disappear your false sense of self. It doesn't seem to be particularly compassionate, this hinayana juju.

I think if you're a hinayanist, you can tell folk to fung off. That's what's attractive about it. You've got yourself to sort out first. So you don't have to be nice to the people who are wasting their lives with bourgeois, flatheid, sweetie eating.

I feel like the fish that was caught by the Old Man of the Sea. It's Friday. By the end of the weekend, all the flatheids could have come and taken lumps out of me and by the time I get back to the Samye Ling there will be nothing left.

Brian Wilson is already threatening to visit. He refuses to let me know when. He claims to be bringing along Landfill Jim. Landfill can at least form proper sentences that don't contain the works creekit, Beach Boys and forty percent alcoholic content. Despite not having seen Landfill for a while, I have asked Captain Jambo to tell Brian Wilson that I have moved to Pitlochry, but I know it won't do any good. Brian Wilson has got a stalking horse, a beard. Half an hour in the door and the beard's off, the pink sticky stuff in being quaffed and I won't be able to hear anything except the sound of my head banging off the wall.

You need a good dose of Class A drugs just to handle being in the same room as these people!

Still, it's only ten in the morning. Maybe after about six hours meditating, I'll be ready for it.