Ra Exceptional Bliss!
11:45a.m. This has already been a wonderful day. The trouble with blogging about ra bliss is that there isn't enough words for it. It is impossible to describe ra bliss to anyone who has not had an analagous experience. Even then there's still not enough words. But this is RaBlissBlog and I'd like to blog about ra bliss!
I started meditating (20 years ago!) because of insomnia. How things change! I can hardly keep my eyes open after ten o clock these days. But last night the other people who live here were out and I started meditating about ten. What an exceptional meditation! How can there be even more bliss, further reaches of ra bliss, and great extensions on how much bliss there has been experienced before? But it seems as if ra bliss has innumberable facets to wonder at. Like, would, sir, like a little bit added to ra bliss? A little heat perhaps? How about going into another zone where you might feel very wonderfully weird and transcended and then get whacked by some really weird and wonderful bliss?
Then the door opens and someone comes in and switches on the telly and asked you how you are getting on? What can you say? They've heard it all before. There are no more words. I've just been getting even more bliss.
The greviously mentally ill, also known as flatheids, Evolutionary Tales, and Those Prehensiles, are, I have to remember, the people without whom I could not become enlightened. At this particular juncture it would probably be better not to have them in my head, but they know where I live. The men are the worst. Women I like and never did understand. Flatheided men in their fifties? Fung sake! No bliss awaits them. It's grief, sorrow, lamentations ... suffering in this life for these boys. Sometimes you don't want a ringside seat. It's a brutalisation and not a contest. You want to watch from between your fingers.
Brian Wilson's chimp says he wants to play at goolf on Sunday. I have too much to do. He says he will carry all the clubs, take me there, bring me back. I've told him I could be levitating by Sunday the way ra bliss is going and would not be able to hit the ball unless I could make that levitate simultaneously.
De Quincey, (Confessions of an Opium Eater) stayed once in Lasswade, near Edinburgh. He looked forward to four o clock in the winter. The housekeeper went away. It got dark. He closed the curtains and had a big bowl of laudanum sitting on the table. No visitors. No nobody. Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain!
I started meditating (20 years ago!) because of insomnia. How things change! I can hardly keep my eyes open after ten o clock these days. But last night the other people who live here were out and I started meditating about ten. What an exceptional meditation! How can there be even more bliss, further reaches of ra bliss, and great extensions on how much bliss there has been experienced before? But it seems as if ra bliss has innumberable facets to wonder at. Like, would, sir, like a little bit added to ra bliss? A little heat perhaps? How about going into another zone where you might feel very wonderfully weird and transcended and then get whacked by some really weird and wonderful bliss?
Then the door opens and someone comes in and switches on the telly and asked you how you are getting on? What can you say? They've heard it all before. There are no more words. I've just been getting even more bliss.
The greviously mentally ill, also known as flatheids, Evolutionary Tales, and Those Prehensiles, are, I have to remember, the people without whom I could not become enlightened. At this particular juncture it would probably be better not to have them in my head, but they know where I live. The men are the worst. Women I like and never did understand. Flatheided men in their fifties? Fung sake! No bliss awaits them. It's grief, sorrow, lamentations ... suffering in this life for these boys. Sometimes you don't want a ringside seat. It's a brutalisation and not a contest. You want to watch from between your fingers.
Brian Wilson's chimp says he wants to play at goolf on Sunday. I have too much to do. He says he will carry all the clubs, take me there, bring me back. I've told him I could be levitating by Sunday the way ra bliss is going and would not be able to hit the ball unless I could make that levitate simultaneously.
De Quincey, (Confessions of an Opium Eater) stayed once in Lasswade, near Edinburgh. He looked forward to four o clock in the winter. The housekeeper went away. It got dark. He closed the curtains and had a big bowl of laudanum sitting on the table. No visitors. No nobody. Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain!
posted by Hotboy at 11:40 AM
3 Comments:
Menzies here, and I may have had one too many MGTs for comfort, but, old chap, I would just point out that there's a bit of a conflict of pluralities in your statement: "there isn't enough words for it."
Once again, to the same point: "there's still not enough words"
One shouldn't ignore such specifics, even though one is obviously enraptured by 'ra bliss'.
"There are no more words." - Is this a communication problem?
"The greviously mentally ill, also known as flatheids" - this is very derogatory.
"four o clock" - punctuation is important, if you want to get published.
"Let it rain, let it rain" - I think those words are from Brian Wilson, though he may have added a 'now' after the refrain.
MM III
hotboy, my granny used to say, if you can't say anything nice, say nothing. robmcflatheid (53).
mm iii, nice tribute to Brian, I've a good mind to pour a Dalwhinnie 15-year-old in memory of his tortured life and letters. robmcj
bonking gurus, put your money where your mouth has probably been, and start your own bonkers' blog. robmcj
hotboy. robmcj.
Post a Comment
<< Home