Ra Samye Day Before!
Thursday 9:24 p.m.
My bag is packed. I'm ready to get the 6:43 a.m. bus to the station, and head off for a solid week of investigating ra bliss down at the Samye Ling. What wonderments and amazements await!
Came here straight from the bath. I usually soak for a while after doing the physical jerks. Since I was 26, which is nearly 30 years ago, I've trained on average about four times a week. I don't count doing hatha yoga or tai chi sets or standing on my head as training really. I count yogic jumpings as training alright since they are deeply sweaty, deep breathing things (I can't spell aerobic!), but usually by physical jerks I mean running or doing shadow boxing sessions.
Donned the Beer Monster Reduction Vehicle (three jumpers, teeshirt, bin bag liner, woolly hat) tonight and did ten minutes skipping followed by six two minute rounds of shadow boxing with 30 second intervals (when you allow yourself to put your arms down). For a fat old drunken bastarn, I'm as fit as a flea. Have to lose a stone and get back into road running. By the end of my six week holiday, I expect to feel like I can leap over buildings with a single bound!
I was a wee bit surprised at the comments on my last post about me knowing a lot of people who had been stabbed. I only know a couple of people who've been stabbed!
Mind you, I was in Bellshill today to see my maw and my big brother Silvest - row of forty medals on his chest, big chest - was there. Years ago I was out boozing with Silvest and on the way back from the pub, I was talking about the prisoners my other brother dealt with in the Special Unit of Barlinnie Prison. Mostly murderers. After a wee chat about murdering folk, Silvest pulled up his shirt to show me his stab wounds. He'd been stabbed four times, on four different occasions. I didn't know that.
I've only really met two murderers, both guys my brother worked with in the Special Unit. One was Jimmy Boyle, whom I found very charismatic and very nice indeed. Jimmy, when he got out and was running an arts centre for people with drug problems, helped me get a play called Busted produced and it toured around the country. Maybe if I'd met him when he was younger, and a gangster my opinion of him might have been different, but on personal experience I wouldn't hear a bad word about the guy!
I think he and the second murderer I met had fallen out by the time I met the second murderer, called Hugh Collins.
By the way, both these guys had really brilliant books published and I would recommend them to anyone. Hugh Collin's Autobiography of a Murderer is a wonderful book, and his crime novels are great. A Sense of Freedom by Jimmy Boyle is just excellent.
The Autobiography of a Murderer says some nice things about my brother and when I read it after my brother was dead, I thought I'd like to get a signed copy of it for my maw, so I contacted his publisher.
We'd been in the pub down the road for about four hours and I still hadn't got Hugh Collins to sign this book, so we're out on the street and it's after one and I'm telling him I haven't got a pen and we'll do this some other time maybe, this signing thing. Hugh is a wee Glaswegian and is in your face the way these wee electric Glaswegian hardmen are. Where do they get their energy from? A taxi stopped and this large, slightly pissed and full of bonhomie middle class gentleman lands on the pavement in front of us. Hugh hustles him for a pen. The boy's got a pen. I say: Isn't Stockbridge amazing! Knee deep in authors and writers (this is while Hugh Collins is writing stuff about the dead brother on the inside of the book). This is an informal book signing event, pal! The joe asks, What's the book called? I says, Autobiography of a Murderer. The joe smiles, still full of bonhomie, and asks: Have you murdered anyone? to Hugh Collins. Hugh Collins says: I'm not long out from doing sixteen years in the BarL (as Barlinnnie Prison is known to some!) for murder. The bonhomie disappeared. The boy's jaw really dropped. It was the best moment of the whole year! Anyway, he got his pen back.
Now, that I think on it, I've met four murderers. No, five! Also, two guys who've done time for grevious bodily harm. And I'm a nice buddhist school librarian!
I bet the sensei and reverend has got stab wounds. He's close to you, Lee Ann. Head for Tennessessee. If he hasn't got wounds, he'll have scars from bottles and bricks. He's a brilliant writer as well.
See, I live a quiet life. I'm sensitive. I don't like shouting. I don't watch dramas anymore because they involve conflict, necessarily, and I just want to do ra bliss.
I went up to our allotment today after getting back from Bellshill, partly to collect a wee torch that's there in case I want to spend the night and get freaked by rats or whatnot.
There are about 2oo allotments there. They are surrounded in Inverleith Park by a big fence and there is a big fung off gate with a big padlock protecting it. Only nice middle class people have allotments there. They will have computers. Maybe they will google allotments, Edinburgh and come up with this.
Property is theft (Lelly if you are reading this, stop now!) (any other nice people reading this stop now!). So I'm there partly to get the wee torch (costs about £2:50 tops) and I don't have a padlock on the hut. There isn't really much in there. Some old tools. It's a decrepit old hut without proper windows and no padlock, etc. So I left the door closed with a bright red piece of wire. It was gone. Someone had taken it and gone into the hut. They took a carton of apple juice and the wee torch. They took away a wee bit of red twine.
The evil bourgeois wanted to let me know that they had been there. These things have no inherent existence, far less value.
Your mine, you horrible fung bourgeois basturn pig! I will be in that hut for six weeks and when you come calling the next time, I'll be there. I might torture you to death just for the fun of it, you despicable cretin. I don't care about your problems. I don't care where this evil came from! Come near that hut again, and you're fung dead. The wrath of god will be on your funged up bourgeois arse!
You see, it's all a matter of temper. I'm from a family with a bad temper. The Domestic Bliss has a good temper. She'd never murder anyone. I've asked my other male relatives about this and they are also berserkers ( Stay up a fyord all winter. In the springtime go berserk!). I asked the kiddo once if she ever had mental rages about killing and maiming. She nodded. So don't fung with us! Don't fung with our huts! What are we capable of? We are capable of everything.
Milarepa, who is the saint of saints, murdered at least thirty people before he got into the juju and became the exemplary joe of the Six Yogas of Naropa. I would love to get twenty years in solitary confinement. It might be the only chance I've got. What if he'd stolen anything I wanted? Then I could have got really medieval on the basturn!
Well, for the next week I'll try to do emptiness and ra bliss. I think that's best. I don't know if I'll blog from the Samye. I think I should for samsaramom, who is the only Tibetan buddhisty person who comes here. We'll see! Come tomorrow! I can't wait. The Samye Ling is the only place on this earth where I have been truly happy. Flatheids don't know what truly happy means. I'm sorry about that, but it's not my fault. Well, maybe it is! Just a wee bit!
My bag is packed. I'm ready to get the 6:43 a.m. bus to the station, and head off for a solid week of investigating ra bliss down at the Samye Ling. What wonderments and amazements await!
Came here straight from the bath. I usually soak for a while after doing the physical jerks. Since I was 26, which is nearly 30 years ago, I've trained on average about four times a week. I don't count doing hatha yoga or tai chi sets or standing on my head as training really. I count yogic jumpings as training alright since they are deeply sweaty, deep breathing things (I can't spell aerobic!), but usually by physical jerks I mean running or doing shadow boxing sessions.
Donned the Beer Monster Reduction Vehicle (three jumpers, teeshirt, bin bag liner, woolly hat) tonight and did ten minutes skipping followed by six two minute rounds of shadow boxing with 30 second intervals (when you allow yourself to put your arms down). For a fat old drunken bastarn, I'm as fit as a flea. Have to lose a stone and get back into road running. By the end of my six week holiday, I expect to feel like I can leap over buildings with a single bound!
I was a wee bit surprised at the comments on my last post about me knowing a lot of people who had been stabbed. I only know a couple of people who've been stabbed!
Mind you, I was in Bellshill today to see my maw and my big brother Silvest - row of forty medals on his chest, big chest - was there. Years ago I was out boozing with Silvest and on the way back from the pub, I was talking about the prisoners my other brother dealt with in the Special Unit of Barlinnie Prison. Mostly murderers. After a wee chat about murdering folk, Silvest pulled up his shirt to show me his stab wounds. He'd been stabbed four times, on four different occasions. I didn't know that.
I've only really met two murderers, both guys my brother worked with in the Special Unit. One was Jimmy Boyle, whom I found very charismatic and very nice indeed. Jimmy, when he got out and was running an arts centre for people with drug problems, helped me get a play called Busted produced and it toured around the country. Maybe if I'd met him when he was younger, and a gangster my opinion of him might have been different, but on personal experience I wouldn't hear a bad word about the guy!
I think he and the second murderer I met had fallen out by the time I met the second murderer, called Hugh Collins.
By the way, both these guys had really brilliant books published and I would recommend them to anyone. Hugh Collin's Autobiography of a Murderer is a wonderful book, and his crime novels are great. A Sense of Freedom by Jimmy Boyle is just excellent.
The Autobiography of a Murderer says some nice things about my brother and when I read it after my brother was dead, I thought I'd like to get a signed copy of it for my maw, so I contacted his publisher.
We'd been in the pub down the road for about four hours and I still hadn't got Hugh Collins to sign this book, so we're out on the street and it's after one and I'm telling him I haven't got a pen and we'll do this some other time maybe, this signing thing. Hugh is a wee Glaswegian and is in your face the way these wee electric Glaswegian hardmen are. Where do they get their energy from? A taxi stopped and this large, slightly pissed and full of bonhomie middle class gentleman lands on the pavement in front of us. Hugh hustles him for a pen. The boy's got a pen. I say: Isn't Stockbridge amazing! Knee deep in authors and writers (this is while Hugh Collins is writing stuff about the dead brother on the inside of the book). This is an informal book signing event, pal! The joe asks, What's the book called? I says, Autobiography of a Murderer. The joe smiles, still full of bonhomie, and asks: Have you murdered anyone? to Hugh Collins. Hugh Collins says: I'm not long out from doing sixteen years in the BarL (as Barlinnnie Prison is known to some!) for murder. The bonhomie disappeared. The boy's jaw really dropped. It was the best moment of the whole year! Anyway, he got his pen back.
Now, that I think on it, I've met four murderers. No, five! Also, two guys who've done time for grevious bodily harm. And I'm a nice buddhist school librarian!
I bet the sensei and reverend has got stab wounds. He's close to you, Lee Ann. Head for Tennessessee. If he hasn't got wounds, he'll have scars from bottles and bricks. He's a brilliant writer as well.
See, I live a quiet life. I'm sensitive. I don't like shouting. I don't watch dramas anymore because they involve conflict, necessarily, and I just want to do ra bliss.
I went up to our allotment today after getting back from Bellshill, partly to collect a wee torch that's there in case I want to spend the night and get freaked by rats or whatnot.
There are about 2oo allotments there. They are surrounded in Inverleith Park by a big fence and there is a big fung off gate with a big padlock protecting it. Only nice middle class people have allotments there. They will have computers. Maybe they will google allotments, Edinburgh and come up with this.
Property is theft (Lelly if you are reading this, stop now!) (any other nice people reading this stop now!). So I'm there partly to get the wee torch (costs about £2:50 tops) and I don't have a padlock on the hut. There isn't really much in there. Some old tools. It's a decrepit old hut without proper windows and no padlock, etc. So I left the door closed with a bright red piece of wire. It was gone. Someone had taken it and gone into the hut. They took a carton of apple juice and the wee torch. They took away a wee bit of red twine.
The evil bourgeois wanted to let me know that they had been there. These things have no inherent existence, far less value.
Your mine, you horrible fung bourgeois basturn pig! I will be in that hut for six weeks and when you come calling the next time, I'll be there. I might torture you to death just for the fun of it, you despicable cretin. I don't care about your problems. I don't care where this evil came from! Come near that hut again, and you're fung dead. The wrath of god will be on your funged up bourgeois arse!
You see, it's all a matter of temper. I'm from a family with a bad temper. The Domestic Bliss has a good temper. She'd never murder anyone. I've asked my other male relatives about this and they are also berserkers ( Stay up a fyord all winter. In the springtime go berserk!). I asked the kiddo once if she ever had mental rages about killing and maiming. She nodded. So don't fung with us! Don't fung with our huts! What are we capable of? We are capable of everything.
Milarepa, who is the saint of saints, murdered at least thirty people before he got into the juju and became the exemplary joe of the Six Yogas of Naropa. I would love to get twenty years in solitary confinement. It might be the only chance I've got. What if he'd stolen anything I wanted? Then I could have got really medieval on the basturn!
Well, for the next week I'll try to do emptiness and ra bliss. I think that's best. I don't know if I'll blog from the Samye. I think I should for samsaramom, who is the only Tibetan buddhisty person who comes here. We'll see! Come tomorrow! I can't wait. The Samye Ling is the only place on this earth where I have been truly happy. Flatheids don't know what truly happy means. I'm sorry about that, but it's not my fault. Well, maybe it is! Just a wee bit!
posted by Hotboy at 9:30 PM
2 Comments:
I hope you have wonderful bliss at Samye Ling.
I kind of thought that knowing 5 murderers is a lot. (Well, it is 5 more than I know).
You have to promise me, if you ever come to Tennessee to visit the sensei and reverend that you let me know so we can meet up!
You do seem like a very laid back person. I am as well.
I don't picture you with the rage, but I do understand protection.
~ hugs and kisses Hotboy!
6:18 a.m.
Lee Ann: Of course, I'd come and visit your castle in Alabama if I ever made it over that way!
Got an email from the sensei and reverend. Yes, he does have stab wounds. I'll have to add him to the list of stabees!
It's raining! What do I care? Let it rain! Hotboy
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