Ra Hiatus!

Saturday 9:41 p.m.
By reading this bloggy you'd never guess that I was really some kind of libertarian anarcho socialist off-with-their-heads republican buddhist basturn because this is a bloggy about ra bliss, and not politics. But killing Saddam was such a petty, squalid and completely disgraceful thing to do that I dedicated some of my juju to him today. Gone yourself, Saddam! How could Tony Blair have involved us in something so shabby? Just remember the Homer boy: for you too are mortal, Tony. Sat on your hands, did you, son? It's hard to believe. Wouldn't have happened to a European. Dearie me. I think the SNP just got my vote.

The best thing was the kiddo saying she'd like to go to the Samye Ling next Christmas, or she agreed that it might be a good thing, or ... no, she said it would be a good thing. She's a vegetarian and doesn't drink, it seems. They put a video on at the cafe every night at this time of year at the Samye Ling. Kind of decadent for there. That was great. I loved it. They run a great course at this time of the year. I'd have to get some chloroform for the Dom Bliss. This is just the kind of thing you need a Hut Manager for.

Can you make zillions of pounds from some joe sitting in one place for at least 12 hours a day? I need a young person to do this. Probably an Australian woman, the most resourceful kind. With IT skills and the usual attributes, such as being able to go instantly breathless, that kind of a babes. Anyway, if such a creature would like to emerge, all I can say is that Hotboy is willing! Happy tomorrow! It's not the New Year yet. Do we own the New Year? Do the Scottishy people own the New Year? That can't be true. Let's shoot Santa!

Ra Bye Bye Santa!

Friday 7:30 p.m.
Just when the day seemed to be a hopeless, horrible waste of time .... I missed the morning and was only up an hour before I had to get into the motor with Toad of Toad Hall and fizz round Lanarkshire. For some reason. I don't really understand. Why can't the flatheids just shoot me? I can only do my stuff if I keep the flatheids to a bare minimum. Today was breaking point, especially after the wonderful evening I had last night with comparative peace and quiet. Fung off, Santa!

Just when the day seemed .... I got back here and found an email from this possible human being who'd contacted me from my webpage. It's a first. Last week I changed the intro to the collected scribblings (since I've now got an agent) and asked anyone to email me if they downloaded stuff. So this possible human being says she's a single mum with five kids who works like hell, but can't afford to buy books for her kids, so she downloaded mine. How cool can you get? I'm sure if she reads those books to her kids they will like them as well. Here comes Santa! Merry Christmas, boys and girls. Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!

I'll try not to see anyone tomorrow so I don't get crabbit. Apparently, tomorrow is the slight gap before the shenanigans start again on Hogmanay. At least that's a decent idea. None of this presents and family crap. Hurrah! Where's my viking helmet?

Ra Normality Returns!

Thursday 4:50 p.m.
The deity yoga juju I do with Dorje Sempa might be properly called a sadhana. When I was going to ask Ringu Tulku about ra bliss and the heat, the first thing he asked me was what my sadhana was. I had no idea what he was talking about. Anyway, I'm almost finished this book about Medicine Buddha teachings which is basically describing how to do this juju, and it is obvious that I'm not really doing it properly. You do the generation stage (Yo! I'm a deity!) then you do the completion stage. Anyway, since my visualisations are so poor, I rarely get passed the generation stage, or I do the breathing ..... I've been waiting for the four blisses. These may be collected in the generation stage. Maybe I should find someone to ask!

I'm really here to report a significant change in the after effects of the vase breathing. This has occurred despite the festivities and having flatheids all over the shop. There's not much point in telling you, Jack, about this development since you are a flatheid and so if ever you let the breath go, you'd get zip. But today was a lot bigger, stronger, thicker... just a lot more of everything.

I'm going to have a great time this evening just sitting and watching the telly! No big meals, no visitors, just me and the Dom Bliss and the kiddo. Yippee!!

9:30 p.m.
Of course, I watch the teevee with my eyes closed and the noise blockers on. Just thought I'd note here the fabuloso blissiness extraordinaire which I got from the after effects of the vase breathing this evening. On the first breath, I was kind of shocked. Whao! What's going on here, Hotboy? Fung knows as usual. And I've been bad. The amateurs just join in at this time of year! But it was right off the scale this evening. Like liquidy molten metal light and ra bliss. Oh, ra bliss, ra bliss, ra bliss!

Ra Boxing and Biffing Day!

Tuesday 11:19 p.m.
All the joes and josephines I spent time with tonight are better people than me. Since none of my blood relations were sitting round the table, I could not discourse about the viking helmets and how wonderful it is when the red mist descends and you become a proper uncaring and untroubled decapitating monster. On the other hand, I could not mention ra bliss.

Adolf said what about Christmas Day (and the day after) and nothing about ra bliss? He is correct! This is RaBlissBlog. This is here to tell you about ra bliss!

So you don't meditate, Jack? That's awful smart. So when we start having this discussion, you have to admit you don't know anything about what I'm talking about. You are a one way mirror, Jack. A straight, look-out .... we won't say it because it is pejorative. Okay.... flatheid! You're a flatheid, Jack!

Well, you can just blow your brains out! What are you for? You're too dumb to meditate, and you have thus completely missed the point of this existence.

However, nobody I know gets ra bliss but me. I think some of the folk at the Samye Ling get much more of ra bliss than me, but I have never discussed that with them, or even mentioned it, except in vast correspondences to which there was no reply. So you might have sooked the poison from the plukes of the dispossessed and prayed for all the lice that bite you, but can you do ra bliss?

Oh, can you do ra bliss? Ee, aye, adio, can you do ra bliss?

Well, moi has done 10,000 hours of the juju over the last ten years and moi can do ra bliss. Can you do ra bliss? If I can do ra bliss, anybody can do ra bliss!

The other way to look at this is to admit my good fortune. And lay off the flatheids. I was just so, so fortunate that I found a method and a wisdom to allow me to fill my being with bliss and ecstatic rapture. And the fact that nobody around me can do this, or are even interested in this, should not suprise me. I am blessed. I am a blessed Hotboy Madyamika. I can surf the oceans of bliss.

Hmm? The compassion is in three types in this book I'm reading. Number one is the compassion of the king. The king says he'll become enlightened and then lead in the flatheids.The second kind is the compassion of the ferry boat joe. He's taking everyone together. In the one boat, as it were. The third type is the joe who says he'll wait till all the flatheids are on the boat.

There isn't a missed level for the putative foe destroyers who wish all the flatheids to just fung off and commit suicide. I think in the New Year we will have to get on the scale. I'm not even on the scale. I can't do the visualisations. But I must say that today when I shot the breath, oh, well... dearie me! Flatheids just don't get ra bliss!

Ra Old Man's People

Monday 25th Dec., 2006. 1:47 p.m.
It could have been at the beginning of the 19th century when my ancestor on my father's side went from Inverness to Northern Ireland to be a gamekeeper. Though it was a bit of a tradition for Scottish presbyterians to go the Northern Ireland and murder Irish catholics, this jock actually married one. They had a deal that the girls would be brought up catholics and the boys brought up protestants. The first born was a girl and was sent to the catholic school. The second kid was a boy and he was also sent to the catholic school. Which just goes to show that you cannot trust these papist basturns!

The boy came back to Scotland to live in Mossend (which is now a part of Bellshill) around 1838. His family lived in the Clydedale Road in Mossend and the boys were all tradesmen. My grandfather on my father's side was one of these boys and he was a blacksmith in the steelworks, Stewart & Lloyds, which I worked in for a year after I left university. Then it was British Steel. Anyway, this blacksmith got married in his forties and had eleven kids, one of which was my old man. They were brought up in a room and kitchen near the Woodend Hotel. My maw got a job in the hotel when she left school and that's how she came into contact with my old man.

He was a bricklayer and she refused to sell him a drink when she was working in the bar because he didn't look old enough. He'd be about twenty five. He was five foot two and weighed seven and a half stone, which was normal in Lanarkshire in those days, after the three hundred years of malnutrition. When he took part in the Normandy Landings, he nearly drowned when he jumped off the landing craft because he was so wee.

When I was a kid, I suspected my old man might be a saint. I was maybe fourteen when he passed away, and couldn't really understand all the tears coming from all these catholics. If he was going to heaven, what were they greetin' about? I thought dying and going to heaven was supposed to be the good bit.

I tend to remember my old man at this time of year because he passed away on Christmas Eve. Sometimes I've felt a bit like doing that myself, but this year everything is going very well indeed!

Ra Christmas Eve!

Sunday 4:30 p.m.
Merry Christmas to all you Masai Warriors, spam robots (Hello, Jack!), the various creatures from Outer Space, and anyone normal who has accidentally landed on this bloggy!

There's nothing you can do about it. It comes round at the same bloody time every year, but right now I'm actually starting to enjoy myself. Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum! Sorry, them's pirates. Anyway, it's better than going to work.

So we have the object to be perceived, in this case, Christmas, the apparatus for analysing the photons, etc., and the consciousness. Let's admit it, Hotboy. The consciousness bit has been a bit of a Scrooge. So if we just change that, the Christmas will suddenly seem wonderful. There's nothing the matter with Christmas. As usual, the problem seems to be between your ears. At least, try to concentrate on the good stuff, ya crabbit basturn!

The flat is empty at the moment. Savour and enjoy it! And I'm off to do ra bliss!

1:2o a.m.
I used to have a perfect Christmas shopping strategy. Have no money. When I did have money, I used to ask the Domestic Bliss which kind of perfume she'd like. Then I'd nick into Frasers at the end of Princes Street (the perfume counter was just inside the door) and buy three bottles of this ridiculously priced, practically odourless water. One for the Dom Bliss and the others for my old dear and the auntie Kathy. It was quick and you could do that on the way to Haymarket Station and the train back home to Lanarkshire. This year I made the mistake of asking the kiddo what she wanted for her Christmas. She said she wanted a pair of black fishnet stockings with a red seam. This means shopping.

The shop's called Whiplash Trash. It sells mainly drug taking paraphenalia, it seems. The lassie behind the counter is in black with the make up not too gothy. There was a freak sitting along at the end, an asylum seeker from a Judge Dredd comic. Nice wee lassie. I don't suppose I can buy a pair of fishnet stockings with a red seam here, I said. That stock was kind of round the back. So I'm buying various suspender belts and red stockings with white seams, and never getting it quite right. It's for my daughter, I said. You couldn't put it on the plastic because she said the bank wouldn't let them have a machine. Undaunted though, eh?

Ra Granda post!

Saturday 00:51 a.m.
My grandfather came to Scotland from Rosharkin (sic) in Northern Ireland, I think in 1906. He told me once that he had five brothers. "They were all big men and they're all dead now." My grandfather had a pronounced northern Irish accent. I asked him once what he thought of the guy who ran Northern Ireland at the time, called O'Neill; maybe Captain, or Colonel, or General Above Us All O'Neill. He said: That basturn O'Neill.

So I knew my grandfather from going to his house when my old dear, his daughter, took us there. A couple of times, I played him at dominoes. Once he'd played dominoes with proper players and I could not compete with him on the dominoes, as he sat on the chair and spat into the newspaper beside him. He'd been a miner, and they spat the dust into the newspapers beside their seats in those days.

I do not know much about my grandfather, but he was illiterate when he came to Scotland to work in the pits in Mossend, Bellshill and those places around. He had 15 children. Ten of them in Mossend, in the miner's rows, died. Some of these children had the names of the ones who had died before. There were two Peters. Neither survived.

I think during the General Strike of 1926, my granda went back to Ireland to work in the fields. He sent the money back. His wife gave it away to folk who were getting starved back to work.

The evil bourgeois will all die for this. And rot in hell. Of course, they will. Because God is great. And you can't do bad things, and just walk away.

I don't know much about my granda because they don't say. These Irish basturns are very tight lipped. But his friend was a guy called Baird, who was as orange as the Boyne. Him and Sammy Baird. At times of trouble. When folk are sick.

There's nothing about this time that I like. Just shoot me now!

1:30 a.m.
What I was trying to say was that my granda cured folk. My maw says he cured them of bone things. He rubbed their bones and said something, and maybe that helped. I don't see how. It's what the Irishman in green tweeds was asking my maw about, and making the hound dog take speech. Has he passed it on?

Suggestion. They had no doctors, and they had no money. Being able to cure folk of bone things would be wonderful. Imagine folk coming to your door and asking to be cured? The Medicine Buddha juju book I'm reading just now might be about that. But it was written by the same boy who wrote the book I read, called Essentials of Mahamudra, in the summertime. What a wonderful book! How fortunate I am to have this book fall into my hands just now!

Eric, quite a few beers this evening, but not like it is when you've got a chum to drink with! (Schneider Weisse and Erdinger.)

Ra Happy Holidays!

Wednesday 1:30 p.m.
I don't have to go back to work till January 8th! Yippee! Yippee! Yippee!

Having finished The Varieties of Religious Experience about a week ago, I finally finished The Kite Runner last night. Could have taken me four months to finish it! It's a very well written book, if a wee bit melodramatic towards the end. It's all about a bunch of Afghani flatheids. Because they have never even heard of ra bliss and go around with their heads stuck up their bottoms, of course they have a rotten time quite often. If you want to know something about Afghanistan and what goes on there among the evil bourgeois and some other folk who are too dumb to meditate, this could be a good book for you. I'm just about to start reading Medicine Buddha Teachings by Khenchen Thrangu Rinpoche. Just the job!

6:40 p.m.
" When scientists today investigate and scrutinise the atoms ... they find no indivisible and, therefore, permanent particles of matter. They find mostly space with variously described sorts of energies rushing around within it. These energies are also insubstantial, impermanent and unpredictable. They cannot be said to have any kind of permanent existence. The more scientists investigate, the more illusory the nature of matter appears. The Buddha discovered this same truth in meditation 2,500 years ago, and the Buddhist tradition has been teaching it ever since. " Is this true?

7:30 p.m. Or is it the same as saying: It's just a lot of old photons!

Ra Pet Bereavement!

Monday 10:20 p.m.
The dog was a hound. I loved the dog. It was there with me the day the Irishman walked by. Me and the dog were lying in the front garden of the council house in Bellshill. The heighth of summer. The Irishman was in green tweed, and had grey, shiny grey hair. The dog was lying in the front garden, on it's side, the four legs just stretched out, as if the dog was always ready to finish, and be in default mode. The old Irish guy spoke to ma maw about her old man, who'd died the year before. He said: Did he pass it on? She said: No tae me. Maybe it'll pass a generation, he said. The hound dog's head lifted off the green, green grass and it looks over to me and said: Hotboy, he's talking about you!

I said: Well, doggy, you are correct about that. But with these northern Irish people, well, they are always a mystery, are they not?

But you know it's you he's talking about, don't you? said the dog.

I'm nineteen, maybe twenty. It's the summer. They didn't tell me about my grandfather dying because they didn't want to upset me. I heard about it from my pal Jake a bit later. S0rry about your granda, he said.

The hound dog was the last of the dogs. The brother Davy had dogs. Then he did not hang around with the tinks so much and did not do the running of the dogs.

So, the dog is dying when I come home from Morocco. This is obvious. The way it looks at you. The weird swelling in it's belly. So, I had been away and then I came back and the dog was dying, although nobody said as much.

The night the dog died was very wet. Me and my wee brother were living in the council house then with my mother. The dead hound dog was lying in the lobby. I was worried about the crap falling out when we picked it up. But that was cool. The dead dog was cool. We buried him in the back garden. My wee brother left me with the dog when I told him to go away because of the wet and wind and rain, and me crying there. It was our Corunna. John Moore died there and was buried underneath this wet earth. Allah Akbar. Of course, God is great!

For all your pet bereavement needs please contact the Hut Manager!

Ra Sit Vac!

Saturday 7:40 p.m.
So I've done about ten thousand hours of meditating (at least!) over the past ten years. Well, that was the second decade I've been at this malarkey and during the first decade I didn't do anything like that much. But I did get non-self and emptiness for ten seconds after about a decade of meditating. Well, there's nothing special about me, Jack. If I can do it, so can you.

Ten seconds of non-self and emptiness is the same as seeing the pantheistic god. Or the god immanent in the universe. So I think we should run a programme in the Amazing Bloggy Church of the BadBoy Blissheid to get flatheids to see God.

All prospective partners in this venture must realise that in about two years time, if the bugger actually get published, it will be an international bestseller of mega proportions. This is because no one has ever written a novel anything like it, certainly no one who knows anything about ra bliss.

You'll be allowed to join the ABCBBB if you refuse to believe in anything, or any things, and are willing to hand over ten percent off the top. Plus, join the ten step programme to meet God.

You have to eventually complete ten thousand hours of meditation, but it comes in thousand hour bite size chunks. To go onto the next section you have to hand over £200 and for that you get the next bit of method and wisdom. The method is always a mantra and the wisdom is always emptiness. You get the first mantra and the first bit of wisdom for free. The mantra to be used for the first thousand hours will be MUMBO JUMBO. When you're not actually meditating and are maybe just walking along the road, you have to do a bit of the wisdom sometimes. For that you occasionally repeat: "It's just a load of old photons!"

The Hut Manager, whoever it is, might need some help here, I think. He'll have enough to do what with all the screwdriver stuff and keeping Adolf's mum trotting around the eco friendly hamster wheel, the sole source of power. Yes, I think the handing out of method and wisdom stuff requires a clerical assistant!

Of course, as soon as the book looks like being a mega seller, I'm off in the rowing boat, heading for the Unheard of and McDonald Islands to find a nice cave where I can practise deity yoga to my heart's content. But that won't matter. We can stick a dummy in the hut and put the hat, wig, etc on it. As long as everyone remembers that this is a profit share operation. I take fifty percent off the top and the flatheids can fight over the rest. I think that's fair. Only those genuinely interested need apply!

Sunday 3 p.m.
When they complain, after spending all the money and doing all the meditations, that they did not see God, even the pantheistic kind of God, well, we'll have to tell them that this is because they have been possessed by 108 alien creatures from Outer Space, who now live in their spinal columns, and this means they have to go back to the beginning. Thank god for the alien creatures from Outer Space! I know you're out there!

Ra Money Making Schemes!

Thursday 9:32 p.m.
A very busy day today! This morning, I went to sit with our friend with the MS for a couple of hours while her man went to the optician's. So we're not complaining. Are we? On the way back, I fell off the nazi bike and landed in a puddle at exactly the same spot where I flew over the handlebars; right across the road.

But I was getting zonkoed with ra bliss at every little intermission. I should have hammered it today, but I went to see Shiva instead. The weather was filthy, as usual these days, on the way back. It was five o clock and dark. It was windy. The rain was lashing. I've got a flashing light on the back of my head. I'm wearing a bright yellow cycley jackety thing; the lights are on back and front. It doesn't seem like moi. But I'm in high, high spirits, singing the cycling song of the joes going home and having a good time. It's from the Bonzo Dog Doda Band. It goes: "I'm the urban spaceman, baby, I've got speed, I've got everything I need .... I'm the urban spaceman, baby, now here's the twist: I don't exist!"

At least, not the way I think I exist.

Maybe I was going to do or try something whilst investigating ra bliss. Like, how's about just trying to do ten minutes straight pranayama. I never do that. I'm thinking the reason why the heat isn't working as I was expecting is because I wasn't able to concentrate even enough (dearie me!) to keep up a pranayama cycle, even although I don't hardly do that stuff, not like that anyway. So I'll go for it with ten minutes of vase breathing. ..

You maybe just close your eyes and your whapped! Very white, in your face, blissy stuff. Stabilisers on, Scotty! You might be in the beautiful, beautiful stillness with the arms and legs more of less disappeared, but you give a vase breath into that and .... it's sometimes a roller coaster. There's the fabuloso varioso sensations up the body; maybe huge blissy opening feelings in your head; the bells are ringing, and the corks and popping; and this is not a quiet mind. What were you doing there? What? Yeah, vase breathing. It blows you away sometimes.

No, but it wasn't all fun and games like this, Jack. Yes, it was. I've had far better times meditating than I've had doing anything else. Way, way, far better! The mind game is the only game in town!

So I'm in the lobby and I'm looking at the buddha statue I got for the Domestic Bliss when I was in Nepal with Shiva. That's about ten years ago. I've looked at that statue for quite a bit. If I'd spent all my meditating time staring at that statue since I brought it back from Nepal... hmmm? .... at the very least, twenty hours a week.... fifty weeks in a year .... a thousand hours a year .... ten thousand hours in ten years.


Not nearly enough. I was supposed to be writing about getting a clerical assistant for the Hut Manager, but I kind of lost the plot. So it's bye, bye for now from RaBlissBlog.

Rem Old Books!

Wednesday 6:40 p.m.
I managed to post City Whitelight and Are You Boys Cyclists? to that agent of great taste and perspicacity, Mr Adrian Weston, this afternoon after work. It's like posting off your problems, in a way.

Wakened up this morning and, though the wind and rain were lashing the window panes, I felt happy. As soon as I started meditating, I knew ra bliss had gone off the scale again. And it's been like that all day. What can I say? Except what a fortunate, fortunate creature I am!

Ra Knockout Part 2!

Monday 5:40 p.m.
(THIS IS THE END OF THE PREVIOUS POST!) I'm dead interested in hypnotism and I've never been hypnotised. Could you hypnotise ra bliss into folk? Could you hypnotise someone so that afterwards when they were pissed off, all they'd need to do was hold a big breath for a bit and then get ra bliss coursing through them. I'd queue up for that!

Obviously, you'd want it to work (and you'd be more suggestible) if you had to cough up plenty to get a session. If I had a decent Hut Manager we could clean up on this one! £300 for a half hour with Hotboy in the the hut. Afterwards you get instant access to ra bliss through breathing. I'm going to be rich! Rich, I tell you.

Who cares if it's kundalini, prana, chi, or hypnotic suggestions. Ra bliss is ra bliss is ra bliss. Who cares where it comes from as long as you can get it?

Ra Knockout Blow!

Monday 5:20 p.m.
I checked out a couple of George Dillman videos on You Tube. Very interesting. There's one with one of the folk he'd trained doing the knock-out tapping on folk. Same thing as old George was doing. But this boy was getting advertising on this teevee show, so the teevee folk were wanting to check it out. They got a sceptic who did the same thing to folk with suggestion. Well, they were unconscious too. This guy said he didn't use hypnotism, just suggestion. What? Anyway, there's a bit where he's making everyone go to sleep. So he says the karate joe is using suggestion.

The karate joe tries to tap on this boy's head and knock him out and it doesn't happen. Neither did it work with the presenter. They cut to the man, George Dillman, himself and he says if you move your tongue or your toes in certain ways, it won't work. This doesn't sound as stupid if you've been paying previous attention to stuff about acupuncture, pressure points, etc.

Some of us are a bit more suggestible than others of course.

So the joe says it's not chi the boy is using, it's suggestion. Well, if you buy that, okay, but how does suggestion work? What is suggestion, especially when the joe says he puts people out without hypnotising them? More mere words and labels, methinks.

It seems you can make folk flake out with suggestion alright (I've seen hypnotists doing that one). Anything else? I've seen pastors in churches doing the same thing. They put their hands of people's head and they fall down.

However, I emailed David Lumsden about his documentary and then I found out that he'd made a documentary on becoming an amateur boxer (I would like to see that!). So he knows what it's like to get hit. I mean, he knows the effects of taking a punch to the head, so I emailed him and asked him what it felt like, since he told me George Dillman knocked out the whole crew while doing the interviews. Here's what he emailed me back:

however i didnt feel
knocked out it was a daze feeling, when i was boxing
and i got cracked on the chin id feel numb. This was
unusual i went down so quick with the joint lock i
sort of felt sleepy and only remembered waking moments
later sitting on a chair which we cut out the film, i
did get up and walk away but i felt god awful for
about two hours, it was quite a horrible feeling but i
did see some of the guys looking terrible and very
shaken up.

          That's not suggestion, is it?

          Put in a quote and the bloggy goes AWOL!

Ra Free Stuff

Monday 6:00 p.m.
We went to see a masters degree show at the Art School yesterday. It was free to get in. I ended up in this wee room watching a very interesting documentary. Coincidence. It was about martial arts and such. There was a demonstration by a guy called George Dillman. He was demonstating pressure points, of which he said there were 360 which could lead to your unconsciousness. So he was tapping folk here and there and basically knocking them out. Totally impressive. The "victims" were solid gone, flopping about and falling down unconscious. Can't be good for you that!

I was going to send off the two books I've had published to the literary agent handling yon book, Mr Adrian Weston, but the queue was too long, and I was too tired after work. Manana, manana.

Ra Samadhi!

Sunday 20:37 p.m.
Suffering is caused by actions and delusions based on ignorance of your own true self. Hmmm? Interesting version. ... caused by desire based on ignorance of your own true self is the usual rendition. But actions and delusions are interesting.

You hear that some masters of ra juju can sit in samadhi for four days. ...

"When we can see, straightforwardly and non-conceptually, the nature of our clear light mind and remain totally absorbed in this nature without ever regressing from it, we have become a buddha." Dalai Lama. The wall.

So you're sitting there in the fabuloso bliss. Hard not to have any actions at all. Breathing is an action. Thinking is an action, of a sort. Thoughts will arise. But all that's minimised. Your eyes are closed because you are in hedonist mode and want to do ra bliss. (N.B. just so long as you know this is clinging and craving, Hotboy. Aye, aye, aye. Fung off!) Then ra bliss takes away most of what you think of as your arms and legs... and everything seems to go thick and liquidly like. You don't want anything... except to maintain this. Or be in this. You may not be thinking too much in terms of jaggy thoughts arising, but you will have a sense of appreciation .... for this is ra bliss gone big again. Oh, ra bliss, ra bliss, ra bliss!

It can't have gone bigger again! Is this tottie increments which seem sensitively significant? Well, I walk around just like you, Jack. Though my head is not quite as far up my arse. But investigating ra bliss .... flatheids just don't get ra bliss! Wonderment is wonderment. Sometimes the wonderment is arising along with ra bliss. Wonderment is a sweetie. If you don't get it, don't knock it! I can't help that.

So you're sitting there in the fabuloso bliss. It has arisen. It stuck around for a bit. Your legs have gotten sore. You want to move. ... actions and delusions based on ignorance of your own true self. You move, you are not satified. If you were in a state of satisfaction, obviously you would have stayed put. Is every move you make towards better things a symptom of your suffering, when that includes dissatisfaction and frustration; having things you don't want; not having things you do want?

Having a body is a pain in the arse! You don't want to have a body. You've got to move. ... so how do you sit for four days? Are these joes able to maintain their state of mind .. and move? Do yogis ever get deep vein thrombosis?

Is the quest for satisfaction? I think it might be. So you've lost your body in ra bliss. Sometimes thoughts arise. This is a nuisance. They stick to your face and are unbelievable. The gap between the thoughts is the best bit. Bliiiiiiiisssss. So you haven't got any arms and you haven't got any legs and you're in the neither up nor down, bright syruppy light which is neither here nor there. Or anywhere. You could do eons like this. Eons and eons of perfect moments. So that's where you've got to be. ....

And after your mammy left you and your daddy never did like you anyway, which was somewhere between the Big Bang and the Final Dissolution, eventually all there was, and this was way after the black holes leaked out and away, was nothing but a bunch of photons... massless particles, in the neither here nor there, or maybe tomorrow, probably not kind of a place. Is consciousness taking a wee break here? Is it just between thoughts?

Did anyone see the unified theory; the biggie and the wee wee co-joined? Maybe not. Back to the drawing board.

I'd like to get a prize now.

Adrian Weston, the man who is representing my new book, a man of great taste and perspicacity, asked about Light in the Dark (total crap title! Adolf? Heil? Mein Furtherer! Would you like to pick a title?) and Bugtown. So I have emailed these books to him. He may not be able to sell them, but if he reads them, he'll be the first agent to have read both. I really, really tried hard as well.

I pretended they were written by Alison Main and forced kids to read them. But the big, big smiles of kids giving these so big ring-binders back to me .... well, shucks, it was ... being a kidsbook writer would be brilliant. Kids love books. I can stand on my head. I can wear the Australian hat over the jimmy wig, the shades, the false beard. It's a shame I can't yet do this stuff outside the privacy of my own home. Have I got an own home? Karmically ... juju ... balancing up the force ... the Hut Manager must appear! Hurrah, for the Hut Manager!

Ris Excellent Day!

Thursday 8:35 p.m.
I didn't have to do any stuff. Somebody unexpectedly delivered a record player (how retro can you get!), but apart from that it was meditating from 9:15 a.m., making bread, going to the allotment, digging, shadow boxing, bathing, blissing, blissing, and more blissing! Oh, ra bliss, ra bliss, ra bliss!

Some people come to this bloggy to get insulted. I try not to upset the creatures from outer space (we know you're out there!), Masai warriors, and spam robots other than Jack, but everyone else is fair game, especially the folk looking for hotboys and wet teeshirt competitions. They just drift in from flatheid central.

Conventional buddhisty people might look askance at the way I blog about flatheids, but if it wasn't for flatheids, I'd be in blinking heaven. It's flatheidedness that fungs everything up. I don't want to gain enlightenment for the sake of all sentient flatheids. I want the sentient flatheids to bail moi out. I mean, moi, moi, moi! Anyway, here's a checklist for flatheidedness. See how you score. Flatheids ...

1) ...walk around with their heads stuck up their bottoms and don't even know, or care. For the philosophically minded, flatheids are the ones in the cave looking at the wall and thinking that was all there was. This is Plato, by the way. What a guy! And another cave! Someone turns round at one point and sees the world outside. I can't remember what happens next. He probably turns back to tell the flatheids and they crucify him, or something like that.


2) ... don't realise that Jesus Christ was just another joe, who could walk on water and raise the dead. Why can't they do that? Flatheids completely lack ambition.


3) ... can't sit. This is not an impossible task. You put your flatheid in a room with no seats or couches and they can't sit. They can't sit straight. On the floor, they are immediately uncomfortable. Even on wimpy cushions, they look awkward. We're not talking about running, or jumping here. This is just sitting. Sitting with a straight back. Sitting up. Flatheids can't sit! How pathetic do you want to get?


4) .... sometimes say really stupid things like, "I'll never change." Or, "You haven't changed a bit!" Never get moi saying something like that, unless it's just for fun. Flatheids think they are the same person as the person they used to be. Flatheids, in this respect, will be the same as the first robots, the ones that don't work very well. You can't change. Your batteries can run out. You don't interact. You are not interdependant, in terms of developing consciousness. You are an absolute. An absolute flatheid!


5) .... think they are the same person as they were when they were younger. You're not the same person tomorrow. You're not the same person today. You can't waggle your foot around as the same person even once.


6) ... think they're going to die.


7) .... never think about thinking.


8) .... believe in things.


9) .... especially thoughts! It's what you're thinking that counts, Jack. The kind of thoughts that arise. Would it be better if better thoughts arose? I think it would. Can you do anything about that, Jack? No, you can't because you are a fung flatheid!


10) ... think they know stuff. They don't see the view as partial. They have certainties. This stops them enjoying the world. Be amused! Be very amused!

Well, that's it for flatheids from me tonight, Jack. How did you score? Ten out of ten. Well done!

How's about the spontaneously arising, solitary realising foe destroyer? They say, if there's no juju, and no dharma, and no nothing except medieval torturings all round, then these joes and josephines still arise. It's maybe just one of them human beingy things. Ionetics thinks she maybe gets some spontaneous intimations of ra bliss, at least! Oh, ra bliss, ra bliss, ra bliss!

Does anyone just get born and have immediate more or less, (how fortunate that would be!) access to ra bliss? Well, Mozart got born. Of course! Everything is possible if you don't believe in anything. Ra bliss is just arising. Oh, ra bliss, ra bliss, ra bliss!

Ra View from Cramond!

Wednesday 12:43 p.m.
I sent a letter to Teresa, the nun I write letters to sometimes, at the Samye Ling, telling her I'd got an agent for my new book. I'd sent a letter a wee while ago asking for good wishes in getting an agent, so now I've asked for the same to get me a publisher.

I try not to wait for news. I'm counting my blessing and trying to establish contentment with what I've got, which is a great deal.

I've been getting knocked out by ra bliss over the last few days. It just seems to get stronger and stronger. Sometimes it might seem that you cannot take any more of ra bliss, but you can. You can. Of course, if you don't meditate, you will never experience even a wee tottie bit of ra bliss. This is the choice that you have in this life. Go for ra bliss, or be a moron. You don't have to believe in anything to get ra bliss, but you do have to meditate.

I didn't cycle to work this week due to the wind and rain, and being a wimp. But it is a wonderful wintery day today, with the blue skies and the cold still air. So soon I'll be off in the nazi bike. I'm so happy that I managed to go half time two and a half years ago. And now I've got an agent and don't have to send out stuff anymore. What a fortunate, fortunate creature I am!

7:50 p.m.
The next couple of days might be a bit important for the meditations. I assume I'm still not getting an awful lot of heat, but an awful lot of bliss because I haven't been concentrating enough on the navel symbol, or perhaps not doing it the right way. I don't think it should be seen as a separate thing somehow. Anyway, it's the heat that sometimes worries me a little. But it doesn't matter what I think. If I keep up the time spent in meditation, it'll happen.

Robert Louis Stevenson wrote once that Edinburgh was a city of unexpected seascapes. When I first read that, I didn't know what he was going on about. But if you're RLS coming home to Heriot Row from the uni, you have to walk up the incline at Hanover Street or Frederick Street and at the top you see unexpected seascapes. You can see Fife across the Forth estuary.

There's a two mile promenade along the shore before you get to Cramond. The Forth was beautiful today, with wee clouds over the part above the Forth Rail Bridge. The Romans had a settlement at Cramond, of course. There's a wee river running into the Forth there. Usually, that part's full of swans. Not today. Spent an hour and a half on the bike.

8:40 p.m.
Listening to the footie on the radio; doing the blogosphere. Was much amused by the sensei's blog. He's been singing in public again. That is something to see. I was in a pub with him and Kevin Williamson once when he did that. He also played the guitar. He's the only person I've ever seen who played the guitar worse than me. His guitar playing was awful, but his singing was even worse. I turned to Kevin Williamson and said something like: "If you're his manager, please, please don't ever let him do that again!" Not only has he been singing in public, he's managed to get a photie taken that makes him look normal. Surely there must be some jiggery pokery going on there, with the photoshop stuff maybe.

11:42 p.m.
When the vase breathing seems to be working, there's nothing on this sweet earth that can hold a candle to it. Waves of gorgeous, delectable sensation rippling up your body. Ra bliss rarely seems simple. It's composed. With vase breathing, you get a symphony of ra bliss with different tones and tinges, in different combinations, an interesting nexus of the physical and mental, a hedonist's dream. Ra bliss you get from the straight calming meditations seems more refined somehow. It just opens up and goes bliiiiiiiisssssss. Depending on how much you've been doing and how good a boy you've been, you might be able to go bliiiiiiiiisssss for quite a delectable bit. Oh, ra bliss, ra bliss, ra bliss!

Rose Perfect Moments!

Sunday 3:37 p.m.
I was in the good mother's kitchen when they left me there on my own to go to Mass. The bliss was so white and thick, with very few thoughts. Oh, ra bliss! Then it feels as if everyone is surely going to be alright. It seems as if all the bad things you've ever done, and maybe all the good things you've done, don't really count for anything at these times. Certainly, the consquences of the bad things you've done have passed you by for as long as you can maintain, or even observe, such bliss.

This is when we must be like De Quincey. The weather is filthy outside. He described living in Lasswade one winter, of how the housekeeper left and the curtains were closed to the dark at four o clock, and there was just him and the big bowl of laudanum in the middle of the table. Well, there's no laudanum here, but we have ra bliss! I will be on my own in the flat for the rest of the day and evening. How much I am looking forward to that!

Ra Friday!

Friday 10:30 a.m.
Off to Bellshill soon after an excellent start to the day! As I was doing a few vase breaths while meditating this morning .... well, the better they work, the more bliss and heat you get. I'm still getting hardly any heat really, but enough to wonder what these guys must be feeling like who are able to dry off wet blankets in the freezing cold Himalayas. I was just feeling so blissed out. I can't even do this juju and I'm still amazed and gobsmacked by the amounts of ra bliss I'm getting. What a fortunate creature I am!

Saturday 00:23 A.M.
There were three pubs in Mossend after you went under the railway bridge. I remember some of them. The first one was Kelly's. The second one my auntie worked in. She told me today about serving a pint to Peter Manuel, who was a multiple murderer. One of the last jocks to get hanged. Anyway, she told me the name of the jacket he was wearing, and that he stood there twiddling with this wee chain, kind of spinning it.

Some things I have problems with. One is the birds. Where do they go at night. Some people say they perch in trees. I have looked at the trees. They have no leaves on them now. Sometimes great winds will blast through them. If you were a wee bird, could you perch all winter in the trees around here. I don't think so. So where do they go?

Also, this woman said there was something that went faster than the speed of light. It was called a tackon, or a tac-ion, or a ta-kong. Anyway, they say you cannot go faster than the speed of light. And then they go faster. This is stupid. Pythagoras might have thought you could understand all this stuff by numbers, but tack-ons. Fung off!