Rose Afflictives!
Saturday Noon.
Here's how it's starting to work through the analytical meditations.
It's about 11 a.m. and your sitting in the lobby facing the postcard of the Medicine Buddha, which sits with a nice yellow background provided by the wallpaper. Soon after you begin to meditate, your visual field starts to alter a bit; things seem a little less solid and more shoogily.
You look for what you want to negate in yourself (where is the permanent, unchanging Hotboy?) and then in what you want to negate on the postcard of the Medicine Buddha (it looks like one thing but is a composite). There is no separate thing in here and there is no separate thing out there.
Esssentially, you are a thought, and the postcard is a thought, and the wall is a thought, feelings and emotions are also thoughts. You might try getting a particular emotion into your mind at this point, and have a look at it.
Perhaps it seems to lack as much force as you'd expect. The idea: I hate that basturn, for instance, maybe now just seems like an idea or thought which arises in mind, is maintained in mind, and will decline in mind. You kind of lose ownership. It's not yours anymore. It's just more crap arising. So bye, bye to that afflictive emotion.
But, Hotboy, I do hate the basturn and I'd like him to die a long, slow and intensely painful death. I do not wish to forgo the possibility of gaining some satisfaction from wreaking vengeance on his sorry arse!
In that case, Jack, you should contact the putative Hut Manager and get the basturn on the list of those to be cursed. I could do some cursing tomorrow morning because I'll probably be hung over and very crabbit. £10 will put a pluke on the end of anyone's nose. Most unsightly and embarrassing.
I was wanting to set more manuscripts on fire to help the tatties grow. The first big jiffy bag contains the drafts of a radio play I wrote about 1983. Clocked Out. That can go. The next bag had the early drafts of the first book I got published about 1985, City Whitelight. They were done on an Imperial 66 typewriter. How odd to see the typeface again after all these years!
The wish that it be made known that "I was the author" is the thought of a man not yet adult. The Dharmapada. The wall. I certainly wasn't me who wrote City Whitelight. That joe evolved and disappeared a long time ago.
This joe has had a most happy morning and will now go to the diggings!
Here's how it's starting to work through the analytical meditations.
It's about 11 a.m. and your sitting in the lobby facing the postcard of the Medicine Buddha, which sits with a nice yellow background provided by the wallpaper. Soon after you begin to meditate, your visual field starts to alter a bit; things seem a little less solid and more shoogily.
You look for what you want to negate in yourself (where is the permanent, unchanging Hotboy?) and then in what you want to negate on the postcard of the Medicine Buddha (it looks like one thing but is a composite). There is no separate thing in here and there is no separate thing out there.
Esssentially, you are a thought, and the postcard is a thought, and the wall is a thought, feelings and emotions are also thoughts. You might try getting a particular emotion into your mind at this point, and have a look at it.
Perhaps it seems to lack as much force as you'd expect. The idea: I hate that basturn, for instance, maybe now just seems like an idea or thought which arises in mind, is maintained in mind, and will decline in mind. You kind of lose ownership. It's not yours anymore. It's just more crap arising. So bye, bye to that afflictive emotion.
But, Hotboy, I do hate the basturn and I'd like him to die a long, slow and intensely painful death. I do not wish to forgo the possibility of gaining some satisfaction from wreaking vengeance on his sorry arse!
In that case, Jack, you should contact the putative Hut Manager and get the basturn on the list of those to be cursed. I could do some cursing tomorrow morning because I'll probably be hung over and very crabbit. £10 will put a pluke on the end of anyone's nose. Most unsightly and embarrassing.
I was wanting to set more manuscripts on fire to help the tatties grow. The first big jiffy bag contains the drafts of a radio play I wrote about 1983. Clocked Out. That can go. The next bag had the early drafts of the first book I got published about 1985, City Whitelight. They were done on an Imperial 66 typewriter. How odd to see the typeface again after all these years!
The wish that it be made known that "I was the author" is the thought of a man not yet adult. The Dharmapada. The wall. I certainly wasn't me who wrote City Whitelight. That joe evolved and disappeared a long time ago.
This joe has had a most happy morning and will now go to the diggings!
posted by Hotboy at 12:05 PM
11 Comments:
I say!
I think your ego may be in the process of being dissected. Whether this is a good thing, or advisable, is another matter.
Unfortunately, during tonight's game between England and Kenya, when Vaughan fell for 1 run, I turned to Doviko (who thinks that our new plasma screen is wonderful, by the way) and asked for "A very stiff MGT, please, as quick as you like". As a result, I am finding it extremely difficult to focus, en ce moment.
Fortunately, our boys appear to be recovering their position, which is what I will now try to do with respect to my settee.
MM III
MM III
I say,
I've just Googled "cranial elephantitis", and believe it may possibly be applicable in your present circumstances.
I'm sure this helps.
MM III
I say!
I must stop posting here. Does anyone know how to go on to another website?
Doviko! What did you put in that last MGT?
MM III
Mingin'! Well done! Swimming upstream against a little handicap. What part of creekit is strangulation by the way. Rum do, eh, Mingin'? Hotboy
Brilliant had me all the way
Toyo! How nice to hear from you again! Hotboy
That sounds really interesting!
Utopias! If £10 is too rich, I could give someone an embarrassing itch for £5! Hotboy
How much did they pay you to give me the itch? They may have got a bargain. Charge them more. It's not helping me though. How much to reverse it?
Here where I live we call the visual distortions an "acid flashback".
MM - lucky that you got out of there.
Onan the Bavarian! It's you! The itch you have is due to your own evil ways and is nought to do with moi since no money changed hands. However, I will cure it before it drops off for half of one of your castles. That sounds fair to me! Hotboy
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