Welcome to the ninth edition of this blog which is intended to give an intimate insight into the life of a struggling writer. Of course the writer would much prefer to drop the ‘struggling’ part of the intent and instead settle for making a record of his successes which, while lacking the drama of adversity overcome, would be a lot more satisfactory than admitting to either the need to struggle or the distaste for having to be involved in ‘a resolute contest’ or to have to make ‘a continued effort to resist force or free oneself from constraint’. A struggle is also defined as ‘a strong effort to continue to breathe, as in the death agony.’ So the writer in me is fighting for his life and this is what you are witnessing.
Or would be if you actually read this thing. No readers in two weeks! How embarrassing is that? Even my reader in Singapore has given up on me.
For this reason there will be changes in the blog, which you won’t really notice because you’re not here. Until I’ve worked out how to make it more entertaining, more gripping perhaps, I will not actually give up but will take a quiet holiday and talk among my selves. When we’re convinced we have something to sell you we’ll come calling.
Meanwhile we’ll still be here, chattering away internally while the rare sun shines outside.
The plan for today’s blog had been for me to attend a workshop yesterday, on Conscious Death, and then write a review of it for you today. Unfortunately I omitted to book in time and there was no room for me. I heard about the event because my article ‘Exiting Avalonia’ has been published in the free ‘Glastonbury Oracle’ events listing magazine. (As this article was the first product of my reinvigorated writing career I should both note and celebrate the occasion.) I concluded my piece by inviting people to respond with their comments. The only person to do so was advertising the aforementioned workshop at £65 for a 10am-4pm day.
My first reactions were annoyance and disappointment. Where was the praise? And why should I, who paid thousands for his Masters Degree in Death Studies and then gave nerve destroying talks for free to benefit my peers, pay 65 quid to watch some other arsehole do a better job than I may have done?
After more mature reflection I didn’t become less frustrated with the lack of approbation but did remember that since returning from India in February I have become more…and here I search for words…more inclined to put ‘transcending death’ as a major goal, (the major goal?), of my remaining life. Why? Mainly, I suppose, because for all my study I just know I’m missing the point. Probably many points. Of course I don’t know what I mean by transcending death and I don’t know how I would I know that I have achieved my goal. It could be that I already have and/or that there is nothing to transcend. For years now I’ve thought about a statement of Barry Long’s, ‘Death is just a dead body’ and whereas to others it may seem axiomatic to me it has the feeling of a zen koan. Just yesterday I was going for a walk and for one moment I got it – but what I got disappeared immediately.
I wrote my Masters Dissertation, called ‘Learning to Die’, on the work of Stanislav Grof. (I lost my copy when the memory stick broke; should I find a copy I’ll put it on a sidebar of the blog one day – which I guess will be soon after I’ve worked out what a sidebar is and how to put things on it.) His main theme is Transition, i.e. the continuity of consciousness after death. I went to San Francisco to do a five day course with Grof (what an amazing man) that included holotropic breathing sessions (well, one) which are his main tool for inducing alternate states of consciousness (now that LSD is banned) and experiences of death and rebirth.
Holotropic breathing sessions are quite difficult if you’re the sort of person who needs to go to the loo a lot. There you are in a room full of strangers making strange noises, companioned by someone you’ve already decided is a bit weird, lying on your back and breathing deeply into god knows what terrors, and you notice that each time you breathe you need to pee just a little more. Finally you get up, self-consciously stagger off to the toilet, return, lie down, start the breathing again and think ‘bugger it I need to go again.’
So nothing happened to me in my session and the whole process is far too expensive to repeat. If I were a brave soul, which I’m not, I’d go shamanistic in Peru and drop some ayurvesca or take some lethal combination of ketamine and magic mushrooms. And if I had my way, which I might, there would be no posthumous consciousness. My grandfather wanted to be reincarnated as a cabbage. The gods may like creating something out of nothing but rather go the other way and disappear altogether. This had been my expectation, now I’m not so sure and if there’s got to be an afterlife journey then I should like to know how to catch the right boat. (Actually I’d prefer a train, with toilets and I don’t mind sea views if I’m on land.)
Going to the workshop, therefore, seemed a way of reapproaching the subject both intellectually and, perhaps, practically. Some of the ideas appeared to be about the use of Chinese and Indian herbs of healing which, in view of my friends who are dying and of my (small) intention to develop my Chi Kung practise, could have been useful. Also I am forever saying I would like to do stuff, go to talks, courses etc, yet never quite make it. (Even this week I decided to do an Avatar Course in Germany in August, then changed my mind.) I couldn’t quite determine in myself if I would actually do this one and I rang up to force my hand. Too late.
Never mind.
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