Welcome to my blog which today wanted to be about nothing but will probably turn out to be about nothing much, which is what I feel I’ve achieved this week. Considering how little I sleep and how long I spend thinking that there are things to be getting on with, I am staggeringly unproductive. They’ll be a time, not so far away I suppose, when the mechanics of transferring thought to page, or to action, will be taken care of by a quantum chip which almost instantly translates a thought-form into its physical expression – okay, a thought-form is already physical but you know what I mean.
Perhaps.
A thought is itself a unit of awareness with both a tonal centre and a specific sound-shape or ‘inner-sound’ and light qualities or ‘sono-luminescence’.
Within each thought the quivering of Spanda can resound in the form of unique shapes of inner sound and shimmer with qualities of inner light.
A thought, in other words, is not just something we are aware of. It is itself the form taken by an awareness – and hence a source of awareness.
Just as thoughts are themselves ‘things’ – ‘thought-forms’ – so are things also thoughts or ‘thought-forms.’ (Wilberg; The New Spanda Karikas.)
I did write a letter this week, to the Director of the Southbank festival that I went to a couple of weeks ago, thanking her for the initiative and cheekily asking for any funding contacts she may be able to suggest. I haven’t posted it yet. Oh, and I went to my grandson’s class play which was about Cain and Abel but, apart from the brotherly slaying, I didn’t actually manage to follow the story. My grandson looked tired and not particularly engaged but he clearly knew everybody’s lines and was enjoying the experience. The smile he gave when seeing me was well worth the journey which at 2.5 hours, too far for real ease – not that I make the hour journey to see the other grandson any more often.
The nothing I actually wanted to think about is empty space, or space which appears to be empty but isn’t. (This is all part of my slowly putting together an exposition on the connection between Shaivism and Avatar.) I’ve mentioned a number of times before the ineffability and importance of the feel-it exercises described by Harry Palmer and how they encourage you to switch from thinking mode to feeling mode, or as I would rather say, from one part of the cognitive-feeling spectrum to another part. A couple of weeks ago I quoted liberally from my latest flame, Peter Wilberg, describing the perception or ‘feeling’ or sound of a tree, which puts back into words that which Harry strips of words. Either way we’re describing ‘extended feeling’; the ability to perceive something as over there and with space between it and us. This space is, of course, as illusionary as the ‘being’ of the object is.
The VijnanaBhairava, also previously mentioned, contains a lot of meditations on space – an example I gave before being of peering into the space inside a well. Here are some others:
Dharana 11: Fixing one’s attention on the interior of the cranium and seated with eyes closed, with the stability of the mind, one gradually discerns that which is most eminently discernible.
Dharana 20: If in one’s body, one contemplates over sunya (spatial vacuity) in all directions simultaneously (i.e. without succession) with-out any thought construct, he experiences vacuity all around (and is identified with the vast expanse of consciousness).
Dharana 24: O gazelle-eyed one, (if the aspirant is incapable of immediate immersion in the void) let her/him contemplate over the constituents of his body like bone, flesh, etc, as pervaded with mere vacuity. (After this practise), his contemplation of vacuity will become steady (and at last she will experience the light of consciousness).
…I’m going to have to interrupt this lovey-dovey cosmicness for a while because I’m having a fury. I could of course pay attention to
Dharana 78: If one succeeds in immobilizing his mind (i.e. in making it one-pointed) when he is under the sway of desire, anger, greed, infatuation, arrogance and envy, then the Reality underlying these states alone subsists
But I’m not going to on the grounds that my reaction is entirely relevant to the so called plot of this so called novel and without mention of this catastrophe they’d be no plot at all. Chris fucking Wafe; yes, I’ve named him; he’s the villain of the piece. Last June, Mr Wafe advertised for novels for his publishing firm. Included in my submission were the opening chapters of a novel I had abandoned. Wafe responded enthusiastically:
Hi John. I really loved reading your story. Would you be interested in Fuckwit Books releasing it as an ebook? Chris
Followed by:
…if you wanted it out with Fuckwit Books, I would half all sales, send out press releases to review sites and get you a few interviews to promote the work, if you'd be up for that.
But I have to say I really really enjoyed reading this. Just thought it was fantastic. I received a few (well A LOT) of manuscripts and this was the one I really had to read all in one go immediately. It was gutting when it just finished cos' I really wanted to know what had happened. I love the use of "shocking" words and the character of Sam, who is such a great character.
Made me laugh as well ( I have a real weird sense of humour and find people with constant horn very funny) but also found it really interesting and well written too.
When it is finished I would love to read it.
Less than two months later, that is in early August, I completed the manuscript and sent it straight over. He emailed back and said he’d read it the following week.
SEVEN MONTHS LATER, still not read. Over the months I sent him a couple of reminders. He said he was busy, would read it soon. After another reminder he said he couldn’t find it and would I send him another copy – which of course I did, though he didn’t acknowledging receiving it. Today, realising it was on my mind, I sent one more reminder and quoted the nice things he’d said about it above. I deliberately didn’t make any funny remarks because last time I tried that he got shirty. As he did today:
John, with all due respect you would not be able to send sarcy emails to bigger publishers as they'd just tell you to bugger off. You dont have to be rude. I was very interested in the book but that was before having tons of projects on at once, I underestimated the spare time I had to promote other books and writers. Im overloaded.
You dont have to quote me as I remember what I said.
Ill have to tell you now that I dont have any more time to take on new writers. Sorry if i wasted your time. There are plenty of others whod be intersted or maybe self publsh through Lulu.
Cunt, or what?
It’s the same old pattern for me: resolution, almost breakthrough, brickwall. Why can’t I get over that last hurdle? I had high hopes for this novel, seemingly justified. For all these months it has been my secret santa claus, my knight in armour, who would save me when all else seemed failed. Forty weeks on and I’ve got nothing nothing nothing to show for it and even the article that was going to get published I changed my mind about. (The absolute silence about the follow-up isn’t good news either.) Bollocks!
(Actually my anger is being dissipated by a very beautiful piece of music - Rolf Lislevand, Arianna Savall, Pedro Estevan, Thor-Harald Johnsen — Kapsberger: Arpeggiata addio. Sounds and Silence, ECM 2770080).
Now where was I? Too despondent to care. See you next week.
Oh, while I’m in such a good mood, I could begin my hate list which basically includes anyone more successful than me. I hate the fucking lot of you and I particularly hate writers who succeed after 56 failures (J.K. Rowling, are you listening?). I hate people who talk about ‘people of faith’, god I hate them. I hate the conservative party with a vengeance and the labour party with disgust. I hate people who charge me money for things. I hate people who see me make mistakes when I’m driving. I really hate Chris fucking witless Wafeman. I hate dogshit and catshit and I hate people who own dogs that could eat me. I hate waiting for things. I hate my body getting older, I hate hair in my ears and nose. I hate the cannabis laws and I hate the stupid bitch across the road and the drumming bitch next door. I hate the broken bumper on my car, the price of petrol and twats who keep to 3m.p.h. below the speed limit when there’s really really no need to. I hate my slowness on the computer and the certain knowledge that one day I’ll get a phonecall giving me the worst news imaginable. I hate being as wise as I am, I hate being as stupid as I am. Most of all I hate every single person who doesn’t think Boggy Starless is the greatest book ever written. Which, I guess, means I hate me. And I hate you for not reading my blog and not commenting on it.
Of course I won’t publish this little outburst….
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