I knew I had to spend some time meditating today. Every now and then I get this fractured feeling in my subterranean strata. Somehow meditation pours an oil into all the cracks, lets the currents flow once more through the core material and smooths out the possibility of snapping off an ankle in some hidden fissure.
My favourite is the Gyoto monks chanting to a background of chimes, Shakuhachi flute and didgeridoo. Every chakra resonates; from growling bass tones to haunting heart beats through to sprinkles of the etheric bursting into the caverns of my mind. It nurtures me.
It was one of those days that no matter how much spit I applied to the inside of my goggles, I just could not see down to the bottom. An interminable and determined fog crept continuously up my lens. Just as I began to focus on some juicy delight clinging to the reef below it enveloped me yet again.
I spent the whole day swimming round in circles agitated and annoyed as time after time I pulled my head back, lifted the mask and tried to create some new clarity of vision, to enjoy whatever it was that was sending squeals of delight up the snorkels of my fellow floaters.
But my agitation remained, the sense of opportunities lost, treasures unfound and inspiration squashed left me hanging out in magnificent though blurry blue, as I burned slowly in the tropical sun. At the end of the day when everyone else was swapping stories of their aquatic delights, I had nothing to show for it but bright red bather marks down my back.
God knows what the moral of that story is.............
Wake up slowly and go downstairs to overlook the river and do yoga.
In tree pose, meditate on the mountains and the forest as I float on my balcony.
Gather the frangipanis that have fallen through the night and place them round my work space.
Throw the faded blooms from yesterday high into the air and watch them like spent prayers as they fall to the river below.
Place one perfect bloom between the fingers of QuanYin's statue and choose a soul card for the day.......write until coffee.....write some more. And when I tire of sitting with my laptop on my knees, I have to go and soak in this damn pond amongst the floating flowers till some new inspiration drives me back inside!!!!! God life is hard.
I'm a little unimpressed with my inner blogger. The last entry was weeks ago and she has been slacking off with feeble excuses like...."the camera is broken and I cant take any pictures" or " the Internet has been down and I haven't been able to post anything" Of course we all know that words can be stored without access to the Internet and used later and that pictures are also a posthumous possibility but she was not to be persuaded. Hence ....no blog, not a peep.
The camera situation is still not rectified and frustrating as that may be...I WILL NOT ALLOW THIS SILENCE TO CONTINUE! So Ms B. since the Writer's Festival has got me all fired up again..there will be NO MORE EXCUSES ..!!.......Does anyone else talk to themselves like this on occasion? Or is the humidity finally turning my brain to mush?
Look at her. Hewn from rock. Set against the mars red sky. She sends a rivulet of compassion into the primal ooze of humanity in which she is immersed. Immobilised. Her eyes closed in the meditation required to keep an open heart. A single bloom at her breast, the sweet fragrance of hope that keeps her present to a world of pain. She is patience personified. ....BUT all that composure and eyes closed caper, sure means she misses out on a lot of ACTION !!!!! Can't stay there forever ! Grow some arms and get down in the dirt girlfriend.
The Fool has always been one of those archetypes that I admire, although at first glance I guess the name is a little inglorious. Here is mine, about to step off the precipice, away from the known and into the void. She takes hold of me when things need to change. She is the one that somehow has an indefatigable trust in the universe to send just the right rope, at just the right time, to let me swing to the next piece of knowing that I need to continue on my journey. She keeps my gypsy moving, to or from or through the choice points of my life towards the light. Her backwards glance a challenge to all who stay in places past their use-by date because of fear, or the numbness of complacency. Her voice is driving one of the main characters in the first book I hope to have finished here.
Just north of Ubud the volcano rises from the crusted ooze of it's most recent eruption. The village of Kintamani is on the neighbouring ridge, its main road lined with tarnished monoliths, the crumbling dreams of the view stealers and pushers of over priced smorgasbords dressed up in silver tureens. The town feels desolate, more third world than anywhere else I've seen on the island. Hoards of tourists packed in endless buses snake their way up to take their happy snaps of the volcano and the lake below. The hawkers here are loaded with sarongs and carvings and amongst the most persistent of any in Bali. They literally climb into the car after you when you try to leave. I was driving and had a key to the safety of the car, but whilst recovering from their assault I neglected to open the door for my friend. Engulfed by a press of bodies, and too bound by western politeness, compassion or first world shame to use the rudeness required to claim her personal space, she was locked outside, wondering why I had not leapt to her aid. Once I realised and let her in we both laughed, but desperation stayed begging at the window.
This year I have finally, after 5 years of hard work procrastination and self doubt, competed my first book. A novel of some 65,000 words, the first of a trilogy in what is probably the psychological fiction genre. What will appear on this blog will be the next steps, of which there will be many, towards creating the best selling work that everyone who writes longs for...